For those who don't like the story I posted, here is something a lot more historical. Ever wonder what happened to the federal clothing left by the retreating Army of the Potomac at places like Chancellorsville and the like? The 4th Alabama, on its way to Gettysburg, were issued federal knapsacks captured in the Battle of Chancellorsille. When the men opened the knapsacks, they discovered the previous owners personal effects. Here is what William Fletcher of the 5th Texas tells:
Traveling over the battlefield, I saw that our part of the line had stripped the union dead. The unaquainted would think this was done by line soldiers, but was not, only in the case of actual necessity. It was largely done by those who made it their business. The union clothing, when washed, was good stock in second hand stores and its benefit was that it supplied the wanting soldier and poor citizen at a low price. I heard of no effort to stop the practice and there was no harm in stripping the dead of the party blockading our ports and creating the need. William Fletcher, 5th Texas
Thursday, June 30, 2011
A short story
Here is a fictional story I wrote for fun. It's about a reenactor thinking he is an actor. Enjoy.
Reen-Actor
By
Steve Acker
Driving to Maryland had become second nature by the summer of 2004. Each summer for two weeks, since ’97, hundreds of Civil War reenactors had traveled to a farm near the Antietam battlefield to work on a Civil War docu-drama; work being the wrong word for our pay consisted of shoddy food, a t-shirt and the video when finished. That first year I was one of the many “background artists” that filled, yes the background. I marched; Rebel yelled, Yankee Huzzad and fired my musket. Scores of guys all dressed the same our faces lost in the uniformity, and our movements diffused along an X axis while the actors gave their lines. The closest I came to the camera was when we charged past our fierce eyed director, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE CAMERA,” he flamed. “DAM IT, Back to one.”
It wasn’t me, or was it? Still being on a set was a lot more fun than any reenactment. Acting was so much cooler than reenacting. I was on a film set and not some county park shooting blanks at tubby dudes in bad versions of Civil War uniforms. 20 guys fighting Pickett’s Charge is cheesy stuff really when one considers the gravity of the actual historical event they reenact. Proudly I was never into the fake battles, often taking a hit in the first minutes of battle then falling asleep while the two armies had at each others. I even created a way of taking a hit where my blanket roll became my pillow. Acting was far cooler even if my acting resume offered one line; third guy from the left.
The second filming year I was given two lines. I practiced those two lines for the entire trip to Maryland. And after a week on the same set as last year, I was the guy standing in front of the camera.
Dolly track
Boom mic
Camera
Mid Shot
“Roll sound. Camera. Action.”
Hooked.
My 15 minutes lasted an hour. I even tipped my hat up so the camera could see my eyes. The director liked that. “A natural,” he smiled. Vanity fed by a reflector board lighting my face and a skanky make up artist, taking away the sweaty shine, I then gave my first acting lines. “Then what did they do?” spoken with a mouthful of chewing tobacco and “Let’s hit em again,” sprayed in enthusiasm. My soliloquy.
“Cut. Back to One. Let’s do it again.”
“Then what did they do?” offered with less tobacco and more intonation. “Let’s hit em again,” spoken with intensity.
“That’s a wrap.”
The next year the director gave me 20 lines and the skanky make-up artist, now production assistant, put a lavalier microphone under my shirt. No longer would I run with the herd along the X axis, now I stood in front of the camera.
That third year of filming I slept in the house. The previous two I slept under a tree next to a pond. My career was launched.
So now four years after that first taste, I again travel to Maryland for a new project. A four man cast, with some background artists; a World War Two epic short and I was beginning another acting gig. Reaching the Maryland border just after dark, I have 50 miles to the hotel. Hotel damn I have made it. I plug in a cassette.
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” comes my voice quickly followed by another form of it, “But Vance we gotta do it if we’re to reach our objective.”
My mind repeats the Hell no line.
“I’ll be killed,” the first voice. “That’s a soldier’s fate,” the second. To help me memorize my lines I had taped the script. Time and miles disappear in inflection and intonation.
Turning off the highway, the hotel looms in the distance, just past the truck stop and the Waffle House where I had to wait for two urban kids to finish their strut through my headlights. Better put all the valuables into the hotel I told myself. Oh well, it’s still better than a tree. A good actor never forgets his roots
“I’m with the film company,” I say trying to impress the worldy teenager sitting at the reception desk. Her low cut shirt gives ample viewing to her developing womanhood. She never looks up.
“What room is my director in?”
“Who?”
“Will Terrel.” She checks her computer screen. Will and I met at the documentary three years ago. He too had lines and one day we rehearsed together. That’s why he asked me on board. While I went back to home, he went to California to make it. He worked as a PA, took acting classes and met other actors and now he was about to make his first film. He asked if I would be a part of his project. Anything to help a friend I said.
“211.”
“Thank you.”
“And me?”
An ugly pause as her apathic face foreshadows my next week.
I announce my name.
Travelling down well worn carpet of the second floor of a two floor hotel, I open the door to my room. Splayed out on the bed closest to the chattering air conditioner, my roommate inhales a bong hit. Will told me I would be rooming with the director of photography.
“So you’re one of the actors?” he exhales. Vanity fed.
“Guess so. Hope I do okay.”
He takes another hit holding it as long as his burnt lungs will allow then coughing the residue. He offers a hit.
“No thanks, I’m a teacher.”
Like a busted sophomore he squirms. I tell him not to worry about it. For the rest of our week he switches to one-hitters. His bong sits in the closet.
A knock on the door. It’s the director, grip and everything else his $25,000 budget requires of him. He even wrote the script. His dad, the guy with the $25,000, is the producer.
