A Day in Virginia; Circa 1863

The American Civil War is arguably the most important event in the nation's history.  It's been written that "everything in American history leading up to 1860 was a cause of the Civil War and everything that has happened since was caused by the Civil War."  An overstatement? Perhaps, but not by much.  And so on these days surrounding Memorial Day, which began in response to The Civil War and as the nation commemorates the sesquicentennial of that conflict I'm devoting a series of blogs to some observations of The American Civil War; then and now.  

There’s a chinkle of spurs and the crunch of boot heels on the dry, rocky sun bleached path.  The creaking of leather is slightly audible beneath the jangling of sabers that hang from their belts and the Sharps carbines slung over their backs.  Some stray civilians wander into the area and stop to point at the three as they stride with purpose along the uneven lane.  The trio is clad in blue wool jackets trimmed in yellow and fastened with a row of dull brass buttons.  Their trousers, also of wool are light blue, tucked into knee high black boots that wear a layer of gray dust.  Each man wears on his left hip a large .44 caliber revolver, the brown handle peeking out from a black flapped holster.  Two of the men have full beards, the third wears the rough stubble of a few days growth.  Their faces are splotched with dirt and their eyes, heavy and weary from lack of sleep are barely shaded from the morning sun by the leather brims of their caps. Woolen, worn, and grimy, each cap bears the crossed saber insignia that designate them as cavalrymen.  One of the three sips coffee from a beaten old tin cup while another takes an occasional pull from a blue, fabric covered canteen.  The three talk among themselves and occasionally one acknowledges a greeting from a curious onlooker. 

The morning sun beats down on the three and sweat moistens their backs and forms ribbons that trickle out from under their caps pushing grains of dirt down their faces.  They smell of sweat, worn leather and acrid spent gunpowder.  They stop briefly and look back at the field they just left.  Over there a loose formation of blue clad men trudges through a drill beneath the gruff exhortations of a sergeant.  In another section of the field a line of horses fidgets in the shade of a stand of venerable old oaks.  Off to their right two neat lines of cream colored tents form a “street” in which other blue clad men mill around; chatting, drinking coffee or doing camp chores.  One man chops wood for the campfires, another totes water in a canvas bucket.  A small group sits on wooden stools and ammunition boxes playing cards.  Two men sit in front of one of the small tents, one cleaning his musket while the other puffs away at a pipe as he reads a tattered pamphlet.  In front of it all stands a small sentinel of squat black cannons tended by men in red trimmed blue uniforms. 

In the distance on the other end of the field a small group of gray clad horsemen trot past a line of cannons facing their opposite number. 

Well behind the cannons, tucked behind a clump of trees a knot of men squat on their haunches around a campfire, drinking coffee from tin cups.  They’re dressed in gray and butternut uniforms that have seen better days.  Bits and pieces of their banter drift across the field like the occasional dried leaves from their shading oaks.  The aroma of sizzling bacon mixes with the smoke from the oak campfires.  In front of a large command tent a group of officers pores over a map.  Their uniforms jackets trimmed in braid hold some of their original splendor.  One of the officers, a cavalryman sports a slouch hat adorned with a black feather. 

It’s a few hours later and the once still air is shocked by the booming of cannons, which is quickly joined by the crackle of small arms fire and the shouting of orders.  The cavalrymen, dismounted, are now part of a skirmish line stretched in front of the main body of infantry.  They’re fighting a delaying action against the gray clad infantry which is snaking on to the field in a column of two.  As the columns reach the front they split, one left, one right to form battle lines.  The gray line continues to fan out farther and farther to each side forcing the blue cavalry line to fan out in kind.  But the blue line is undermanned and the farther it stretches the thinner it becomes causing dangerous gaps to form.  The men on the left are feeling panicked as the gray line extends past their own. Fearing that they’ll be flanked a sergeant risks himself by turning his back on the enemy to steer the end of the line so that it curls back, refusing the flank. Still they are heavily outnumbered and they are just moments away from their line becoming a loose array of isolated individuals.  One trooper on the weakened left bolts for the rear.  A captain's command to halt is ignored and the officer levels his revolver and fires dropping the slacker as other troopers who may have had similar thoughts of escape decide to take their chances with the gray coated foe before them.  The air already oppressively heavy from the heat and humidity has been made tenfold, a hundredfold worse by the thick smoke.  The men from each army labor under the common enemy of both; an unrelenting sun that turns the field itself into a scorching anvil.  After what seems like an eternity the desperate, faltering cavalrymen are relieved by the main body of blue infantry. 

