South Mountain, Maryland

The past few years have seen the dramatic rise of campaign-oriented reenacting. Known in various circles as hard cores, progressives, authentics or campaigners, these die-hard reenactors seek to establish an authentic experience well beyond that of the typical reenactment weekend. Mainstreamers often characterize these reenactors as stitch-nazis, and the campfires often echo with the tales of overzealous campaigners ridiculing inauthentic garb or exposing hidden coolers.

Given the less-than-stellar reputation of progressive reenactors among mainstreamers, it's hardly surprising that many groups chose to avoid the Fire of the Mountain event in Boonsboro this year. The organizers merely used the dreaded phrases "progressive scenario," "authenticity inspections" and "campaign oriented," and groups suddenly scattered to the wind.

I approached this weekend with more than a bit of trepidation. I've been working towards a more authentic impression for some time now, and I have to concede that most of the events Traci and I have attended in our three seasons tend to fall more in the category of social gatherings rather than focused historical activities. I vividly remember meeting a reenactor from a Massachusetts group at Gettysburg this past July. It was his first national-level event, and he was horrified at the extracurricular activities of the various men and officers. Although he wasn't from a hard core unit, he expected a much higher level of authenticity, a goal which anachronistic conversations and frequent quips couldn't enhance.

In many respects, I've been experiencing the same emotions this season. I know that most aspects of my impression could be improved, and now that I'm teaching again, I can afford some material upgrades. I've also been conducting more research into the daily aspects of soldier's lives to improve my knowledge of mid-nineteenth century culture. I've also focused my energy on educating the public at events, as a means of compensating for the often circus-like atmosphere at some of the reenactments. This helps, but I've still been looking for something more . . .

When Bill Watson extended an invitation for mainstream reenactors to attend a seminar on campaigning on Saturday, I signed up without much hesitation. As the event approached and most of the 40th chose not to head off to Maryland however, it became more apparent that I would probably wind up falling in with Company I, the "incubator" company. Given the mainstream perception of campaigners as elitist blowhards and arrogant arbiters of all that's authentic, I was a bit nervous as I left my final class for the three hour trek to South Mountain.

I left my fuzzy, navy-blue sack coat behind. My Jarnagin frock coat graced the trunk . . . with few other items. I generally travel light to reenactments, but this time a kept things pared down to a minimum, in case I would fall in with the campaigner company. Much like last year, the circuitous route to the site of the reenactment was well marked. Now, I merely had to make a quick stop at the registration table, thread my way though camp to the remote parking lot, and find my pards for the weekend.

The parking arrangements made me thankful that I could carry my gear in one trip. The lot was indeed located well away from camp, although this also made for a nice camping experience, without the ubiquitous car lots intruding on our nineteenth century experience. A bulldozed path wound its way through the woods to the Federal camp, and I was soon on my way, with little idea of what the event would bring.

Campaigners seem to have a penchant for choosing beautiful, isolated campsites (if the event coordinators are generous enough to set aside such areas). Such was the case here. I merely stopped to look for the Company I sign when someone called out and asked if I was looking for the campaigner's area. I figured that I might as well take the plunge, and I wandered into the small, pleasant campsite in the woods.

Bill Watson was the individual kind enough to invite me in. It quickly became apparent that these people were not the sanctimonious man-eaters of mainstreamer legend, but rather a knowledgeable, friendly and sincere group of men who were actively seeking a more authentic experience. Within minutes, I felt accepted and considerably less self-conscious. Thus began what could be considered my best experience in three seasons of reenacting. Bill was kind enough to issue me a ration of bacon for the weekend, and I took some time to fry the meat in my canteen half.

Friday night was more of a social night, and I took the opportunity to visit the relatively small sutler's row. Bill directed me to the S & S Sutler. I emerged from the Sutlery with a Sekela sack coat, a Gary Owens haversack, and a bit of a dent in my credit limit. I quickly found out that the lightweight flannel shell was not only far more authentic than those worn by the lion's share of reenactors, it's also far more comfortable than the old purple fuzzies. Excited by my purchases (and feeling a little guilty about my uncharacteristic excess), I bedded down in the woods for the night.

Saturday: I seldom sleep much on the first night of an event, but I got an hour or two in before I stirred from my bed at 5:30. Most of my newfound comrades were still asleep, and I took the opportunity to wander back to the car to exchange my greatcoat with a blanket. I met a few more denizens of the campaigner area: Dave, Mark (our first sergeant) and "Soupbone" Weymer, of the Columbia Rifles. Soupbone was especially helpful in describing some of the appropriate equipment for a campaign impression, and he remained a font of information throughout the weekend. There were several other "fresh fish" in the group, and, following a breakfast of bacon and hardtack, we went though the motions of firing as a small company to ensure that we were all on the same page (from Casey's, in this instance). I must add that there was a remarkable emphasis placed on safety during my weekend with Company I, up to and including the use of a borelight.

Although drill isn't one of my favorite activities, I have to admit that most unit's seldom drill enough at reenactments. Following our initial drill and safety inspection, we broke camp and marched over to the camp of the 33rd Massachusetts. We joined them for a larger company drill (including skirmish drill) and then attended discussion of outpost tactics led by Tim O'Neill, commander of the 33rd.