“Hey you made it,” he offers with a genuine handshake. “Let me introduce you to the other actors. They’re amazing.” Insecurity says hello.
He and I walk to Room 200, the honeymoon sweet in a hotel catering to truckers and the like.
“This is the Leads room.” Will listens through the door. “They must be going over their lines.”
Room 200 opens blue with smoke. My lungs complain.
“This is Steve. He’ll be playing Vance.”
The director leaves the room quickly like the squire before the king. A well built guy in his early twenties sits on the only chair. He reminds me of what California should look like, tan and well chiseled. He was on a reality show, did pretty well according to his stories. Next to him a slumpish guy about the same age looks me up and down. Italian looking with a New Yorkers features and voice, he lets the ash grow on his cigarette thus creating a certain drama to his words.
“Did you rehearse your lines?” he inquires.
“I taped them and on the drive here,” I offer. He turns to the others.
“So last summer Allan and I are in an acting class,” ash hits the floor.
Allen is the only face I recognize. For this project he is the Lead. That’s why he has the hot tub room. I met Allen the year before at a shoot in North Carolina, the biggest gig of my career to that point. I even got paid for that one and stayed in a hotel, a nicer one than this one. Allan takes a well rehearsed drag from his cigarette then, after holding it in for dramatic effect, lets the smoke drift out in his best James Dean. He offers a nod to me then returns to the conversation, a conversation of resumes, each espousing their film experience. Allan makes sure his credits trump all. He had worked three seasons on a sitcom, in the early 90’s. You know one of those cable shows that copies the formula of a show that made it. He let’s us know of his work in film too (a horror film part five, and some others I had never heard of) as well and the actors he hangs with in the LA party scene. California guy is next on the acting pecking order then acting class guy- New Yorker. I take a silent seat on the wood veneer dresser.
“Let’s run our lines. I’ll direct,” Allen directs. Directing will be his next venture, “after this project”, and according to him a natural progression for a man with his body of work. “I have the first line,” he states as if the order should be obvious.
Allen plays it understated, his meiotic style reminding me of a petite Clint Eastwood. I have to lean forward so I can hear him. California goes next; a chiseled delivery. Allen likes the way he intonates. Next the New Yorker gives his; gritty. Allen calls it ‘smokin.’
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” in my Wisconsin nasal. Allen puts his cigarette out in an empty wine cooler bottle.
“But Vance we gotta do it if we’re going to reach our objective,” California paints over me.
“Beautiful man. That was beautiful,” Allan spews. California guy nods in agreement.
“I’ll be killed,” I just killed the line and any creditability I thought I had.
Will returns to ask how rehearsal is going. My eyes find the carpet.
Allen takes a long draw from his cigarette, “In my body of work this may be the finest writing ever.” California and New York nod in perfumed agreement.
Will, a kid making his calling card, flushes with pride while I remember where I had heard that line before. North Carolina.
For the rest of the night wine coolers went down like water and with each empty came grander stories of A list stars begging to work with Allan and why Hollywood needs guys like them. I needed a shot and a beer.
For the next week we film. Between every take Will, a kid trying to show he has what it takes to make it, listens to the constant stream of ‘suggestions’ and condescending comparisons with other projects Allan, California and New York have worked on. Each night the actors hold mutual admiration society meetings held over the scripts we are supposed to be rehearsing. I become as necessary as the cigarette butts on the carpet. Once a background artist asked how long I have been a professional actor. I laughed.
On our last night, Allan unsuccessfully hit on the worldly teenager. I guess she didn’t want to see his impressive body of work. The cast party became a montage of soulful toasts, Allen promised to hook up California and New York with some people he knows. Will gushed over the efforts of his actors and I sat on the wood veneered dresser drinking a beer till around midnight then excused myself. “Got a long drive in the morning” I said to no one in particular.
On the road before dawn, I put the cassette in a case the tossed it under my seat, replacing it with the Gettysburg soundtrack. I heard Allen went back to Nebraska, to work for his father in-law. I saw California in a commercial not too long ago and I saw New York in a History Channel program. He was a background. I don’t go to Maryland anymore. Instead I pack my blanket roll and head out to a reenactment. This weekend twenty of us are going to reenact the battle of Antietam. Still…
Reen-Actor
By
Steve Acker
Driving to Maryland had become second nature by the summer of 2004. Each summer for two weeks, since ’97, hundreds of Civil War reenactors had traveled to a farm near the Antietam battlefield to work on a Civil War docu-drama; work being the wrong word for our pay consisted of shoddy food, a t-shirt and the video when finished. That first year I was one of the many “background artists” that filled, yes the background. I marched; Rebel yelled, Yankee Huzzad and fired my musket. Scores of guys all dressed the same our faces lost in the uniformity, and our movements diffused along an X axis while the actors gave their lines. The closest I came to the camera was when we charged past our fierce eyed director, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE CAMERA,” he flamed. “DAM IT, Back to one.”
It wasn’t me, or was it? Still being on a set was a lot more fun than any reenactment. Acting was so much cooler than reenacting. I was on a film set and not some county park shooting blanks at tubby dudes in bad versions of Civil War uniforms. 20 guys fighting Pickett’s Charge is cheesy stuff really when one considers the gravity of the actual historical event they reenact. Proudly I was never into the fake battles, often taking a hit in the first minutes of battle then falling asleep while the two armies had at each others. I even created a way of taking a hit where my blanket roll became my pillow. Acting was far cooler even if my acting resume offered one line; third guy from the left.
The second filming year I was given two lines. I practiced those two lines for the entire trip to Maryland. And after a week on the same set as last year, I was the guy standing in front of the camera.
