To the Gates of Washington
An After-Action Report by Corpl. M. A. Schaffner
Clerk, Eighth Corps/Middle Department

About noon Friday, July 16, I arrived on site in Boonsboro, Maryland for this 140^th anniversary reenactment of the 1864 battles of the Monocacy and Fort Stevens. The directions were clear enough, and although there was no sign for the turn from 66 to Millpoint Road, one should note that it’s very hard to get lost in Boonsboro.

At the site, I parked, registered, returned to my vehicle, and drove (slowly) down sutler row onto a rather rustic path through the woods. I turned right at the sign for the civilian camp and -- after some furlongs of anxiety over whether or not I was actually meant to use the trail I found myself on – encountered an undulating field, recently bush-hogged, with two trails leading in different directions.

I steered to the left and soon came across a gate in a wire fence with a sign for “US Art.” I looked around without success for “US Inf” then drove in anyway, through a tree line, up a hill, and thence into a clearing where I found Scott Buffington of the 3^rd USV and another gentleman from the 1^st/2^nd USV. After talking with them a little while, I dropped off my gear and drove to re-enactor parking, the road to which was one-lane, scarcely marked, and led directly through the Confederate camp. Fortunately I was early and encountered no traffic from the other direction.

Aside from minor kvetches about signage, I’m pretty much out of complaints about this event, except to note that the organizers had done nothing about the high-humidity that haunts the mid-Atlantic region in mid-July, nor the unseemly number of bugs that flitted and crawled through the camping areas. Nor should I neglect to mention that, on my return to the Federal camping area, as I doffed my hat to wipe my sweaty brow, a bird graced my scalp with its droppings. Really, I thought, as I used my last tissue to mop the residue from my hair, this is taking this authenticity thing entirely too far. I was lucky I suppose: it could have been a vulture a day after the battle.

Buffington had taken his guidons and decamped for the next field down, where the 3^rd USV was placed in the woods to be the first unit encountered by spectators wandering down through the civilian camping area from the sutlers. Across from them, on a rising field, lay the site of the rest of the USV (the “provisional battalion” formed of elements of the 1^st and 2^nd regiments). The field where I had my gear was reserved for Vincent’s Brigade, and the area just inside the gate for, as the sign said, the US Artillery. I did not know where Federal headquarters would go, so I spread out my rubber blanket and lay down with my head resting on the wool blanket rolled atop my knapsack. Bill Watson drove up, quite close to where I lay, which normally wouldn’t have frightened me but he had recently shaved off his beard, so I was unsure whether it was him or some nameless stranger I’d managed to insult in a previous AAR. As it was, we chatted pleasantly for awhile before he headed off to select a campsite for Company I.

More cars came by and rather than dozing I found myself looking at the new arrivals for signs of the US general staff. About 2:00 I got up and stationed myself more formally at the entrance where, as each new arrival appeared, I asked what regiment they were with and told them where their camp was. In truth, by the time they reached my position they were beyond getting lost, but such information as I had seemed to reassure them, and it made me feel marginally useful. A bit after 3:00, Kevin Air – the Federal commander for the event – arrived, with Vic Bonardi, his adjutant, right behind him. I stuck to my post another hour, then went back for my gear and trudged over to HQ where I noted to my delight that I had succeeded in avoiding having to help the senior officers set up their tents. Instead, Pvt. Joel Faudree – attached to HQ as orderly and general factotum – and I set up our dog tents and fetched wood and water. I know it’s a bit of a luxury for a Corporal to have a whole dog tent, but as I was on a general’s staff and would need the office space in the event of rain, I felt justified.

