The 300 Pound Cavalryman and Other Oddities; Secrets of a Reenactor

Our Civil War reenactment group had a cavalry trooper who weighed at least 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce.  (When he signed on he signed on as a “non-combatant).  In reality there were no plus sized troopers (Save overfed officers I suppose).   It shouldn't come as a shock that the main ingredient in the cavalry was not the man; it was the horse (The origin of cavalry is from the Italian word cavallo meaning horse).  Haven’t I often said in this blog that it’s always about money and not people?  Wasn't any different in 1863 when the horse was the valuable piece of equipment that the War Department wouldn't have wanted burdened by a rider with an out sized boiler. At 6'1" and 185 pounds I myself would have been a mid-19th century oddity.  People were just smaller then. 

Not only were there no 300 pound cavalrymen but very few soldiers were in their fifties and sixties and sadly out of shape.  Governments typically like their cannon fodder to be young and fit; something most of our "soldiers" were not.  We also had men sporting designer eyeglass frames and stylish coifs.  I'm going to go out on a limb and venture that in 1863 the corn dog was still nearly a century away.  But at many reenactments you could see men in blue and gray side by side at the concessionaire's condiment stand putting mustard on their dogs.  Those were just some of the period incongruities in our reenacting group. But hell, even Ted Turner couldn't get it right.  In his movie Gettysburg some of the Confederate reenactors he used looked too portly to be the poorly fed soldiers of the Army of Northern Virginia.  And then there was Tom Berenger playing the shovel bearded James Longstreet.  Berenger's beard looks like something he'd purchased at the local costume shop.

Tents in a row

I like to think of living history as being something like Disneyland.  The whole idea is to transport the visitor to a different time or unique experience.  That’s why my Casio watch and my Nike eyeglasses were tucked away in my tent before the gates were opened to the public.  The sleeping bag that I’d slept in the night before was stashed under a period style woolen horse blanket, a bulky great coat and some handfuls of straw, so that if a visitor peeked in my tent, he was seeing 1863 and not the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition (not that I would ever possess one of those). 

Unfortunately there were always a few who could be heard in front of the visiting public discussing the policies of the current administration rather than grousing about Lincoln.  Rather than hearing a lament about how the wife was having a bad time with the farm or the dry goods shop back home in Wisconsin, visitors sometimes heard discussions about the upcoming football season or the cute new hire in the I.T. department.  It wasn't pervasive but it was there and it bothered me; that disregard for the paying visitors (Reenactments were done in conjunction with a local organization, such as a historical society and the proceeds were shared by our group and the organization).  It only takes one Confederate infantryman sporting a pair of Ray Bans to spoil the whole experience for a visitor. 

Our reenactments presented two mock battles per day.  The public was ushered out of the camps to a large field where the two armies engaged in a battle that was in some small measure choreographed; at least it was agreed which side would be victorious.  Except for the time at Murphy’s, California when my particular unit went on a little march over and behind a hill and back on to the field to attack the Confederates from behind.  They were supposed to win that one and were more than a little angry about our impromtu change in plans.  Not going down when fired on at point blank range was another offense that caused some post battle bickering.  For my own part I took no issue with “taking a hit,” particularly if I found myself in the shade of a tree on a hot day.  On one such occasion, hung over from the previous night’s revelry, I went down as if shot and stupidly fell a foot or two from the cool shade. What the Hell. With my last remaining strength I managed to crawl the short distance to the shade before collapsing. 

Union Army takes the field at Gettysburg 135th reenactment

The stated purpose of the National Civil War Association is to educate the public about the people and events of the Civil War. When I joined I essentially signing up to be part teacher, part actor and, well let’s be honest, part middle-aged fool playing army.  I would like to think that the latter was the least of the three.  Knowing that there would be expectations from the public, I went in well-armed with years of reading and research about the period, the politics, the armies, the strategies and tactics and the daily life of the soldier.  I was ready to parry the toughest questions with riveting, factual replies. 

Yes Mr. Fellow in the Bermuda shorts, want to know about rations? Well there was hardtack, pickled beef (known to soldiers as “salt horse”) and desiccated vegetables (known lovingly as “desecrated vegetables” and “baled hay”).  There was also a vile greasy looking substance concocted  by the War Department called essence of coffee, made of coffee extract, sugar and milk that may have been the precursor to the Frappacino. 