Dolly track
Boom mic
Camera
Mid Shot
“Roll sound. Camera. Action.”
Hooked.
My 15 minutes lasted an hour. I even tipped my hat up so the camera could see my eyes. The director liked that. “A natural,” he smiled. Vanity fed by a reflector board lighting my face and a skanky make up artist, taking away the sweaty shine, I then gave my first acting lines. “Then what did they do?” spoken with a mouthful of chewing tobacco and “Let’s hit em again,” sprayed in enthusiasm. My soliloquy.
“Cut. Back to One. Let’s do it again.”
“Then what did they do?” offered with less tobacco and more intonation. “Let’s hit em again,” spoken with intensity.
“That’s a wrap.”
The next year the director gave me 20 lines and the skanky make-up artist, now production assistant, put a lavalier microphone under my shirt. No longer would I run with the herd along the X axis, now I stood in front of the camera.
That third year of filming I slept in the house. The previous two I slept under a tree next to a pond. My career was launched.
So now four years after that first taste, I again travel to Maryland for a new project. A four man cast, with some background artists; a World War Two epic short and I was beginning another acting gig. Reaching the Maryland border just after dark, I have 50 miles to the hotel. Hotel damn I have made it. I plug in a cassette.
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” comes my voice quickly followed by another form of it, “But Vance we gotta do it if we’re to reach our objective.”
My mind repeats the Hell no line.
“I’ll be killed,” the first voice. “That’s a soldier’s fate,” the second. To help me memorize my lines I had taped the script. Time and miles disappear in inflection and intonation.
Turning off the highway, the hotel looms in the distance, just past the truck stop and the Waffle House where I had to wait for two urban kids to finish their strut through my headlights. Better put all the valuables into the hotel I told myself. Oh well, it’s still better than a tree. A good actor never forgets his roots
“I’m with the film company,” I say trying to impress the worldy teenager sitting at the reception desk. Her low cut shirt gives ample viewing to her developing womanhood. She never looks up.
“What room is my director in?”
“Who?”
“Will Terrel.” She checks her computer screen. Will and I met at the documentary three years ago. He too had lines and one day we rehearsed together. That’s why he asked me on board. While I went back to home, he went to California to make it. He worked as a PA, took acting classes and met other actors and now he was about to make his first film. He asked if I would be a part of his project. Anything to help a friend I said.
“211.”
“Thank you.”
“And me?”
An ugly pause as her apathic face foreshadows my next week.
I announce my name.
Travelling down well worn carpet of the second floor of a two floor hotel, I open the door to my room. Splayed out on the bed closest to the chattering air conditioner, my roommate inhales a bong hit. Will told me I would be rooming with the director of photography.
“So you’re one of the actors?” he exhales. Vanity fed.
“Guess so. Hope I do okay.”
He takes another hit holding it as long as his burnt lungs will allow then coughing the residue. He offers a hit.
“No thanks, I’m a teacher.”
Like a busted sophomore he squirms. I tell him not to worry about it. For the rest of our week he switches to one-hitters. His bong sits in the closet.
A knock on the door. It’s the director, grip and everything else his $25,000 budget requires of him. He even wrote the script. His dad, the guy with the $25,000, is the producer.
“Hey you made it,” he offers with a genuine handshake. “Let me introduce you to the other actors. They’re amazing.” Insecurity says hello.
He and I walk to Room 200, the honeymoon sweet in a hotel catering to truckers and the like.
“This is the Leads room.” Will listens through the door. “They must be going over their lines.”
Room 200 opens blue with smoke. My lungs complain.
“This is Steve. He’ll be playing Vance.”
The director leaves the room quickly like the squire before the king. A well built guy in his early twenties sits on the only chair. He reminds me of what California should look like, tan and well chiseled. He was on a reality show, did pretty well according to his stories. Next to him a slumpish guy about the same age looks me up and down. Italian looking with a New Yorkers features and voice, he lets the ash grow on his cigarette thus creating a certain drama to his words.
“Did you rehearse your lines?” he inquires.
“I taped them and on the drive here,” I offer. He turns to the others.
“So last summer Allan and I are in an acting class,” ash hits the floor.
Allen is the only face I recognize. For this project he is the Lead. That’s why he has the hot tub room. I met Allen the year before at a shoot in North Carolina, the biggest gig of my career to that point. I even got paid for that one and stayed in a hotel, a nicer one than this one. Allan takes a well rehearsed drag from his cigarette then, after holding it in for dramatic effect, lets the smoke drift out in his best James Dean. He offers a nod to me then returns to the conversation, a conversation of resumes, each espousing their film experience. Allan makes sure his credits trump all. He had worked three seasons on a sitcom, in the early 90’s. You know one of those cable shows that copies the formula of a show that made it. He let’s us know of his work in film too (a horror film part five, and some others I had never heard of) as well and the actors he hangs with in the LA party scene. California guy is next on the acting pecking order then acting class guy- New Yorker. I take a silent seat on the wood veneer dresser.
“Let’s run our lines. I’ll direct,” Allen directs. Directing will be his next venture, “after this project”, and according to him a natural progression for a man with his body of work. “I have the first line,” he states as if the order should be obvious.
Allen plays it understated, his meiotic style reminding me of a petite Clint Eastwood. I have to lean forward so I can hear him. California goes next; a chiseled delivery. Allen likes the way he intonates. Next the New Yorker gives his; gritty. Allen calls it ‘smokin.’
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” in my Wisconsin nasal. Allen puts his cigarette out in an empty wine cooler bottle.
“But Vance we gotta do it if we’re going to reach our objective,” California paints over me.
“Beautiful man. That was beautiful,” Allan spews. California guy nods in agreement.