The fatigue detail gave me an opportunity to observe the areas of the Union camp that I hadn’t yet seen myself. We seemed well supplied with amenities – three small but ample water buffalos tucked back in the trees and a total of perhaps a dozen port-a-johns scattered in pairs through the various camp sites. The 3^rd USV had their shebangs and dog tents set up in company clumps in the trees along the direct route to the sutlers with the USV Provos on the hill opposite in neat company streets. Compared to the 3^rd, the more mainstream Provo encampment seemed expressive of a kind of oriental luxury, with some of the A-tents sporting canvas floors, cots, coolers, and other impedimenta. But I should add that most if not all of this was hidden from spectators by Saturday morning. I walked through Vincent’s camp later; it seemed to fall between the two USV extremes, with “garrison” and “campaign-style” camping mixed, sometimes on the same street. On the whole the two worlds of reenacting seemed to co-exist quite peacefully, with far more mutual tolerance than one would expect from reading the forums.

Back at Headquarters set-up continued, including the fixings for a modest officers’ soiree at 8:00, to follow on a meeting of the officers from both sides at 7:00. The 8:00 meeting provided all Union officers with a chance to sip a glass of port or sherry (fino) and to get acquainted. Most of the fellows already knew each other, and I welcomed the opportunity to see a number of old friends. Schnapps used the opportunity to provide additional report forms (morning, consolidated morning, and 21s) to those who needed them, and to explain that his Eighth Corps badge had no religious significance. Meanwhile, Kevin Air gave us all a pep talk about the coming battle, and the honor of representing Major General Lew Wallace and the improvised force that, though defeated, bought the precious time necessary to save the nation’s capital from the invader.

Kevin has a way with words. As Schnapps told him earlier, “General Wallace [for so I would call him all weekend, till at length he began to think me mad] sir, with your command of the language you really ought to write a book someday. Perhaps not about the current war – perhaps something historical, even biblical. Let me be the first to suggest this to you.”

After the meeting the evening passed in relative quiet, the notable exception being a constant, spirited chorus of period songs from the camp of the Provos. Briefly interrupted by a distant “Taps” (played to perfection by Jari Villanueva), the singers appeared to view the call not as an actual signal for “Lights Out” but as a sort of challenge, and it was well into the wee hours before they ceased to inform the rest of the Federal army, and the community at large, that Babylon had fallen. It wasn’t bad singing, but it did border, after awhile, on a safety issue, both in terms of interrupting the rest of men who were to perform on the morrow in a choreographed tableaux involving black powder weapons, as well as in tempting said men to secure said rest with said weapons after the 17^th chorus of said song.

Morning dawned without violence, but perhaps only slightly more rest, after a refreshingly cool night. I rekindled the fire, made coffee for myself and Joel, and then we went for more water and wood. After breakfast the morning reports came in and, as Schnapps had requested, indicated both those on site (as “Present for Duty”) and those whom the commanders anticipated arriving before the battle (as on “Detached Service”). A couple of the reports were perfunctory and not given till we walked over to the commands involved and asked for them. In contrast, the morning report of the 3^rd USV, penned by Karl Feldmeyer and delivered early by Adjutant Kim Perlotto, was a thing of beauty – complete, detailed, and made out in a superb period hand.
Staff had increased by one enlisted man as Josh Mordin, a fellow Brady Sharpshooter, Kearny Guardsman, and Rowdy Pard came out from Washington for the day to lounge about as a headquarters rat. But he was soon put to work when General Air dictated the following order to the five Union commands:

“From Maj. Gen’l Lew. Wallace. Sir, You and the officers, NCOs, and privates of your Command who may be interested, are requested to attend a meeting at 1:00 p.m today in the activities tent to discuss the plan for today’s engagement.”

We hurriedly made five copies of the order and carried them off to the addressees, asking each to sign for them.

In the course of my wanderings I encountered Bill Rodman who, working with the organizers, had the task of inspecting the water and porta-johns for adequacy. Despite having what one might literally term a sh*t detail, Bill was in his usual good spirits. Amid our small talk he told me the Confederates had about twice as many people, but the same amount of amenities. The numerical imbalance – fairly typical for any reenactment south of Philadelphia – was actually spot on for the scenario so, so far, all seemed well.

