Muskets and Memories: A Modern Man's Journey through the Civil War

By Jeffrey Williams

"The early morning fog surrendered to the rising sun, as we marched into the wilderness. The last vestiges of civilization faded out of our sight, as the sunlight illuminated the woodland canopy and freshly blossomed trees that surrounded us."

A quote from a Civil War soldier? A journal entry of a Civil War reenactor? Or both? With that simple statement, Jeffrey Williams begins his journal, and his journey through Civil War reenacting. In the pages that follow, he has skillfully woven historical information with present day reenacting. In page after page, we find ourselves in twenty-first century Civil War reenactments, as seen through the eyes of Jeffrey S. Williams. We are allowed to see moments of grandeur and moments of chaos... By combining his military and journalistic skills, Mr. Williams seamlessly weaves historical events and modern day reenactments... In the end, it will strengthen your faith in the overall goodness of mankind." - From the Introduction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antietam Creek Press
• Release date: May 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989042116

Jeffrey Williams

Jeffrey S. Williams was born in Washington, D.C. on July 28, 1971 and raised in Upper Michigan. After graduating from Republic-Michigamme High School in 1989, he moved to Minnesota where he earned his Associate in Arts degree (general education) from Century College, a Bachelor of Arts in History from Concordia University-St. Paul and is currently finishing his Master of Arts degree in History at St. Cloud State University. He founded Antietam Creek Entertainment and Antietam Creek Press in September 2012. In 1995, he joined the United States Air Force Reserve and served in public affairs until his departure in May 2012. He was named Print Journalist of the Year for the Air Force Reserve Command in 2009 during the annual media contest, and was first runner up in that category at the Air Force level that year. Between 2002-2004, he deployed to Kuwait, Oman and Iraq in support of Operations Southern Watch, Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom. Governor Mark Dayton appointed him to the Minnesota Civil War Commemoration Task Force in June 2011. From 1993-2003, he served as a Civil War reenactor, which was the subject of his first book, Muskets and Memories: A Modern Man's Journey through the Civil War, released on April 4, 2013.

Book preview

Jeffrey S. Williams begins Muskets and Memories with a most sagacious quote by Major General George E. Pickett, But Grant, like our Stonewall, is ‘fighting not to save lives, but country.’ Those words stuck with me throughout the whole book and kept me eager to read on. During the Civil War, over 600,000 soldiers lost their lives, more than all the wars that the United States has participated in before or after that time period.

What is meant by country? Is it land? Is it family and friends? Is it the way of life or culture or the structure of government or economics? I think people are most likely to fight for their belief system.

The Civil War was preceded by the moral convictions of William Wilberforce, a member of the English Parliament in the early part of the 19th century. Wilberforce was a passionate advocate for legislation to eliminate the slave trade from Africa. He and his supporters were successful and the practice was ended in 1833. Africans had become economically indispensable to plantation farming. When the slave importation ended, the Africans were no longer a disposable economic commodity and needed to become entirely self-reproducing.

The United States, as an agricultural society, had developed two different cultures by then. The small farms in New England developed a sense of equality of opportunity even for the indentured servants. The plantations in the south had a system of elite leaders where the slaves had little hope of independence or freedom. The one thing they all had in common was a reverence for scripture - especially Moses and Jesus Christ.

My first memory of this huge cataclysm in the history of our nation was eighty-five years ago, when I was four-years-old. My father was born in 1885 and his oldest sister was born during the last year of the war. Dad and his five siblings were telling stories about their father, a Union soldier with the 1st United States Sharpshooters Company I (which also served as Company L of the 1st Minnesota Volunteer Infantry), that fought in McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign in 1862. When Company L came back to Washington, D.C., they disembarked from their ship at Chain Bridge just in time to do rear guard fighting as the Federal soldiers were retreating from the Second Battle of Bull Run. They continued to meet the enemy at Fairfax Courthouse and, shortly afterwards, on to my grandfather’s final battle at Sharpsburg, Maryland, better known as the Battle of Antietam.

My grandfather, who came to America in 1845 at the age of eleven, read Harriet Beecher Stowe’s famous novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which was printed in 1852 (we still own his original copy) and had supported Abraham Lincoln for President. He was so moved by Stowe’s desire to abolish slavery that he joined the Union Army, fought in thirteen battles and was wounded at Antietam. Dad’s siblings told us of the Army doctor who wanted to amputate grandfather’s leg, which he refused to permit. As I listened to my relatives while playing with my toys on the floor, I still remember asking myself, What causes a person to care so much for people he has never met that he is willing to endanger his life for them. My emotion was fear. I thought about facing the enemy’s rifles and I was frightened, thinking that I could never do that.

Muskets and Memories captures the history of the Civil War in a fascinating way. Jeffrey Williams intersperses each battle with the stories of his experience reenacting the battles as a soldier, a person in a medical unit, often as the patient, and also as a chaplain. It brought back my memory of watching the reenactment of the Battle of Antietam at the 100th Anniversary in 1962, with my wife Gretchen and our four oldest children, while I served in the U.S. Congress. The sight of a dead Union soldier propped against a canon wheel with blood drained out (though fake) was an indelible sight for all of us. There we explored for the location where my grandfather was wounded. I reminded them that over twelve thousand were lost from each side. All four of our sons later became reenactors when they got established in life.

Reading Muskets and Memories, Jeff’s recounting brings back many emotions and thoughts. After enlisting, my grandfather visited neighboring Norwegian farmers in an attempt to recruit the young men. One mother drove him out of the yard with a horsewhip to keep him from talking to her son.

As Jeffrey Williams writes about the hot weather and dehydration, my mind goes to my grandfather’s story of passing out from heat stroke when he fought on the Peninsula. In all my outdoor activities, like my horseback trek from Canada to Mexico along the continental divide, I always made sure that we prevented dehydration.