“I’ll be killed,” I just killed the line and any creditability I thought I had.
Will returns to ask how rehearsal is going. My eyes find the carpet.
Allen takes a long draw from his cigarette, “In my body of work this may be the finest writing ever.” California and New York nod in perfumed agreement.
Will, a kid making his calling card, flushes with pride while I remember where I had heard that line before. North Carolina.
For the rest of the night wine coolers went down like water and with each empty came grander stories of A list stars begging to work with Allan and why Hollywood needs guys like them. I needed a shot and a beer.
For the next week we film. Between every take Will, a kid trying to show he has what it takes to make it, listens to the constant stream of ‘suggestions’ and condescending comparisons with other projects Allan, California and New York have worked on. Each night the actors hold mutual admiration society meetings held over the scripts we are supposed to be rehearsing. I become as necessary as the cigarette butts on the carpet. Once a background artist asked how long I have been a professional actor. I laughed.
On our last night, Allan unsuccessfully hit on the worldly teenager. I guess she didn’t want to see his impressive body of work. The cast party became a montage of soulful toasts, Allen promised to hook up California and New York with some people he knows. Will gushed over the efforts of his actors and I sat on the wood veneered dresser drinking a beer till around midnight then excused myself. “Got a long drive in the morning” I said to no one in particular.
On the road before dawn, I put the cassette in a case the tossed it under my seat, replacing it with the Gettysburg soundtrack. I heard Allen went back to Nebraska, to work for his father in-law. I saw California in a commercial not too long ago and I saw New York in a History Channel program. He was a background. I don’t go to Maryland anymore. Instead I pack my blanket roll and head out to a reenactment. This weekend twenty of us are going to reenact the battle of Antietam. Still…
Monday, June 27, 2011
Lincoln comes to the army
In early April of 1863 President Lincoln paid a visit to the Army of the Potomac. Below is one of the accounts from his visit. Enjoy.
(April 7th) President Lincoln visited the various encampments and our regiment was drawn up in line to receive him. He was accompanies by a large number of generals and their staffs with a regiment of lancers following behind as a body guard. President Lincoln wore a tall black hat, his feet nearly reached the ground, and his great height, clothing in civilian dress as he was, in striking contrast with the rest of the company. As he passed along the front of the line, the regiment presented arms, the drum corps played and the boys all joined in giving lusty cheers. President Lincoln returned the salute by raising his hat. The visit was preceded by a humorous event which occurred as the President and retinue passed through the regimental street to reach the parade ground. In this street a limb of a tree projected over the street, high enough for the ordinary man mounted, wearing a military hat, to pass under, but the tall hat of which Lincoln wore came in contact with that limb, and the hat fell to the ground. An orderly promptly handed the hat to that owner, who replaced it on his head, this was in plane view of the regiment and a smile passed along the line as a result.
J.P Fahey, 12th New Hampshire, Bowman’s Brigade, Whipple’s, Division, 3rd Corps
(April 7th) President Lincoln visited the various encampments and our regiment was drawn up in line to receive him. He was accompanies by a large number of generals and their staffs with a regiment of lancers following behind as a body guard. President Lincoln wore a tall black hat, his feet nearly reached the ground, and his great height, clothing in civilian dress as he was, in striking contrast with the rest of the company. As he passed along the front of the line, the regiment presented arms, the drum corps played and the boys all joined in giving lusty cheers. President Lincoln returned the salute by raising his hat. The visit was preceded by a humorous event which occurred as the President and retinue passed through the regimental street to reach the parade ground. In this street a limb of a tree projected over the street, high enough for the ordinary man mounted, wearing a military hat, to pass under, but the tall hat of which Lincoln wore came in contact with that limb, and the hat fell to the ground. An orderly promptly handed the hat to that owner, who replaced it on his head, this was in plane view of the regiment and a smile passed along the line as a result.
J.P Fahey, 12th New Hampshire, Bowman’s Brigade, Whipple’s, Division, 3rd Corps
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
A letter from Archie McLaurin
This letter is a fun read for it shows one's pride in not only state, but the beauty and quality of Mississippi folks over Tennessee folks. This, remember is from Archie's perspective. I'm sure some Tennessee boy wrote a similar letter about Mississippi folks.
Enjoy.
Camp Near Shelbyville Tenn
June 16th 1863
Dear Sister
I will now try and answer your letters that I received the night before last. I would have answered them yesterday bur our company had to go out and work on the breast works and I felt too tired to write when I came back. We had to work two hours. Back work goes harder with me than it used to. I think there will we will be some of the largest men when this war ends that ever was heard of. We have been lazing up in camp so long that we dread to do anything but we will have to do a little more now as we have to furnish wood in town as the regts that used to furnish wood has the small pox. We have fine times though when we get to town. I would not have any better time than we are having now. When we don’t draw enough to eat we try to buy it and when we cant buy it there is another way of getting it. I reckon you can guess how that is with out me telling you. I want you to tell Ma that I am not suffering for clothes now. I drew a pair of shoes and a pair of pants a pair of drawers a shirt and a hat. Tell her that she need not fear about my arm for it is well. Tell her to that I will be certain to take care of number one always
The letter that was mailed in Covington, I sent it by Capt. Learly. He was going home and I had to write in a hurry and forgot to tell you who I was going to send it by.
That man that stayed with you that said that he lived near hear didn’t miss it for when he said that they were pretty near all union people about here for I think myself that the most of them all union they charge about three prices for every thing we buy but there are some very pretty girls up here but I don’t like them very much. They say that the Mississippians sell water to the Tennesseans. I told on old lady that the Mississippians didn’t try to fool them when they sold them water but the people up here did. I told her that when they wanted to sell water up here that they mixed a little milk with it and sold it for milk. I tell you that old woman didn’t talk about water any more.