The morning passed with few complications. One could have been quite serious. General Air had gone to sutler row, thence to an 11:30 meeting with the CS officers. With him went the only radio in the US camp, and later when a gentleman from Vincent’s came to HQ to report a heat casualty, we had no way to help. A little later I went to the row myself and encountered General Air, who had heard of the problem and gave me his radio to take back to HQ in the event something else happened. Once there, I turned it over to Josh, Joel, and Mark Maranto, the latter another Brady Sharpshooter and Scrivener’s Mess member who reported to HQ to help out. I then went off to find the 1:00 meeting, the location of which had switched to some beehives near the Confederate camp.

I came in late, during an enthusiastic description of the upcoming scenario by both Kevin Air and Chris Anders. As they described what seemed a very ambitious program (illustrated by six pages of diagrams prepared by Air), they pointed in turn to each of the sub-commanders and described the role their units would play. I couldn’t imagine how it could come off as planned, but then re-enactments often strike me as a little like trying to stage the “Ring” cycle with a collection of local theater companies who seldom rehearse, and never together. Still, it looked like all the officers were there, as well as a goodly number of NCOs and men, and most of them seemed to be paying attention.

When the generals finished, Bill Watson spoke out and cautioned everyone to not rush through their roles – that if he’d seen one thing done wrong at most reenactments, it was that everyone was in a hurry. “Take your time,” he said, “no one’s clocking you.”

With those words of wisdom the general meeting broke up and the commands separately walked over the ground to rehearse their parts. Vincent’s and the USV Provos were to take a concealed position on a wooded rise behind a rail fence until approached by a force of, or representing, CS dismounted cavalry; the US troops would then rush out to the fence and level these with a volley or two. We would repulse another attack and then fall back when flanked on our left. After re-forming, we would be joined by the 3^rd USV forming on our right, and then finally withdraw when they were flanked on their right. The reenactment was intended to illustrate the basic course of the battle of the Monocacy in one hour rather than eight, and using perhaps 3% the actual number of troops. If done according to plan, it ought to look beautiful – the general level of impressions appeared well above average and, from where the spectators would stand, the field had no obvious modern intrusions. The troops were well-drilled and everyone had at least a basic idea of the script. Even if the plan fell through in its details, the general dynamics of the scenario, and layout of the field, should ensure that there would be no prolonged period of units blasting away at each other at ludicrously close ranges with no effect.

At headquarters the clerical staff suited up for battle. Mark was not officially detailed to HQ, so I hastily penned an order to that effect and gave it to him to give to his Captain, who, I later heard, loudly accused him of sleeping with the General’s daughter. Well, whatever works. Josh, Mark, and I fell in and sprang rammers for Adjutant Bonardi (we had no intention of firing) then followed the command to the assembling Union Army. Josh would stay back at the water buffalo nearest the field, with the Chaplain and ice, to deal with real world emergencies. Mark would stick with the Adjutant as aide and runner, and I would perform like service for General Air/Wallace. We took our positions in the field -- the General and I with Vincent’s and the USV Provos, the Adjutant and Mark with Buffington’s command.

The Union forces took the field some time before the Confederates – we were the home team and, in any case, they had more men to muster and maneuver. In the interval before their arrival my principal duties involved jogging over to various stray spectators and camera teams to usher them off the field, or at least to somewhere closer to the General so he could communicate the same desire somewhat more emphatically. Not long after we cleared the vagrants the presence of the CS became known as our small team of cavalry rode back from a reconnaissance, giving a pretty good impression of being hotly pursued. In the tense moments before the first Confederate attack, officers and NCOs addressed their men and Schnapps bellowed out an improvised speech, liberally stolen from Mike Murley and ending with a quote from Thomas Babington Macaulay’s “Horatius:”

What better way for a man to die
than facing fearsome odds,
for the ashes of his fathers
and the temples of his gods?

Fortunately, before he could recite more the Confederates made their first attack and the Union forces rushed the fence and gave fire. The Rebs did a very credible job of feigning surprise and taking massive hits, though I sensed a bit of disappointment among the Federals as most of the gray-clad casualties quickly got up and fell back to rejoin their unit. But this recycling was also part of the plan and, from where the spectators were, it must have seemed that the ground was still covered with the dead and dying. General Air addressed the army: “You might as well have a cigarette now, men – this is about as good as it gets.” He did not know at the time, but in trying to tune his radio to the channel for direct communications with Chris Anders, he had inadvertently switched it to voice-activated mode, and this, as well as his further commentary, would form a frank and witty narration of the rest of the battle for everyone else on the circuit.