When the Confederates pushed the Union back, grandfather was left behind enemy lines. When he recovered consciousness, he worked his way through the Confederate lines, hailed the Union troops, whose commanding officer was convinced that grandfather was a deserter. As the story goes, the Captain would not let him find his own unit but ordered him in line to help his own troops instead. My grandfather began firing at the enemy, but since he was using the new Henry rifle, he would fire three shots to the other’s one.

They thought he was dangerous firing that fast so they moved away from him, leaving him to hold that space of ground by himself.

It is fascinating to me, while still deplorable, that some people in the South have still not gotten over the Civil War. I remember a Howard University professor saying that it takes 750 years for people to get over trauma to their ethnicity and belief systems. My first legislative office was election to the Minnesota State Senate in 1954. Little did I know that I would be facing the question of human rights for African-Americans. Legislation establishing a state Fair Employment Practices Commission came to the Senate floor in an effort to prevent discrimination against primarily African Americans in hiring. Back then the term African-American was not in use as yet.

I caucused with the Conservatives, which were made up of Republicans and old time Democrats. There had been no party designation in legislative races after the 1912 election. The Conservative caucus was opposed to the FEPC legislation and I struggled with my decision. I wanted to be loyal to my caucus. However, my principles, gained partly from the inspiration of my grandfather related in our family gatherings, were troubling me. Finally, just before the vote came up in the Senate, I asked to speak during the debate. I was recognized by the presiding officer, Lieutenant Governor Karl Rolvaag. There is no reason for me to vote for the Fair Employment Practices Commission because there are no blacks in my District. The proposed commission is not needed for our economy. BUT, I said. I will vote for it, because it is the right thing to do. It passed.

Ten years later, while I was serving in Congress, civil rights legislation came up including the voting rights and fair housing bills, which were the most contentious. This time I faced no moral struggle. When I spoke, I concluded my remarks in regard to the Fair Housing bill, saying that if a person refuses to sell their house to a person because of the color of their skin, it was un-American and un-Christian. This brought out an angry retort from colleagues. We are still finding our way in developing respect for each other despite our differences.

Jeffrey Williams is an excellent historian. His interspersing of the history of the war with reenactor’s experiences makes the book more memorable. The bonding of the reenactors mirrors the bonding of comrades in battle. My four sons have been or are reenactors. They tell me the stories, but it is nothing like it was observing them as I did in September 2002. I skipped my class reunion in order to watch them as Union soldiers from Minnesota at the 140th Anniversary of Antietam reenactment. It was not on the old battleground but at a nearby location. Afterwards, we visited the Antietam National Battlefield and walked the hallowed grounds where their great-grandfather trod and where he took a bullet in the West Woods. Three of my sons remembered our experience from 1962 quite vividly. My fourth son, who is our most avid reenactor, was only six-months-old in at the centennial reenactment

Yes, descendants of the relatives of the 600,000 soldiers who lost their lives in the Civil War will be interested in reading Muskets and Memories. The descendants of those who were wounded and lived to tell their stories, like Halvor Kvi, will find these stories come alive. The people who I would most care about are the descendants of slaves. There are still scars from the treatment of their ancestors. They don’t have the memory of their old country, and have experienced discrimination in subsequent years. Those scars can heal only if we reach out to each of them as many of the Union and Confederate soldiers did a few times by a stream of water in peace in the evening. Water and peace are necessary for human life. So listen, think and love.

Albert H. Quie

Governor of Minnesota (1979-1983)

U.S. Congressman (1958-1979)

Minnesota State Senator (1955-1958)

Author of:

Riding the Divide

In the Shadow of Joseph (with Kenneth Kothe, Tom Bird and Dave Racer)

A Life of Faith, Service & Civility

Minnetonka, Minnesota

February 1, 2013

Introduction: Moments of Grandeur, Moments of Chaos

The early morning fog surrendered to the rising sun, as we marched into the wilderness. The last vestiges of civilization faded out of our sight, as the sunlight illuminated the woodland canopy and freshly blossomed trees that surrounded us.

A quote from a Civil War soldier? A journal entry of a Civil War reenactor? Or both? With that simple statement, Jeffrey Williams begins his journal, and his journey through Civil War reenacting. In the pages that follow, he has skillfully woven historical information with present day reenacting. In page after page, we find ourselves in twenty-first century Civil War reenactments, as seen through the eyes of Jeffrey S. Williams. We are allowed to see moments of grandeur and moments of chaos. We see the realism of a medical demonstration, so well executed that the onlookers are made to realize the horror of war and its aftermath. We see the frustration of vehicles being stuck in the mud, supplies being short, tempers being short, and everything in general going wrong. If you are a long-time reenactor, you will recognize some of the names mentioned in the journal. If you are a beginner, you will find yourself in many of the situations within these pages. If you have not already experienced them – you will, sooner or later.

Mr. Williams has, from time to time, been a member of several reenactment organizations, including the 14th Brooklyn N.Y.S.M., Company K.; the Stillwater Guard of the 1st Minnesota, Company B.; the 6th Wisconsin Medical Hospital (hospital steward 1996-97, hospital chaplain 1997-98); and the 4th United States Medical (present day).

He also has plenty of real life military experience to call upon. As a member of the United States Air Force Reserve, he has been deployed four times to the Middle East, including tours in Oman, Kuwait and Iraq. His journalistic skills include being the recipient of Concordia University - St. Paul’s Kaden Award for Best Short Story in 2011, and Print Journalist of the Year for the United States Air Force Reserve in 2009.

By combining his military and journalistic skills, Mr. Williams seamlessly weaves historical events and modern day reenactments. He even explains, when necessary, the meanings of certain words and phrases to help the reader in their understanding of the events being described. As a man of faith, he also demonstrates the Christian beliefs and principles that were so deeply felt by the soldiers, on both sides, during the great conflict.

Whether you are a long-time reenactor, a beginner, or just someone who has a great interest in the history of the American Civil War, this book will cause you to laugh loudly sometimes, shake your head in bewilderment at other times, and smile knowingly when you get the message. In the end, it will strengthen your faith in the overall goodness of mankind.