All the houses close to our camp have been visited by me and they all know me. Tell Mr. Strong that he ought to get some body else to live with him while Miss Sallie is away from home. I think that Liva McClatchy was bad off to marry from what Nancy wrote to me. I think if she had waited until the war was over she might have done better. When you write tell me how Coony is getting along. I haven’t heard from her in a long time. When the mail was stopped and none of us couldn’t get any letters, I tell you we were the worst looking crowd you most ever saw. You wrote that you heard that we were in Jackson. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were sent down there before long. Mary I saw John Byrd in the guard house in town the other day but I don’t want you to even whisper it out of the family for I wouldn’t have him know that I wrote it for nothing in the world but I don’t much blame him for being in there for I would have done just like he did under the same circumstances. I will not write the particulars about it. Tell Jenny that I can’t think of a name for her pup without she will call him Brackston Bragg. Tell me whether Jenny ever got her knife or not. I sent it to Brook by a man from the Dalgreen Rifles. He said he would leave it at the post office. I put it in a letter. Please let me know whether she ever got it or not. Well I will close hoping to hear from you soon. This leaves me in the best of health and spirits so nothing more only I remain your affectionate brother
Archie
Enjoy.
Camp Near Shelbyville Tenn
June 16th 1863
Dear Sister
I will now try and answer your letters that I received the night before last. I would have answered them yesterday bur our company had to go out and work on the breast works and I felt too tired to write when I came back. We had to work two hours. Back work goes harder with me than it used to. I think there will we will be some of the largest men when this war ends that ever was heard of. We have been lazing up in camp so long that we dread to do anything but we will have to do a little more now as we have to furnish wood in town as the regts that used to furnish wood has the small pox. We have fine times though when we get to town. I would not have any better time than we are having now. When we don’t draw enough to eat we try to buy it and when we cant buy it there is another way of getting it. I reckon you can guess how that is with out me telling you. I want you to tell Ma that I am not suffering for clothes now. I drew a pair of shoes and a pair of pants a pair of drawers a shirt and a hat. Tell her that she need not fear about my arm for it is well. Tell her to that I will be certain to take care of number one always
The letter that was mailed in Covington, I sent it by Capt. Learly. He was going home and I had to write in a hurry and forgot to tell you who I was going to send it by.
That man that stayed with you that said that he lived near hear didn’t miss it for when he said that they were pretty near all union people about here for I think myself that the most of them all union they charge about three prices for every thing we buy but there are some very pretty girls up here but I don’t like them very much. They say that the Mississippians sell water to the Tennesseans. I told on old lady that the Mississippians didn’t try to fool them when they sold them water but the people up here did. I told her that when they wanted to sell water up here that they mixed a little milk with it and sold it for milk. I tell you that old woman didn’t talk about water any more.
All the houses close to our camp have been visited by me and they all know me. Tell Mr. Strong that he ought to get some body else to live with him while Miss Sallie is away from home. I think that Liva McClatchy was bad off to marry from what Nancy wrote to me. I think if she had waited until the war was over she might have done better. When you write tell me how Coony is getting along. I haven’t heard from her in a long time. When the mail was stopped and none of us couldn’t get any letters, I tell you we were the worst looking crowd you most ever saw. You wrote that you heard that we were in Jackson. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were sent down there before long. Mary I saw John Byrd in the guard house in town the other day but I don’t want you to even whisper it out of the family for I wouldn’t have him know that I wrote it for nothing in the world but I don’t much blame him for being in there for I would have done just like he did under the same circumstances. I will not write the particulars about it. Tell Jenny that I can’t think of a name for her pup without she will call him Brackston Bragg. Tell me whether Jenny ever got her knife or not. I sent it to Brook by a man from the Dalgreen Rifles. He said he would leave it at the post office. I put it in a letter. Please let me know whether she ever got it or not. Well I will close hoping to hear from you soon. This leaves me in the best of health and spirits so nothing more only I remain your affectionate brother
Archie
Monday, June 20, 2011
What Did Johnny Reb Look Like?
As a reenactor I’ve spent many hours studying the physical impression of the soldier. When I was younger and thinner, my pursuit was for the most accurate physical impression possible. Wearing the correctly made garb was only part of the challenge. What did he carry, how dirty was he, how did he carry his kit? Answering those questions and more went into building an impression. Below are some of the pieces I’ve used to help me. Now that I’m older and wider, I still pursue the physical element, just not with the same zeal.
FOR FUN
“In one of the companies of our regiment there was a sergeant, an old country gentleman. When he left home he carried an umbrella. During a march on a hot day one would see the old sergeant marching along at the head of his company with his umbrella hoisted; the boys would call to him, "Come out of that umbrella." He took it kindly, and would generally reply that he knew they wanted it. During a rain when he hoisted it, he always had numerous applications for a part of it. When it was not in use he carried it strapped to his knapsack. John Worsham, 21st Virginia
“There, behind the log, he lay on his back…The rifle and cartridge box were of English make, and the only thing about him which did not indicate extreme destitution. His feet, were wrapped in rags, had course shoes upon them, so worn and full of holes they were only held together by many pieces of thick twine. Ragged trousers, a jacket and a shirt of what used to be called “two-cloth”, a strawhat, which had lost a large portion of both crown and rim, completed his attire. His hair was a mat of dust and grime. A haversack hung from his shoulder. Its contents were a jackknife, a plug of twisted tobacco, a tin cup and two quarts of cracked corn… with perhaps an ounce of salt tied in a rag” (Source forgotten) NOTE: This is the ultimate impression of a confederate soldier. It is of a soldier killed outside Washington City, he being a part of Early’s attempt to relieve pressure from Lee’s front that 1864 summer.