We dealt with a second attack, then began to fall back from the planned flanking maneuver. Things began to happen quickly, perhaps too quickly, and I thought many times of Watson’s advice. The firing became heavy, the lines a little confused, and the action quite hectic. I recall giving a pack of cartridges to Gary Oswald of the Provos, then trying to catch a pair of altogether-too-nimble-for-me “shirkers,” then directing another pair of enthusiastic youngsters to watch our left flank rather than attempt to flank the Johnnies in turn. The Rebs brought a cannon into action and, so anxious were our boys to play fair, half of Vincent’s took a hit when it went off, and I actually found myself trying to resurrect a few people so we could maintain a semblance of a line. The 3^rd came up on cue, but there was an enormous-looking gap in our center – or maybe it only looked enormous because I was in it. Soon the flanking on the right occurred, the Union force collapsed back to its camp and our bugler blew the cease fire.

The Confederates, however, kept coming, and it was perhaps a minute later before they too sounded the cease fire, and even then it looked rather like many of them would rather have continued on after us. It must be hard to stop them, I thought, once their blood is up.

It all seemed to have gone too quickly. “What was that?” someone asked me: “Ten minutes?” I checked my watch and found it had been nearer forty. Watson had been right but, on the whole, things had gone pretty well. It was a complicated and ambitious plan, but everyone tried to keep to it. The Confederates could have broken the scenario on several occasions, taking advantage of our left flank when we fell back from the rail fence, or charging up the center where we left an inviting gap. They could have advanced to close range on our front at any time. But they didn’t, and I salute their discipline and restraint. But above all I attribute the fundamental success of the re-enactment to the organizers and the top command. The “all hands” walk-through before the battle not only informed the participants, it seemed to make them partners. As a result the “battle” felt much less like a playground recreation of the Civil War than a joint effort to bring off a demonstration of some historical and civic value.

Schnapps in fact found the feeling of solidarity so strong that, immediately after the Confederates cheered their victory, he shouted “Freiheit und Einheit!” then ducked to avoid the blows of his reactionary General and ran off to invite the nearest Confederate battalion to join the workers of the north in throwing off the yoke of both the southern slaveholding aristocracy and the northern industrial capitalists. “Sure, Hillary,” said one. “Mammy raper,” accused another. A third asked, in a perfect quotation of a period inquiry, whether the infusion of black blood had improved the northern race. Schnapps replied, “I don’t know; what’s it done for the southern?” “Well, we can take three of yours with one of ours.” Schnapps had no response. The strength and gallantry of southern arms are beyond question. He had just never before heard those qualities attributed to miscegenation.

With the friendly bantering over, I returned to camp, dropped my gear and most of my outer garments, and tried to cool off. After awhile Josh and Mark had to leave, so I walked with them over to the USV encampments and chatted with other friends as well, including Ken Linn and Kevin Kelley – the latter another of Brady’s, serving in Company I. In the same company I saw Frank Lilley and Rich Hill, together maintaining their remarkable dramatis personae of Hiram and Ned from China, Maine.

A little later I had the honor of witnessing the evening parade of the 3^rd USV, which on this occasion was made especially memorable by the appearance of Jari Villanueva and the entire complement of the Federal City Band. The latter played several patriotic airs, including “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” and after the parade was dismissed followed Major Buffington up to his HQ where they serenaded him with “The Star Spangled Banner.” I felt the tears well in my eyes during the parade, and they positively flowed during what would become our national anthem. You have to imagine it: we were in the woods with no modern buildings or appurtenances in sight, among the shebangs and dog-tents of the soldiers, with a band in period attire playing a period arrangement on period instruments. As the air began everyone, without prompting, stood and saluted or placed their hands on their hearts. Every mind, I imagine, was on the soldiers then, and perhaps our soldiers now. You would have been moved, too.