A few short moments of grim silence as the two massed lines of infantry face off, like two boxers sizing each other up.  The front ranks kneel as officers lift their swords.  At the drop of the blades sheets of flame belch from the lines of muskets.  Gaps created by the fallen are filled from the rear lines.  The gray line resumes its march forward; inexorable and on the verge of breaking the blue line. 

Suddenly to the left of the gray line a blue mass rushes down a hill and out from behind a tree line.  Officers and sergeants in blue frantically shout out orders directing the men quickly into a line of battle.  The right side of the gray line sees the now formed blue battle line but all too late as the blue soldiers’ muskets erupt as one.  The blue captain won't allow the shocked gray line a moment’s respite and exhorts a second line forward. The men kneel quickly and unleash a second devastating volley into the reeling gray left which, in a vain effort to find safety is now collapsing towards its own right.  To the front the blue line fires and the entire gray front shudders.

Seizing the opportunity the commander of the main blue body orders his lines forward.  On the left the gray line tries to refuse its flank to protect the exposed and rent side but the damage is done and panicked men begin to leak towards the rear.  The captain of the flanking blue line sensing the kill orders a volley into the gray left; another; and yet another.  The volleys rip into the shattered and now collapsed left and the blue line moves forward at the double quick into what was a few moments ago the gray left.  The gray soldiers sensing their impending destruction break into a panic and runs. 

But for a few moans from the wounded, the occasional shouted order and the random clanking of equipment, the field is now silent.  It is also littered with the fallen.  A few gray survivors are escorted to the blue side.  Strangely there is no animosity as the men, wearing different colors exchange news and pleasantries.  A blue coated soldier waves a captured battle flag with mocking shouts of triumph. 

Its late afternoon and the armies have returned to their camps.  Some have duties to tend to; cooking, guard duty, chopping wood, seeing to the horses or cleaning equipment.  All have their own weapons to clean and cartridges to load.  Some head straight for their tents to catch a few moments of solitary rest, others join in card games or conversation.  Those with musical instruments might take up a tune for their mates. 

As the setting sun paints the skies the men, now rested, settle down to eat.  Some eat quietly by themselves, but most choose to eat in small groups talking about the earlier battle or often times about the families they've left behind. 

The three cavalrymen sit near the fire; one on a little stool of wood and canvas; the other two sharing a small crate with rope handles.  The man on the stool tells his comrades about his daughter. “Yeah, the wife and I think she’ll make the varsity soccer team this year,” he says, as he pours himself another glass of Napa Valley Merlot. 

California wine for the Cal 100

From morning until late in the afternoon these men existed solely in 1863 Virginia as Civil War reenactors.  As afternoon turned to evening and the hundreds of visitors left the camp the men allowed themselves to re-enter the 21st century. In their 21st century lives they are office workers, tradesmen, police officers, firefighters, engineers, lawyers and any of a myriad of different occupations.  But for a few weekends a year they become living historians and take themselves and their visitors back to 1863.

For some years I was a trooper in Company A of the 2^nd Massachusetts Cavalry also known as the California 100.  The real California 100 was formed in the late summer of 1862, when a group of Californians, all, but one, originally from the East Coast, contacted Governor Andrew of Massachusetts and proposed to raise one hundred volunteers to form a separate company in a cavalry regiment that was being raised in Massachusetts. The Governor readily agreed, with the condition that the Californians would provide their own uniforms and equipment. Officially they became Company "A" of the 2nd Massachusetts Cavalry, but they were more popularly known as the "California 100'. 

This story was a collage of my various Civil War reenacting experiences.  I participated in a number of events throughout Northern California and 15 years ago, at the 135^th anniversary reenactment at Gettysburg along with 20,00 fellow reenactors.  More about reenacting in my next post