Max Daniels

Association of Lincoln Presenters

Vice President (ex officio)

Wheaton, Illinois

February 12, 2013

Chapter 1 - Into the Wilderness

"The Wilderness, alas, is one vast graveyard where sleep thousands of Grant’s soldiers; but Grant, like our Stonewall, is ‘fighting not to save lives, but country.’" – Major General George E. Pickett, CSA

The early morning fog surrendered to the rising sun as we marched into the Wilderness. The last vestiges of modern civilization faded out of our sight as the sunlight illuminated the woodland canopy and the freshly blossomed trees that surrounded us.

Like a time warp, each step we took transported us back to life in the Army of the Potomac. Not a thing was modern. Tin cups clanked against thousands of rifle butts as footsteps crunched the gravel and dirt pathway in a rhythmic fashion, each step keeping perfect time. The occasional warnings of snag and stump repeated through the ranks and kept the army alert to potential dangers from hazards above and below.

As we turned left, a dead Confederate was laying still on the ground. A fly walked across his face, stopping every few seconds to scrape its front legs. The butternut-clad soldier remained motionless otherwise.

We knew we were getting close to the action when the artillery fired and the ground shook. Musketry popped like thousands of firecrackers sounding off in rapid succession.

After a brief halt, our captain gave us the command to load and return to the shoulder arms position. Ready! came the first command. I wondered why we were getting ready since no Confederates were in view.

Aim! All I could see in front of me were trees.

Fire! We all fired in unison, with one sharp crack echoing through the thick woods.

Holy shit! There are rebels! I yelled as the command, Fire-at-Will echoed through our lines.

The sun illuminated the green foliage in a pocket where the Confederates, in their tan clothing, surprised us. Upon reloading, I spied a Rebel sharpshooter lying prone in a thick branch of a pine tree about ten feet off the ground. He drew a bead on one of our officers.

Coming over! I yelled to inform the kneeling front rank of my intentions, and then took my first-ever shot at a Confederate sharpshooter who dutifully fell out of the tree.

The private kneeling in the front rank below me, looked up, smiled, and said with approval, Nice shot, while my hands trembled from the intensity of the situation.

We exchanged volleys with the Confederates until our commanders noticed that we were about to get flanked. They ordered us to lower our chinstraps before rejoining the engagement.

Our headgear consisted of the kepi, a short-brimmed woolen hat that contained a band of leather around the brim that serves as a chinstrap. The private on my left, Van Dyke, had difficulty lowering the leather strap from the brim of his hat. His rifle was in the right shoulder shift position and its barrel extended above his shoulder. As Captain Drew walked behind us, he was directly behind Van Dyke. The rifle barrel lowered into the captain’s face. Drew grabbed the loaded rifle with his left hand, crouched down and pulled Van Dyke to the ground with his right hand. Van Dyke, you’re fuckin’ dead! Safety violation! We’ll talk about this later! he fumed while discharging the rifle towards the advancing Confederates.

In order to keep us from having to surrender, we were given the order to perform a reverse-right wheel, a complicated maneuver which required us to grab the leather belt of the soldier in front of us, while walking backwards and to the left. It is difficult to perform on level ground and we executed it perfectly while under fire in tough terrain.

Private Zawislak and Corporal Lanier were discovered to be missing. Zawislak’s short and rotund frame made him a little slow getting back into line. He was in full view of the Confederates when they fired their volley. The corporal stayed behind to assist him but he, too, was captured by our enemy.

We straightened out the lines and resumed the battle. The unnamed private who took the space vacated by Van Dyke was too exuberant and pushed me in the back repeatedly while we were on the move. Suddenly I was knee-deep in a thorny briar patch. Instead of helping me out of it, he just marched on leaving me with a helpless feeling of abandonment as I watched my comrades slowly march away from me. Using their swords, two of our captains cut me out of the thicket. Despite the pain and blood from the sharp incisions made in my legs by hundreds of thorny briars, I ran back to my place in line to resume the attack.

We moved again to avoid capture from the thousands of Confederates that surrounded us. We exchanged volleys with more rebels, though they might have been from the same regiment again. Nobody in the ranks knew who we were fighting as blue smoke enveloped us in a low lying fog in the middle of the woods.

It took the green-clad troops of the sharpshooters to create a hole through the enemy lines large enough for us to make our escape. It was while going through this breach in the line that a rather large Confederate officer pounced on an opportunity to take out one of our officers. With his sword extended, he jumped on Captain Danielski’s back and choked our commander. Captains Drew and Duffy jumped into the fray and pulled them apart. Each officer, playing for keeps, struck blows. The Confederate smacked Danielski while Drew hacked on the rebel officer like a punching bag in a gym. It took a red-faced and breathless Danielski a few minutes to regain his composure before giving us the next command.

We shifted our lines again and were about to strike a fatal blow into the heart of our enemy. We reloaded our weapons and were ready to fire when an ambulance siren wailed. Cease fire! Cease fire! echoed throughout the woods. My first official Civil War reenactment battle was complete.

Chapter 2 - Rookie

"The first gun that spat its iron insult at Fort Sumter smote every loyal American full in the face." – Oliver Wendell Holmes

Driving into Stillwater, Minnesota, on the banks of the Saint Croix River, on a cold and crisp winter night in December 1993, I was pleasantly surprised at the charm of that little river town. Antique stores and antiquarian booksellers lined the streets, Christmas lights illuminated the silhouettes of couples walking hand-in-hand down the snow-crested sidewalks, and white flakes of soft snow floated to the ground in a slow manner that was reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell painting. I would not have been surprised to see Santa Claus standing on a street corner hawking Coca-Cola.