Nearly thirty-three years have passed since the alarm of war called from their peaceful pursuits the citizens who were to make name and fame as Confederate soldiers. The stirring scenes and the dreadful carnage of a memorable conflict have been removed by the lapse of time into the hazy past, and a new generation, however ready it may be to honor those who fought the battles of the South, is likely to form its idea of their appearance from the conventional military type. The Confederate soldier was not an ordinary soldier, either in appearance or character. With your permission I will undertake to draw a portrait of him as he really appeared in the hard service of privation and danger.
A face browned by exposure and heavily bearded, or for some weeks unshaven, begrimed with dust and sweat, and marked here and there by the darker stains of powder - a face whose stolid and even melancholy composure is easily broken into ripples of good humor or quickly flushed in the fervor and abandon of the charge; a frame tough and sinewy, and trained by hardship to surprising powers of endurance; a form, the shapeliness of which is hidden by its encumberments, suggesting in its careless and unaffected pose a languorous indisposition to exertion, yet a latent, lion-like strength and a terrible energy of action when aroused. Around the upper part of the face is a fringe of unkempt hair, and above this an old wool hat, worn and weather-beaten, the flaccid brim of which falls limp upon the shoulders behind, and is folded back in front against the elongated and crumpled crown. Over a soiled, which is unbuttoned and button less at the collar, is a ragged grey jacket that does not reach to the hips, with sleeves some inches too short. Below this, trousers of a nondescript color, without form and almost void, are held in place by a leather belt, to which is attached the cartridge box that rests behind the right hip, and the bayonet scabbard which dangles on the left. Just above the ankles each trouser leg is tied closely to the limb - a la Zouave - and beneath reaches of dirty socks disappear in a pair of badly used and curiously contorted shoes. Between the jacket and the waistband of the trousers, or the supporting belt, there appears a puffy display of cotton shirt which works out further with every hitch made by Johnny in his effort to keep his pantaloons in place. Across his body from his left shoulder there is a roll of threadbare blanket, the ends tied together resting on or falling below the right hip. This blanket is Johnny's bed. Whenever he arises he takes up his bed and walks. Within this roll is a shirt, his only extra article of clothing. In action the blanket roll is thrown further back, and the cartridge is drawn forward, frequently in front of the body. From the right shoulder, across the body pass two straps, one cloth the other leather, making a cross with blanket roll on breast and back. These straps support respectively a greasy cloth haversack and a flannel-covered canteen, captured from the Yankees. Attached to the haversack strap is a tin cup, while in addition to some odds and ends of camp trumpery, there hangs over his back a frying pan, an invaluable utensil with which the soldier would be loth to part.
With his trusty gun in hand - an Enfield rifle, also captured from the enemy and substituted for the old flint-lock musket or the shotgun with which he was originally armed - Johnny reb, thus imperfectly sketched, stands in his shreds and patches a marvelous ensemble - picturesque, grotesque, unique - the model citizen soldier, the military hero of the nineteenth century. There is none of the tinsel or trappings of the professional about him. From an esthetic military point of view he must appear a sorry looking soldier. But Johnny is not one of your dress parade soldiers. He doesn't care a copper whether anybody likes his looks or not. He is the most independent soldier that ever belonged to an organized army. He has respect for authority, and he cheerfully submits to discipline, because he sees the necessity of organization to affect the best results, but he maintains his individual autonomy, as it were, and never surrenders his sense of personal pride and responsibility. He is thoroughly tractable, if properly officered, and is always ready to obey necessary orders, but he is quick to resent any official incivility, and is a high private who feels, and is, every inch as good as a general. He may appear ludicrous enough on a display occasion of the holiday pomp and splendor of war, but place him where duty calls, in the imminent deadly breach or the perilous charge, and none in all the armies of the earth can claim a higher rank or prouder record. He may be outre and ill-fashioned in dress, but he has sublimated his poverty and rags. The worn and faded grey jacket, glorified by valor and stained with the life blood of its wearer, becomes, in its immortality of association, a more splendid vestment than mail of medieval knight or the rarest robe of royalty. That old, weather-beaten slouch hat, seen as the ages will see it, with its halo of fire, through the smoke of battle, is a kinglier covering than a crown. Half clad, half armed, often half fed, without money and without price, the Confederate soldier fought against the resources of the world. When at last his flag was furled and his arms were grounded in defeat, the cause for which he had struggled was lost, but he had won the faceless victory of soldiership.
Source: Written by G.H. Baskett, Nashville, Tenn., published in the Confederate Veteran, Vol. I, No. 12, Nashville, Tenn., December 1893.
http://www.civilwarhome.com/typicalconfedsoldier.htm
I have worn out the suit pants coat and socks, but as I was getting tolerably ragged and the brigade secured a supply of English clothes. I was one of the needy ones and am now rigged out in a splendid suit of blue. “On hard campaign the uniform may last only a month. Barclay on his return from Gettysburg wrote home,” I have had on my clothes for a month, may pants are nearly worn out, you may make up two under shirts, two pair of drawers, three pair of socks, a pair of socks, a pair of pants and a jacket. The army is in such a bad condition as far as clothes are concerned and our means of transportation are so limited.”
Ted Barclay 4th Virginia
ARTHUR FREEMANTLE
Liddel’s Brigade of Arkansas troops
“The men were good sized, healthy, and well clothed, but without any attempt at uniformity in color or cut; nearly all were dressed in either gray or brown coats and felt hats. I was told that even if the regiment was clothed in proper uniform by the government, it would become parti-colored again in a week, as the soldier preferred wearing the course homespun jackets and trousers made by their mothers and sisters at home.