Upon my return to headquarters I received another order to copy and deliver, again inviting all officers, NCOs, and interested privates to a pre-battle meeting, to take place at 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning at the rail fence. This I delivered to the commands between 7:00 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., again getting receipt signatures. After dinner with staff, I was at liberty, so I went to the sutlers and walked the Row. I didn’t buy anything (this time), but I was pleased to see C.J. Daley, the Skilletlicker, and other quality vendors – in fact, so far as I saw, they all were quality vendors. I filled my canteen at the water buffalo and there ran into Bill Rodman again, as well as Ron Lauser of the 4^th Texas. We talked for a good long while, during which the actors finished their play and the Federal City Band set up, which was in fact my main reason for coming to the Row. As it was, I found myself so tired that I could only stay to listen to the first dance.

It was just as well – as I got back to my tent it began to rain, and it would continue raining pretty much throughout the muggy, buggy night, though not hard. With the luxury of a whole dog-tent to myself, I could stretch out at an angle without getting either myself or any of my gear wet. Further, the combination of weather and the day’s exertions seemed to have had a quieting effect on the rest of the camp, so I slept reasonably well.

Sunday morning the rain seemed to let up a little, but resumed at a moderate pace once I was up and out in it. Still, we got the fire going again and turned to our various duties. I collected the morning reports and sat in my tent to consolidate them and update the operational journal I’d begun. As the rain pattered down, I thought of something in the letters of William Henry Harrison Clayton, a clerk in an Iowa regiment:

“I am considerably fatigued and you must excuse this scribbling. I know you would do so if you were to see me writing. I am seated on the ground, beneath my shelter tent sort of tailor fashion with the paper on my port folio before me.”


3^rd USV had lost most of a company. The Provos gave a verbal estimate. Vincent’s, which managed the most carefully constructed report of Sunday morning (I saw the adjutant actually working from a morning report book), managed the feat of being larger on Sunday than Saturday. The cavalry had vanished from their bivouac, though later at least two horsemen would report as couriers.

After my rough job on the morning report, I packed up most of my gear and went off to the morning meeting. This seemed to go even better than the previous one, though the performance promised greater challenges, as it would involve a running fight over two fields, first in one direction, toward “Fort Stevens,” and then back the other way. I saw a number of folks I knew in gray and chatted briefly with several, comparing notes with Andrew Dangel, Adjutant of the Liberty Rifles and member of the Scrivener’s Mess, and speculating with other LRs on the possible appearance of Angelina Jolie, were she that moment to emerge from yonder treeline in an unclothed state, a topic that had completely supplanted Gilhams’ at their last COI.

As the meeting broke up, someone in blue made an unfortunate comment about the supposed propensity of Confederate cavalrymen to not take hits. A nearby cavalier replied that his unit did take hits as appropriate to the scenario, and that those in gray often said the same thing about the boys in blue. I saluted him as he passed. I’ve worn both colors (though more commonly blue – one just doesn’t find as many opportunities to galvanize the other way), and I’ve heard enough of Kevlar jean cloth and bullet-proof blue to want to beg everyone to, please, just stop. Schnapps’ Rule Number 59: “Whining about others not taking hits is even less authentic than not taking hits.”

The rain had now tapered off to intermittent showers and the field was gorgeously rich and green. We marched out and the 7^th Maine gathered in a copse by a tree line perpendicular to the rail fence of Saturday’s battle while the Adjutant conducted Vincent’s and the Provos further back, to where the artillery had set up at “Fort Stevens.” In the copse Captain Watson addressed the battalion, giving them the history of the 7^th Maine, their sacrifices in many battles, and an account of their performance in action within the District of Columbia. It was an emotional moment and, after wolfing down a third of a roll of Necco Wafers, Schnapps was moved to generously share the remainder with the 73 officers and men around him.