Myrtle Street, I thought aloud. It’s almost seven and I just missed my turn, oh great. After reversing my course at the next stoplight and taking the right turn onto Myrtle Street, I faced a giant icy hill directly in front of me. I was almost there. I hope I make this okay, I sighed as I kicked the gray compact-sized car into overdrive.

When I arrived at the American Legion Post, an invitation to attend a meeting that would alter the course of my then twenty-two-year-old life was then accepted. The previous Friday evening, while returning six of the nine VHS tapes of the Ken Burns’s Civil War documentary to the local video store, I was introduced to Don Drew, the forty-one-year-old commander of the 14th Brooklyn Company K/Stillwater Guard Civil War reenactment organization. Seeing an active interest in Civil War history, Mr. Drew invited me to their next meeting to check out his eclectic unit.

I was not prepared for the sight that awaited my arrival. Instead of the familiar blue uniforms of the common Union soldier, nearly a dozen people stood around the room dressed in uniforms of various colors with antique rifles in their hands. Hmmm. This is interesting, I thought as I scanned the large open room, still not sure what I had gotten myself into.

Standing six-foot-six, the slender Drew towered over everybody in the room. Hey guys, I want to introduce to you our newest recruit, he said in his thick New York accent as a devious smile parted his goatee and moustache. As you know, we don’t just let you watch. We want you to be part of our group. So grab a rifle and let’s get you into drill.

Drew was dressed in a captain’s uniform that contained a row of large brass buttons down the front of his dark blue coat. A maroon sash was wrapped around his waist next to a shiny officer’s sword with brass handle. One look at Drew and the word authority instantly came to mind.

I was introduced to the other guys – Phil Cudd, Ken Martens, Eric Zawislak, Doug Van Dyke, John Stiteler and Mel Witzel. Brian Lanier, our corporal, was not present that night, though we would meet soon enough.

Cudd, my mentor, looked like he belonged on a Hollywood set. Standing six-foot tall with sandy blond hair and matching goatee, he wore red pants, a short dark blue coat with red chevrons and numerous rows of brass buttons, the uniform of the 14th Brooklyn, New York State Militia, the group’s primary role during battle reenactments. Becky Greer, Drew’s fiancée, was a tall auburn-haired lady dressed as a vivandier. She was neither a nurse nor a soldier but a female assistant. Her blue and red uniform appeared to be a feminine version of Cudd’s.

Ken Martens placed a nine-pound musket into my hands and taught me the manual-of-arms, the list of commands that must be executed in order to get a marching unit from one place to another in correct fashion. Standing five-foot-eight with a slightly receding hairline, Ken was the only one to wear red sergeant’s stripes on the shoulder of his government-issued blue uniform. He was the unit’s color sergeant, the soldier designated to carry our flag into battle. Since he was also a licensed antique firearms dealer, he became our Ordnance Sergeant a few months later.

Martens was patient with me as terms like Shoulder Arms, Right Shoulder Shift, Port Arms, Present Arms, Guard against Cavalry, Guard against Infantry, Rally, Order Arms, and Huzzah, were introduced to my vocabulary. It was like learning a foreign language, but it was only the beginning of my Nineteenth century military indoctrination. All of the terms came out of Rifle and Light Infantry Tactics; for the Exercise and Manoevres of Troops When Acting as Light Infantry or Riflemen, published in 1855 by Brevet Lieutenant Colonel William J. Hardee. The book was more commonly known as Hardee’s Rifle and Light Infantry Tactics, though to us it was simply called the Manual of Arms.

The biggest confusion for me that night was when we counted off. Each private, including me, stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a line and counted off in two’s. For a few seconds, the shouts of one, two, one, two, were yelled down the small line. When placed into marching order, at certain times the one’s would move while the two’s stood still, while at other times it was in reverse. I was overwhelmed with a wealth of new information and could not get it straight on whether I should move or stay put.

Once I became somewhat familiar with what I was doing, or supposed to have done, we marched up and down the icy hills of Stillwater while Captain Drew yelled commands, his accent still foreign to my young Midwestern ears. We marched up a hill. We marched down the hill. We drilled in empty parking lots and then marched up and down the hills some more.

When we finished, my right arm ached. The Shoulder Arms position required holding my right arm straight at its side while holding the musket’s trigger guard between my thumb and forefinger. The weight of all nine pounds of the musket were held by those two fingers.

Is it uncomfortable? Drew asked.

Yes, sir. It is.

Good. Then you’re doing it correctly.

We held a short business meeting after the drill to discuss upcoming events and then watched a videotape of the group at the Greenbush, Wisconsin event during the previous reenacting season. We adjourned when the video ended and reconvened at a local restaurant for dinner and further discussion in what we called the after-meeting meeting.

John Stiteler and Don Drew were locked in a debate while Zawislak bragged about his order of deep-fried mushrooms but complained about not getting enough cheese-sauce.

Well, was Don correct when he had that argument at Greenbush? Ken asked Phil.

I looked it up. Yes, he was correct. I made a diorama about it in miniature showing exactly where each regiment was and replicated the terrain, Phil replied.

What argument was this? I enquired.

When we were at Greenbush last summer, Donnie met up with a guy who wrote a book about the 6th Wisconsin regiment at the Battle of the Railroad Cut at Gettysburg, Phil said. The guy did everything to praise the Sixth and trashed the 14th Brooklyn. Don didn’t take too kindly to that and believed that the guy had a hidden agenda--

And Don chased this poor guy all around the battlefield, Ken interrupted. Every time he turned around, there was Captain Drew, tracking him down.

Really?

Yep. Donnie can be quite intimidating if you get on his bad side, Cudd explained. He’ll track you down and get in your face, so you don’t ever want to piss him off. You’ll regret it if you do.

That same weekend, when it was time for pass and review, Corporal Lanier was the only one who wanted to go, so he went and represented all of us, said Martens between bites of his hamburger. The Iron Brigade organizers sent him back to camp to get the rest of the company and Don sent him back to pass in review and they again refused to allow him to participate.