Yes mam, an interesting story?  There was an instance in the midst of the fighting at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain when a clump of bushes sheltering wounded Union soldiers caught fire.  Upon seeing the enemy soldiers’ plight, a Confederate officer jumped on to a parapet waving a kerchief and called for a cease fire until the wounded men could be rescued.  Before the truce ended a Federal officer presented the Confederate a set of pistols.

What I wasn't prepared for was the all too often; “Which side was for slavery, the blue or the gray?” or “Are you Union or Reb?” as I stood before them in a blue uniform, underneath an American flag.  I could answer these questions easily enough but I was appalled that they came from the mouths of Americans who were born here and apparently had enjoyed a good sound sleep during history class.  It became sadly clear that far too many Americans knew more about American Idol than American History.  Well what do you do?  You engage them as best you can, with an answer that you hope might lead them to the internet or the local bookseller. 

Union artillery mounts up

When evening came, the public departed; leaving only reenactors and a few family members and invited guests.  Everyone remained in their period garb except for the shedding of uncomfortable boots and brogans in favor of the comfort of tennis shoes.  Dinner was usually a communal affair with either a pot luck arrangement or, more often, one or two designated cooks preparing the entire meal (everyone eating having donated to a general fund for the food).  No canned beef or hardtack; the meals were usually a hearty stew cooked in a big cast iron Dutch oven, followed by a baked dessert and washed down with a nice California wine.  Saturday nights usually included a show with period music.  They also included the evening’s whiskey ration.  That is if you call a ration, all you can drink. 

Occasionally we would go to a nearby small town in full regalia.  The merchants, bartenders and citizens all loved us.  We made fast friends in bars, stimulated some great discussion and got more than a few free drinks. 

Drinking on a Saturday night was a deed that carried its own punishment the next morning.  Sunday morning wakeup was neither an alarm clock or a simple bugle call.  I remember those Sundays, about 6:45, when I would hear the light clanking of equipment and the early stirring of a few artillerymen.  One eye painfully open to the new light I knew what was coming and the dread gurgled in my caustic stomach and throbbed in my brain as the clock ticked ominously to seven. “Clear front,” came the first command and I squeezed my eyes shut anticipating, “FIRE.”  A cannon report rent the morning quiet and erupted out of the ground below, exploding in a skull already tortured by the previous night’s revelry. That cannon shot was the initial shock; the first salvo in a day of misery. There would be two mock battles to be fought under the hot sun, complete with cannon, gunfire and the smell of black powder. And all the while I would be running around on a rocky and rocking field weighted down with the humidity and a wool uniform, trying to hold down a gut full of 86 proof bile and that morning's eggs and bacon.

Sunday service at Gettysburg 135th

As hobbies go Civil War reenacting is, I suppose, somewhere in the middle of the hazardous scale.  It doesn't require jumping out of a perfectly good airplane or standing on a pair of thin boards and sliding on snow down a steep mountain.  But when you combine black powder, horses, wagons and cannons pulled by horses, loud noises and edged weapons there’s always the possibility that something will go awry.  Most reenactments take place during the summer months when the hot sun. heavy wool uniforms and the often out of shape men wearing them combine to make up what I always considered to be the most pervasive hazard; heat exhaustion. 

I remained with the club for some 6 years.  Around the 3rd year I was persuaded to be an assistant cross country coach at my daughter’s high school.  A couple of years later I became the head coach and I found that juggling work, coaching and reenacting was consuming too many hours.  That and my wife pretty much said, “Choose two.”  I would like to have gone with coaching and reenacting but there are far too many practicalities attached to work; like food, clothing and shelter.  And so my coaching career continued.

I firmly believe that there’s a value in living history, whether it’s a Civil War reenactment, a mountain man’s rendezvous, or a Colonial town.  Clearly the favorite part for the public was the chance to visit the two different camps.  This was when they could see the equipment first hand, try on a big woolen great coat, heft a musket, watch a demonstration of a cannon being loaded or hold a piece of hardtack and rap it like a stone on a table.  It was the opportunity to ask questions and step back to 1863.  There were many occasions in which we simply set up camps and dispensed with the battles.

The common complaint that I hear about history is that it’s boring and dry; often because it’s been presented in a lackluster lecture by an uninspired instructor.  Living history on the other hand is engaging and interactive and while it’s made imperfect by actors who lack complete authenticity it is a great way to catch a spark of interest in the past.  Take the opportunity and go find yourself some history - it's your heritage.