The Confederate has no ambition to imitate the regular soldier at all; he looks the genuine rebel; but in spite of his bare feet, his ragged clothes, his old rug, and toothbrush stuck like a rose in his button-hole*, he has a sort of devil-may-care, reckless, self-confident look which is decidedly taking. This toothbrush in the buttonhole is a very common custom, and has a most quaint effect.
I was told that even if the regiment was clothed in proper uniform by the government, it would become multi-colored again in a week, as the soldier preferred wearing the course homespun jackets and trousers made by their mothers and sisters at home.” -- - Arthur Fremantle, Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guard
“A musket, cartridge box with forty rounds of cartridges, cloth haversack, blanket and canteen made up the Confederate soldier’s equipment. No man was allowed a change of clothing, nor could he have carried it. A grey cap, jacket, trousers, and a colored shirt-calico mostly- made up a private’s wardrobe. The method for carrying our few assets was to roll them in a blanket, tying each end of the roll, which was then swung over our shoulder. A night this blanket was unrolled and wrapped around its owner, who found a place on the ground with his cartridge box for a pillow.” David E. Johnston, 7th Virginia
ear of the Confederate Soldier
“On his back he strapped a knapsack containing a full stock of underwear, soap, towel, comb, brush, looking glass, toothbrush, paper and envelopes, pens, ink, pencils, blacking, photographs, smoking and chewing tobacco, pipes, twine string and cotton strips for wounds, needles and threads, buttons, knife, fork, spoon. On the outside of the knapsack were blankets, a rubber or oil cloth.” Carlton McCarthy
“A musket, cartridge box with forty rounds of cartridges, cloth haversack, blanket and canteen made up the Confederate soldier’s equipment. No man was allowed a change of clothing, nor could he have carried it. A grey cap, jacket, trousers, and a colored shirt-calico mostly- made up a private’s wardrobe. The method for carrying our few assets was to roll them in a blanket, tying each end of the roll, which was then swung over our shoulder. A night this blanket was unrolled and wrapped around its owner, who found a place on the ground with his cartridge box for a pillow.” David E. Johnston, 7th Virginia
FOR FUN
“In one of the companies of our regiment there was a sergeant, an old country gentleman. When he left home he carried an umbrella. During a march on a hot day one would see the old sergeant marching along at the head of his company with his umbrella hoisted; the boys would call to him, "Come out of that umbrella." He took it kindly, and would generally reply that he knew they wanted it. During a rain when he hoisted it, he always had numerous applications for a part of it. When it was not in use he carried it strapped to his knapsack. John Worsham, 21st Virginia
“There, behind the log, he lay on his back…The rifle and cartridge box were of English make, and the only thing about him which did not indicate extreme destitution. His feet, were wrapped in rags, had course shoes upon them, so worn and full of holes they were only held together by many pieces of thick twine. Ragged trousers, a jacket and a shirt of what used to be called “two-cloth”, a strawhat, which had lost a large portion of both crown and rim, completed his attire. His hair was a mat of dust and grime. A haversack hung from his shoulder. Its contents were a jackknife, a plug of twisted tobacco, a tin cup and two quarts of cracked corn… with perhaps an ounce of salt tied in a rag” (Source forgotten) NOTE: This is the ultimate impression of a confederate soldier. It is of a soldier killed outside Washington City, he being a part of Early’s attempt to relieve pressure from Lee’s front that 1864 summer.
Nearly thirty-three years have passed since the alarm of war called from their peaceful pursuits the citizens who were to make name and fame as Confederate soldiers. The stirring scenes and the dreadful carnage of a memorable conflict have been removed by the lapse of time into the hazy past, and a new generation, however ready it may be to honor those who fought the battles of the South, is likely to form its idea of their appearance from the conventional military type. The Confederate soldier was not an ordinary soldier, either in appearance or character. With your permission I will undertake to draw a portrait of him as he really appeared in the hard service of privation and danger.
A face browned by exposure and heavily bearded, or for some weeks unshaven, begrimed with dust and sweat, and marked here and there by the darker stains of powder - a face whose stolid and even melancholy composure is easily broken into ripples of good humor or quickly flushed in the fervor and abandon of the charge; a frame tough and sinewy, and trained by hardship to surprising powers of endurance; a form, the shapeliness of which is hidden by its encumberments, suggesting in its careless and unaffected pose a languorous indisposition to exertion, yet a latent, lion-like strength and a terrible energy of action when aroused. Around the upper part of the face is a fringe of unkempt hair, and above this an old wool hat, worn and weather-beaten, the flaccid brim of which falls limp upon the shoulders behind, and is folded back in front against the elongated and crumpled crown. Over a soiled, which is unbuttoned and button less at the collar, is a ragged grey jacket that does not reach to the hips, with sleeves some inches too short. Below this, trousers of a nondescript color, without form and almost void, are held in place by a leather belt, to which is attached the cartridge box that rests behind the right hip, and the bayonet scabbard which dangles on the left. Just above the ankles each trouser leg is tied closely to the limb - a la Zouave - and beneath reaches of dirty socks disappear in a pair of badly used and curiously contorted shoes. Between the jacket and the waistband of the trousers, or the supporting belt, there appears a puffy display of cotton shirt which works out further with every hitch made by Johnny in his effort to keep his pantaloons in place. Across his body from his left shoulder there is a roll of threadbare blanket, the ends tied together resting on or falling below the right hip. This blanket is Johnny's bed. Whenever he arises he takes up his bed and walks. Within this roll is a shirt, his only extra article of clothing. In action the blanket roll is thrown further back, and the cartridge is drawn forward, frequently in front of the body. From the right shoulder, across the body pass two straps, one cloth the other leather, making a cross with blanket roll on breast and back. These straps support respectively a greasy cloth haversack and a flannel-covered canteen, captured from the Yankees. Attached to the haversack strap is a tin cup, while in addition to some odds and ends of camp trumpery, there hangs over his back a frying pan, an invaluable utensil with which the soldier would be loth to part.