I forgot about that, Phil acknowledged with his mouth full of French fries. That’s right. Don ran over and reamed out the Iron Brigade commander in front of his own guys. He tried to stick up for us but ended up getting us kicked out of Iron Brigade events in the process.

Kicked out of Iron Brigade events?

Yes, said Phil. The Iron Brigade runs Wisconsin reenacting. If you get along with the Iron Brigade organization, you’ll get along with any reenactor in Wisconsin.

It’s Don’s way or no way, except in Wisconsin, Ken chuckled. It was bad enough when he chased down the author all weekend, but when he chastised the Iron Brigade commander in front of their own guys, we were all embarrassed.

What are you guys talking about? Don yelled from the other end of the table sitting across from Big John Stieteler.

Just telling our new recruit here about Greenbush, Phil said.

Oh that. Hey, I tried to stick up for you guys. Just remember, when you represent the 14th Brooklyn, you represent me! Drew shot back.

Get used to hearing that, Ken said. You’re going to hear that a lot!

Every Thursday night we met for drill and practiced the Manual of Arms so intensely that we could do it in our sleep, critiqued our uniforms to make sure they complied with 1860’s period correct standards, were yelled at repeatedly by Drew for every minor indiscretion and marched up and down the hills until our arms, legs and back ached.

The part of drill that we all dreaded the most was Drew’s focus drill. While standing at attention with our backs ramrod straight, he invaded our personal space like a drill instructor. We were not to smile, flinch, talk, yell or react to anything, while Don yelled, cracked jokes, made sexual innuendos and insulted us. His lips were so close to us we could feel his breath on our skin. He did the best he could to make us smile, laugh or do anything that he could do to make us break the military bearing that he was trying to instill in us. We remained focused and stared straight ahead. This drill did wonders for our later performance on the battlefield, but it was an intimidating process to experience.

***

When Spring arrived we had round-rolling parties at Phil’s apartment where we spent countless hours pouring carefully measured seventy grain charges of Triple F black powder into our handmade paper cartridges. Phil and his friend, Gary Krueger, were the first ones to arrange for the round rollings, but eventually the task was given to Doug Van Dyke. One night, Doug took some powder and cartridges home with him to roll a few rounds in his off-time. He was soon rolling between twenty and fifty cartridges each night. Thanks to Doug, we always had plenty of ammunition on-hand to get us through skirmishes and events.

In early April, we gathered at Corporal Lanier’s Wisconsin farm for our annual Spring Skirmish in Troy Township. Brian is one of those instantly likeable people. Sharp, intelligent and go-getter are words often used to describe him. He studied the manual-of-arms at every opportunity and took the extra time to bring us all up to speed. He was more than capable of handling the responsibility of being our corporal. Lanier first met Drew when they were in the 1st Minnesota reenactment group based out of Fort Snelling. Since Stillwater was a shorter drive, it only made sense that Lanier would be among the first to join when Don formed his own group. Don Drew, Ken Martens, Brian Lanier, Eric Zawislak, Mel Witzel, Phil Cudd, John Stanley, Steve Mott, Doug Van Dyke and I were all in attendance at the skirmish.

John Stanley, our newest guy, was tall, slim and had a baby face. Though he had enough money to buy his uniform, accoutrements and rifle immediately, he was just as much a green-horn as me. This was our first time in a simulated Civil War combat environment, but it was Steve Mott’s last event. He dehydrated on the battlefield at Gettysburg the summer before and his heart stopped briefly. He was evacuated to the hospital and made a full recovery. Even though Don bartered with him at the skirmish to keep him from leaving, Steve made up his mind. This was it.

When I arrived at the farm, Don handed me a pair of sky-blue wool trousers, a dark blue sack coat and a pair of leather shoes with wooden soles that are called brogans. Phil loaned me a hat. This became my loaner uniform until I was able to acquire my own items.

We marched to the skirmish site in formation, reaching a clearing through a wooded lot at the edge of the farm field twenty minutes later. Even with the cooler temperatures of the Midwestern spring, my legs itched as if a thousand mosquitoes attacked them on a hot summer day. A polyester-cotton blend did not exist during the Civil War, and since we tried to maintain authenticity standards, wearing the wool pants like our forefathers was just part of the lifestyle. It would take some getting used to.

Don and Phil were our officers and I was assigned to Phil’s Confederate team. Like a game of capture-the-flag, the objective was to infiltrate the opposition and wipe them out. Drew’s team attacked while we hid in defense. I burrowed myself underneath a medium-sized spruce tree near a pathway that I thought was sure to be a high-traffic area. Hey Mel. I think there’s someone at your nine o’clock, Don yelled through the trees ahead of me. You go over there and I’ll come around here and flank him. Though I was as quiet as I could be, my heart was pounding so loud that I was sure that it was acting as a beacon that would allow them to hone in on my location.

Mel Witzel was short and stocky with a rust-colored beard that hung down to his chest. Often considered our Berdan Sharpshooter, reminiscent of the two regiments of crack shots led by Colonel Hiram Berdan, Mel would usually lie in a concealed area and wait for the enemy. This time was different. Don sent him forward to attract our fire and give away our location.

Knowing Mel was around made me apprehensive. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I slowly readied the musket. It was already loaded with a powder charge and a small brass percussion cap that contained a trace amount of Fulminate of Mercury to create the spark that is needed to ignite the powder charge in the barrel.

Click! I put the rifle on the full cock position as quietly as possible by slowly pulling back on the metal hammer, placed my finger near the trigger guard and waited. Don’s voice was louder and coming from my left. He was getting closer. The trees in front of me moved slightly. Tensing up with nervous anticipation, I knew that someone was about to appear in my sights. It was Doug Van Dyke, one of my own guys.

Doug, a college-aged six-footer, walked with a distinctive gait that earned him the nickname Fred Flintstone. It was his walk that enabled me to identify him when he approached.