As the Confederates moved to take position, Buffington’s men marched onto the field, then deployed, as a battalion, as skirmishers by the right flank. Company I held a squad back in reserve, and General Air/Halleck ordered the skirmishers to fall back to the cover of the tree line. I did not see the rest of the Union Army but stayed with the general as the battle began.

The 3^rd USV/7^th Maine held its line as the Confederates advanced and threw out their own skirmishers. After a spirited defense, the 7^th fell back in company groups onto the next field, and thence into the woods by the “Fort.” General Air, myself, and a slightly winded private of the 7^th sheltered behind a clump of trees as the Johnnies advanced till halted by the Fort’s cannons. My comrade had to clear his musket but had run short of caps, so I gave him a handful then loaded my own weapon. Once the Confederate line was well stopped, Vincent’s and the Provos came out, formed lines of battle, and went into action on either side of our clump of trees. The Johnnies began to fall back, at which point the 7^th Maine returned to the field in column of companies and went over to the attack.

This gave the clerk his chance. In the name of all the white collar workers who’ve ever burdened the taxpayers and scurried down the halls of Washington with abstruse memoranda, I begged the General’s permission to fall in with the 7^th, as had no small number of the bureaucrats of the day. Reluctantly, he agreed, no doubt fearing that by giving his permission he was doing more harm to his own ranks than the enemy’s. I trotted off and reported to a lieutenant in the rear of Company I, who directed me to fall in behind his leftmost Corporal – none other than Kevin Kelley, whose various virtues may one day compensate for the harm he’s done the hobby by getting Schnapps into it.

We marched off, first at the quickstep then at the double-quick, deployed into line near the tree line where we’d started the action, then put on a firing clinic, volleying by battalion, by rank, and by file. We were so deeply into the fight that none of us noticed a horse-drawn cannon deploying on our left until it fired, and some not even then. After at least one more blast from the gun, we advanced, fired some more, formed again in column of companies, and, after breaking onto the field, detailed some men to take care of prisoners. We redeployed into line and kept up the advance into the field, firing once or twice again, then went to arms port and charged at the double-quick.

It was then that I saw General Air rush before us to lead the attack, sword in hand, and it was shortly after that I felt a sharp pain in my left calf and hobbled to a halt, a pulled muscle driving me into a fairly good imitation of a grazing leg wound. The line swept further forward as I took a knee among a field of Federal casualties. When the cease fire sounded I limped back to the side of the General, but my work for the weekend was, for better or worse, done.

It was not a particularly glorious end. I watch my weight, I lift weights, and I run, but I’m fifty. Stuff happens.

Still, a generally celebratory mood seemed to cover the field at battle’s end. Because of the cooperation and discipline of both sides the battle went off almost entirely as planned, despite the complexity of the scenario, the amount of movement, and the technical challenges involved in such actions as deploying and firing horse-drawn artillery. I overheard soldiers on both sides talk about how good the event was even while they were still on the field, and there seemed to be an unusual amount of mutual congratulations and hand shaking between blue and gray.

Corporal Kelley walked with me back to HQ and, after getting his own gear, walked with me back to parking. I had more than an ordinary load, with a full pack, two soaking wet shelter halves, complete with rustic home-made poles, my clerk’s satchel, and a hardback journal in the pack. I left the extra papers and forms with Kevin Air, said my good-byes and marched out with the Corporal. For those who thought the parking lot was a considerable distance away, I should note that it was not a particularly difficult walk, even loaded with too much stuff and limping. Or maybe it’s just easier when you know you’re going home and there’s a hot shower at the end of the drive.

Looking back on the event a few weeks later, I think it was splendid, combining quality participants, a beautiful site, plentiful amenities, thoughtful camping arrangements, and excellent leadership before and during the actual scenarios. It challenged, successfully, a number of assumptions about the ability of reenactors to work together, whether across the lines of “mainstreamers” and “campaigners” or the ranks of blue and gray. It seems oddly fitting that a portrayal of the struggle for the fate of the nation’s capital could also serve as an analogy for the struggle for the soul of the hobby -- and encouraging that it succeeded in both.

Hats off to you all, boys: Deo Vindice! The Union Forever!