With his trusty gun in hand - an Enfield rifle, also captured from the enemy and substituted for the old flint-lock musket or the shotgun with which he was originally armed - Johnny reb, thus imperfectly sketched, stands in his shreds and patches a marvelous ensemble - picturesque, grotesque, unique - the model citizen soldier, the military hero of the nineteenth century. There is none of the tinsel or trappings of the professional about him. From an esthetic military point of view he must appear a sorry looking soldier. But Johnny is not one of your dress parade soldiers. He doesn't care a copper whether anybody likes his looks or not. He is the most independent soldier that ever belonged to an organized army. He has respect for authority, and he cheerfully submits to discipline, because he sees the necessity of organization to affect the best results, but he maintains his individual autonomy, as it were, and never surrenders his sense of personal pride and responsibility. He is thoroughly tractable, if properly officered, and is always ready to obey necessary orders, but he is quick to resent any official incivility, and is a high private who feels, and is, every inch as good as a general. He may appear ludicrous enough on a display occasion of the holiday pomp and splendor of war, but place him where duty calls, in the imminent deadly breach or the perilous charge, and none in all the armies of the earth can claim a higher rank or prouder record. He may be outre and ill-fashioned in dress, but he has sublimated his poverty and rags. The worn and faded grey jacket, glorified by valor and stained with the life blood of its wearer, becomes, in its immortality of association, a more splendid vestment than mail of medieval knight or the rarest robe of royalty. That old, weather-beaten slouch hat, seen as the ages will see it, with its halo of fire, through the smoke of battle, is a kinglier covering than a crown. Half clad, half armed, often half fed, without money and without price, the Confederate soldier fought against the resources of the world. When at last his flag was furled and his arms were grounded in defeat, the cause for which he had struggled was lost, but he had won the faceless victory of soldiership.
Source: Written by G.H. Baskett, Nashville, Tenn., published in the Confederate Veteran, Vol. I, No. 12, Nashville, Tenn., December 1893.
http://www.civilwarhome.com/typicalconfedsoldier.htm
I have worn out the suit pants coat and socks, but as I was getting tolerably ragged and the brigade secured a supply of English clothes. I was one of the needy ones and am now rigged out in a splendid suit of blue. “On hard campaign the uniform may last only a month. Barclay on his return from Gettysburg wrote home,” I have had on my clothes for a month, may pants are nearly worn out, you may make up two under shirts, two pair of drawers, three pair of socks, a pair of socks, a pair of pants and a jacket. The army is in such a bad condition as far as clothes are concerned and our means of transportation are so limited.”
Ted Barclay 4th Virginia
ARTHUR FREEMANTLE
Liddel’s Brigade of Arkansas troops
“The men were good sized, healthy, and well clothed, but without any attempt at uniformity in color or cut; nearly all were dressed in either gray or brown coats and felt hats. I was told that even if the regiment was clothed in proper uniform by the government, it would become parti-colored again in a week, as the soldier preferred wearing the course homespun jackets and trousers made by their mothers and sisters at home.
The Confederate has no ambition to imitate the regular soldier at all; he looks the genuine rebel; but in spite of his bare feet, his ragged clothes, his old rug, and toothbrush stuck like a rose in his button-hole*, he has a sort of devil-may-care, reckless, self-confident look which is decidedly taking. This toothbrush in the buttonhole is a very common custom, and has a most quaint effect.
I was told that even if the regiment was clothed in proper uniform by the government, it would become multi-colored again in a week, as the soldier preferred wearing the course homespun jackets and trousers made by their mothers and sisters at home.” -- - Arthur Fremantle, Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guard
“A musket, cartridge box with forty rounds of cartridges, cloth haversack, blanket and canteen made up the Confederate soldier’s equipment. No man was allowed a change of clothing, nor could he have carried it. A grey cap, jacket, trousers, and a colored shirt-calico mostly- made up a private’s wardrobe. The method for carrying our few assets was to roll them in a blanket, tying each end of the roll, which was then swung over our shoulder. A night this blanket was unrolled and wrapped around its owner, who found a place on the ground with his cartridge box for a pillow.” David E. Johnston, 7th Virginia
ear of the Confederate Soldier
“On his back he strapped a knapsack containing a full stock of underwear, soap, towel, comb, brush, looking glass, toothbrush, paper and envelopes, pens, ink, pencils, blacking, photographs, smoking and chewing tobacco, pipes, twine string and cotton strips for wounds, needles and threads, buttons, knife, fork, spoon. On the outside of the knapsack were blankets, a rubber or oil cloth.” Carlton McCarthy
“A musket, cartridge box with forty rounds of cartridges, cloth haversack, blanket and canteen made up the Confederate soldier’s equipment. No man was allowed a change of clothing, nor could he have carried it. A grey cap, jacket, trousers, and a colored shirt-calico mostly- made up a private’s wardrobe. The method for carrying our few assets was to roll them in a blanket, tying each end of the roll, which was then swung over our shoulder. A night this blanket was unrolled and wrapped around its owner, who found a place on the ground with his cartridge box for a pillow.” David E. Johnston, 7th Virginia
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