Not seeing what was in the tree line was frustrating, so I lowered the rifle and low-crawled across the path hoping to reach the other side undetected. I looked to my left and saw an officer standing on at the crest of a hill with a feather in his cap.

CRACK! I fired at him quite certain it was Don.

What the hell are you doing?

After wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I was stunned to see the sight in front of me. Lying halfway down the hill feigning death was my squad leader. I had just shot Phil.

Bob Zientara, a reporter/photographer from the Hudson Star-Observer newspaper was with us that day. He was with Phil shortly after I made my fatal mistake.

Grateful to be nothing more than a photographer (even Matthew Brady hesitated to shoot photos while troops were in action), I left the trees and found Company K member Phil Cudd sprawled on the ground, enjoying a cigarette, Zientara wrote. He had been ‘accidentally killed by one of my own men’ a bit earlier. Doffing his plumed, Confederate officer’s cap, he beckoned me to join him while the skirmish built up to its climax.1

After the skirmish, Brian and Eric put together a quick-draw contest. They stood fifty feet apart from each other with their rifles on the ground. When Phil gave the command, each of them picked up his rifle, loaded it properly and fired towards the other to see who could do it the fastest. They were both quick but Eric was always a slight bit faster. His best time was twelve seconds. Brian was always a second or two behind.

***

After scrimping and saving for months, I finally raised the $500 to buy my Springfield musket from Ken. It was a brand new rifle based upon the 1863-model specifications, and was fully functional when the powder, ball and percussion cap were all together. I was told that I had to keep with a reenacting tradition and name my rifle. Placing the smooth dark-stained wood of the stock in my hands, I came up with the name Krisinda Sue, after the woman that I had almost married.

I stopped by work after a drill night to put the time-off request into the computer so I could attend my first reenactment event, the 130th Anniversary of the Wilderness Campaign in Orange County, Virginia.

I often passed the excess time between phone calls at the Minnesota Relay Service for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing by reading Shelby Foote’s three volume classic, Civil War: A Narrative. That was how I met Steve Thell. He was a history teacher during the day and communication assistant at night. He enjoyed studying the Civil War and we talked for hours about Shiloh and other battles of the Western Theater. He met me at the door when I came into the Relay that night. Hey Jeff, what are you doing here?

Just finished with drill and now I need to get my shifts covered for the trip coming up in three weeks, I said while walking to the computer that contained the list of available communication assistants, hoping that somebody would trade shifts with me.

Did you get your rifle yet?

Yeah, I just got it the other day.

Do you have it with you? I’d really like to see it.

It’s in the car. Come on out and I’ll show it to you after I finish putting the time-off request into the system.

Steve was overcome with excitement as I pulled the rifle out of my gray Ford Escort hatchback. I placed it into his hands and watched as he imagined himself in the middle of the Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh. Here, stand next to me and I’ll show you the rifle movements, I said ready to show off for my potential recruit. I explained each rifle movement, and the loading and firing procedures, hoping that he would join us. When his break was over, it was time for me to leave.

I backed my car out of the stall and inched the vehicle forward. Another car drove towards me slowly. Doesn’t that guy know he’s going the wrong way on a one-way street? I wondered.

The car stopped and the door opened. Then the barrel of the driver’s loaded rifle was pointed right at me. I looked in the rearview mirror and knew I was in trouble when I saw six St. Paul Police Department squad cars with their lights flashing. Officer Tim Jones stood on the sidewalk with his dog, Laser, barking in excitement.

Oh shit! I pat the rifle stock through the brown fabric sheath with my right hand. And I know what they want.

Put your hands up so we can see them! was the first command over the microphone from the rifle-wielding officer. With palms facing forward and fingers extended, I slowly put my hands up.

With your right hand, slowly open the outside door handle of the driver’s side! Leaving my trembling left hand up, I slowly reached my right hand through the open window and complied with the order.

Kick the driver’s side door open and keep your hands up so we can see them! Unlatch your seatbelt and slowly exit the vehicle. Keep your hands in the air at all times. Leaving my left hand held high, I slowly unfastened the seat belt. I put my right hand into the air and swiveled to get my feet on the ground. Using my elbows, the right elbow on the steering wheel and the left on the seat back, I hoisted myself up and stood at attention facing the officer.

Slowly step forward to the front bumper! Without saying a word, I took each measured step until stopping at the bumper. My legs were heavy and ready to collapse while my heart pounded with additional adrenaline.

Take three steps forward and drop to your knees! As soon as my knees hit the ground, an officer from behind grabbed my wrists, threw them into the lower part of my back, cuffed me, then threw me face-first into the asphalt roadway.

In a few seconds, three officers frisked me and emptied all of the contents out of the pockets of my brown leather jacket, while other officers searched my vehicle.

For the first time in my life, I hyperventilated. After swallowing a full breath of air, I slowly turned my head from right to left, hoping to breathe easier. Move your head back! commanded the officer standing watch. Don’t move unless I tell you to move! As I gulped another breath of air, I saw that his foot was prepared to kick me in the head.

They had a spotlight on, which heated the air and the ground around me. Between the intense spotlight and adrenaline rush, it seemed like an eternity while lying there on the street, though it was probably only a minute or two. When they realized that I was not a threat, they picked me up and threw me into the back of a squad car for interrogation.

Is this yours? commanded the officer who pointed his rifle at me.

Yes, sir! I yelled while sitting at attention with the handcuffs digging into my wrists.

Is it loaded?

No, sir!

What are you doing with it?

I’m a Civil War reenactor, sir!

Do you have any ammunition?

No, sir!

He walked a few steps away from the car to talk to the sergeant. Listen, the kid is a reenactor and it’s an inert gun with no ammunition. He didn’t harm anybody. He’s got a clean record, not even a traffic ticket. I say we just let him go and hope that this teaches him a lesson, I overheard the officer say.

I think we should give him a fine and that might teach him the lesson, the sergeant said.

He obeyed all of our commands, didn’t challenge us and has shown us respect during this process. We let him go and if we catch him again, we throw the book at him, pleaded the officer.

Alright! Let the kid go for christsakes. And when he shoots somebody, don’t tell me that I didn’t tell you so, the sergeant relented.

The officer returned. Okay. You can get out of the car now, he said. We’re letting you go.

You are? I asked sounding surprised as he unlocked the cuffs.

Here’s your rifle back...Oh, and get a different sheath!

Thank you, sir.

Alright. Have a nice day.

Sir, I have a question for you, if you don’t mind, I interjected. How did you guys know about this?

A couple came up to me and told me there was a ‘guy with a gun on Seventh Place.’ And here you were.

After sliding the rifle back in the brown sheath that was falling apart, I put the car into first gear. As I got through the first block, it was hard to shift. I was coming down from the adrenaline rush. My left leg bounced nervously making it hard to stay off the clutch, while my right arm felt rubbery, which made it difficult to move the shift lever.

Once the officer behind me turned and I entered the freeway, I was fine. Still nervous, still praying, but fine otherwise.

I was the talk of the Relay the next day when I arrived for work. Kurt Sparky Erickson, a co-worker who wrote for a local tabloid wanted to write a story about how the police handled me. He was fishing for allegations of police brutality. With short-cropped dark brown hair, horned-rimmed glasses and not an ounce of fat on his medium-sized frame, Sparky looked like he belonged in the liberal-leaning Uptown neighborhood in Minneapolis where all the hippies and peaceniks hang out. He was a liberal community organizer, government-employee union activist and a local Democrat political activist.

Sparky, I just don’t want to do that, I said. I’ve already dealt with them once and really don’t want this becoming a media circus.

What about the officer who kicked you? He tried to persuade me that he had the next Pulitzer Prize-winning story on his hands.

It would have been one thing if he HAD kicked me, but he didn’t. Besides, he ordered me to turn my head back and I did. Honestly, there is nothing to this story.

For the next two weeks, he insisted on interviewing me. He just wouldn’t let it go. Kurt, I’ll make a deal with you, I bargained. Here are two stories for you. First, I go to Virginia and reenact. You do a story on my experience as a reenactor and then I’ll let you have the police story. It’s a package deal – all or none.

Okay. Okay. I’ll call my editor and see what she says and get back to you. If she says it’s a go, then we’ll do it. The story never got written. It was old news by the time I returned and his editor didn’t want to touch it.

Chapter 3 - Scribendi

"I hate newspapermen. They come into camp and pick up their camp rumors and print them as facts. I regard them as spies, which, in truth, they are. If I killed them all there would be news from Hell before breakfast." – Major General William Tecumseh Sherman, USA

The earliest reference to reenacting the Civil War is from an early 1863 letter written by Adam Marty, a private in Company B of the 1st Minnesota Volunteer Regiment. He frequently wrote long eloquent letters to his cousin, Sam Bloomer, the regiment’s former color sergeant, who was at home recovering from wounds sustained during the Battle of Antietam in September 1862.

Like most bored soldiers, Marty, known as Scribendi by his fellow soldiers because of the voluminous amounts of out-going mail that he wrote, admitted, We have already in Imagination lived over the first year or two of our Return.

Written from their winter camp in February 1863 near Falmouth, Virginia, his letter read, in part, Gen. Sully says if he cant go home with us, he is going to pay us a visit Sometime soon after, call us all together at Fort Snelling or somewheres else, have a good time camping it about 2 weeks, and show them fellers up there how to drill, and if any of them St. Paulites come around putting on airs for sneering at his rough appearance (Red Shirt and Blouse you know) he will charge on them and drive them back to their holes! Of course you will be there I figure extensively in some honorable positions wont you? It will be so grand to reenact our Military exploits and experiences and call up old memorys. But I will close on that subject, wish as I love to dwell on it, and turn to our present Affairs.1

Numerous accounts abound of Civil War soldiers staging mock battles for their friends and former comrades-in-arms after the war, but these were ad-hoc gatherings that tended to be more of a reunion than a reenactment.

The City of Brooklyn held a Semi-Centennial observance of the Antietam battle on September 21, 1912, to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of that battle, but no reenactment occurred.

According to the September 6, 1912 issue of the New York Times, About 6,000 men will march in the parade, including the Boys’ Brigade, the Boy Scouts, and the Ninth and Fourteenth Regiments the only ones in existence today of the fifty-three New York regiments that took part in the battle. In the evening a reception will be given at the Fourteenth Regiment Armory to all survivors.2

In 1950, John Rawls and Ernest Peterkin founded the North-South Skirmish Association. They put on a display of Civil War weapons, uniforms and equipment at the Berwin Rod and Gun Club in Murkirk, Maryland. Organized into teams, over a dozen people participated in the organization’s First Skirmish to commemorate the heroism of those who fought during the war. While not technically reenactors, members of the N-SSA were instrumental in the success of the early reenacting events. Companies like Dixie Guns Works and Navy Arms were established to help maintain authenticity standards for the N-SSA through the manufacture of replica antique firearms.3 These companies would later be pivotal in raising the standards in modern reenacting.

The first actual battle reenactment can be traced to the leadership of Major General James C. Fry, who commanded the U.S. Army’s 88th Infantry Division from July through November 1945, and the 2nd Infantry Division during the Korean War.4 He is credited as being the driving force behind the planning and execution of the 100th Anniversary of First Manassas reenactment, held July 21-22, 1961, on the Manassas battlefield under the watchful eye of the U.S. Park Service. During that weekend, approximately 100,000 spectators lined up to watch the event in temperatures over one hundred degrees. A few spectators died from heat stroke and heart attacks, though bee stings were the common ailment that weekend.5

According to an article published in a 1986 issue of Camp Chase Gazette, equipping the early reenactors was a problem because most wore whatever attire they could find. It was not uncommon to see reenactors wearing modern work boots, light blue work pants and brandishing new shotguns. Virginia National Guard members participated and wore gray work clothes and were armed with M-1 rifles, which were not authentic to the time being portrayed. Most non-N-SSA reenactors wore whatever clothes they could find in their closets and used whatever equipment they thought might be appropriate, since access to period clothing and weaponry was difficult at best. Camouflage netting covered the Stonewall Jackson equestrian statue and reenactors slept in World War II-era tents. Because few people knew the more complicated maneuvers of the period, there was little troop movement on the battlefield. Stuffed mannequins littered the grounds to resemble casualties.6

The reviews of the first reenactment were mixed. Some critics claimed the event was a sham or a farce, while others thought the carnival-like atmosphere didn’t do justice to commemorating an American tragedy. Destruction of historic land at the battlefield’s Chinn Ridge was also a concern. Ultimately National Park Service Director Conrad Wirth banned reenactments from occurring on Park Service land. With the exception of the already planned 1962 Antietam reenactment, 1963 Gettysburg centennial and the 1992 filming of Gettysburg, because of a huge financial contribution from media mogul Ted Turner, Wirth’s ban remains in effect today.7

While the Centennial reenactments occurred at Antietam and Gettysburg, they were dying out by 1964. The rise of the Civil Rights movement, strained race-relations and the Vietnam War kept the Centennial events low-key.8 The Crater reenactment event in 1964 at Petersburg National Military Park was cancelled and a simple commemorative plaque was unveiled to mark the occasion instead.

The hobby continued to grow slowly during the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s, though safety and authenticity standards were lacking during the early years of the hobby. The late Howard Madaus, a Centennial reenactor who became the chief curator of the National Civil War Museum in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, was instrumental in helping several reenactment groups get established and sustain themselves by insisting that reenactors maintain the highest standards of dress and equipment. Because he was a leader in the authenticity movement in the 1970s, Madaus earned the title of being the original stitch-counter. Madaus also became one of the world’s leading authorities on Civil War flags. He passed away in July 2007 at his home in Cody, Wyoming.9

Following his example, reenactors became amateur historians and searched for first-hand accounts of battles and camp life, studied original uniforms in an attempt to replicate them, and were more proficient in 1860’s military drill using the tactics taught in Hardee’s and Scott’s Manuals of Arms.

It was at this time when specialty units began to attract interest. Most of the reenacting was comprised of infantry, artillery and cavalry units, but there was little or no regard given for engineers, medical, signal corps or the Veteran Reserve Corps, also known as the Invalid Corps.

In the 1980s, Hollywood caught on to reenacting with the CBS mini-series, The Blue and the Gray. I was eleven-years old when the mini-series was first broadcast in 1982 and it stirred something inside of me. For the first time in my young life, the Civil War was a real event. The characters were full of life, the musketry was real and Gregory Peck as Abraham Lincoln was as close to seeing the president as I could ever imagine.

North and South was another mini-series that starred the late Patrick Swayze. Because of a weak analog television signal in the Northwoods of Upper Michigan, I was unable to watch it during the initial run, but I’m sure it provided inspiration to thousands of my Confederate counterparts as The Blue and the Gray did for me.

On December 14, 1989, six months after I graduated from high school, Sony Pictures released Glory, the story of the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. The film rekindled the interest I had in the Civil War, long since buried by academics, athletics, an attempt at entering the U.S. Naval Academy and the unsuccessful pursuit of a woman who captured my heart.

Hollywood sucked me into the Civil War once again in 1993 when New Line Cinema released Gettysburg. Knowing that the Gettysburg battle was the epitome of all things Civil War, seeing the film during its opening weekend was a priority. While Glory had the better plot, Gettysburg had the better effects, and soon I was asking the question, What was it really like? My reading habits soon reflected the Civil War as I attempted to tackle Shelby Foote’s huge three-volume work.

Furthermore, I was in an academic quandary. My college major was political science but my heart yearned for history. The compromise was a double-major in political science and American history. Less than a year later, I took the first of three classes in American Military History which led to meeting Don Drew at the video store and my introduction to the hobby.

Gettysburg also inspired thousands of others around the world to take stock in the history. Civil War historical artist Dale Gallon and I were in the Peach Orchard at Gettysburg for a photo shoot a decade after the film was released. After taking a few photos with the Nikon D-1 digital camera that I was using, Dale grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and let it sift through the fingers of his left hand. Jeff, how many cars do you see up there? he asked as his right hand pointed towards the shiny multi-colored vehicles parked along the roadway near Little Round Top.

Let’s see, I said, pausing only to count. Dale, I see eight of them.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon in the spring. That should not be possible since very few people even come here on weekdays. If it was a weekend I wouldn’t be surprised, but eight cars for a Wednesday morning is beyond me.

O...kay, I said not quite sure of the point that he was trying to make.

Before the movie came out, nobody visited Little Round Top. Days and weeks went by with either no visitors or only those taking the driving tour. Once the movie came out, everybody goes up to Little Round Top, but they seem to forget about the other battles that took place here, he explained.

Is that such a bad thing?

It’s neither a bad thing nor a good thing. It just goes to show how much Hollywood influences our lives.

We finished our photo shoot and parted ways. Like a wise sage, he left me with a valuable nugget to ponder.

Chapter 4 - Red Legged Devils

"He died at the post of honor, bravely fighting for human liberty." – Colonel Edward B. Fowler, 14th Brooklyn N.Y.S.M.

We pitched our tents on the company street next to our fellow 14th Brooklyn companies shortly after arriving in Orange County, Virginia for the 130th Anniversary Wilderness reenactment. Company A hailed from Brooklyn and was commanded by Captain Bob Danielski. Company F, commanded by Captain Bob Duffy, was created by Don Drew when he lived in Florida before he moved to Minnesota and started us - Company K. Captain Danielski, our commander for the weekend, stood five foot seven, was quite muscular and had a feisty attitude that proved to us that he was capable of leading people, even though he and Captain Drew were often