The "School of the Campaigner" followed our drill and lecture. Don Hubbard (of Camp Chase Gazette fame) talked about the finer points of starting a campfire without the infamous boy scout water, and we soon applied his techniques (which I learned I had been using all along) to our own cooking fires, where we prepared meals of bacon and johnny cakes (supplemented with G.H. Bent hardtack).

We formed up for battle shortly before 1:30, and marched to the Union formation. Our impression was that of the 17th Michigan at Fox's Gap, while our foes represented Thomas Drayton's Brigade of South Carolinians. One of the more interesting aspects of this reenactment was its attempt to depict the proper time frame and distance in the battle scenarios. We deployed in the woods. The artillery roared in the distance, and we were issued orders to fire volleys through the trees.

Our rather unconventional order made sense if one considers the sense of drama a continuous, distant firing can bring to the audience. Nonetheless, several of us stopped firing after several volleys. We finally broke through the woods to push the beleaguered Confederate line back to the edge of the field. I've had mixed experiences with participants adhering to scenarios and taking hits, but the Confederates performed magnificently. I believe that they wanted us to wipe them out to a man . . . some even appeared upset when we ceased our attack.

A trek to a new campground and a meal of bacon and hardtack followed our battle. Bill asked if I would participate in a living history scenario that evening for the candlelight tour. As I had yet to portray anyone in first person, I agreed. I would play the role of a fatally wounded soldier, anxious to see his pregnant young wife one last time. Another "wounded" soldier would learn that he could indeed keep his foot. We had the belligerent brother in law and anxious attendant with us for the scenario. Although we waited some time for the tours, I believe that we managed to groan, writhe and "bleed" enough to move some of the people in the audience. Among our spectators were politicians, many of whom proved instrumental in saving portions of the South Mountain battlefield.

Before the living history began, Bill informed us that we would post pickets through the night. I should have been prepared for this, but exhaustion, bad memories of pickets firing through the night at Cedar Creek, and the thought of the four hour trip back to Pittsburgh made me a little less than receptive to the idea. Under normal circumstances (particularly if I had gotten a decent night's sleep on Friday, which is a rare thing at an event), the idea of a two hour picket post wouldn't bother me. However, we were expecting a 6 a.m. attack that morning, and something in my recent past made me voice some concerns about guard mount.

I tend to need very little sleep, but the trip home from Gettysburg had made me only too aware of my limitations. I vividly recall staying up until 2 in the morning, then waking up at 6 (on top of the 5 hours of sleep I got before I drove to the event on Saturday morning). What almost completely escapes my mind was the trip home . . . I remember very little of the three and a half hour drive, other than the (remarkably placid) thought that I would kill myself on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Needless to say, I made it home, but it was a sobering experience, one that I had no desire to repeat.

Bill Watson told me that he usually prepared for an event with picket duty by requesting a day off from work. Given the long hours and general lack of sleep involved, this is a wise precaution. Nevertheless, I argued against keeping people up all night, (a rational point), but I said some rather stupid things (I sometimes tend to get my dander up. I generally don't get whiny, but I do get surly, and say the dumbest things. I need to work on that).

In any case, it was a moot point. No sooner did I get up to clean the gore off my stomach than a strange, queasy feeling hit me. My head began to pound as well. I walked over to the fire, where guards were in the process of getting assigned to our outposts. Four left, several more stayed in camp, and I excused myself by asking my remaining comrades to wake me when it was my turn.

By now, I was completely nauseous. I sprawled on my poncho, while thoughts of bacon filled my head. Bacon dripping with grease . . . bacon, swooping through the air . . . bacon, transposed before a twisting, turning landscape. Somehow, I didn't vomit. In retrospect, I should have simply told Bill that I was sick, rather than illustrating the obvious. In any case, my worst fear was realized; the pickets began exchanging fire shortly after I went to bed, leading to s severe toungelashing of the rebs by one of our lads, who also used the long drive home as a means of chastising the overzealous skirmishers. Bill recalled our guards shortly afterwards, and I drifted off to sleep.

Sunday: I woke up to the sound of firing. Small groups of Confederates were encroaching on our position, but they didn't appear to have much information as to our size or true location. Within 13 minutes our camp disappeared completely, and we were on the move, gear safely stowed away on our backs. A few mainstreamers joined us in our ersatz "tactical," which turned out to be merely a small skirmish. Packs of Confederates would rush us, we'd volley, and they'd die. It was evident that the original plan had been thrown to the wind, and this was mainly a chance for the campaigners to have an ersatz meeting in the field. Even so, it was evident that this informal "tactical" had far more organization than the usual late afternoon skirmish.

We gathered back at our campground, and I told the others about my unpleasant experience the night before. They promptly informed me that I was probably sick from the grease of four consecutive bacon meals. A few of the Confederates from the Liberty Rifles joined us for a discussion, including Christopher Anders, the Confederate commander and one of the key organizers for this year's Fire on the Mountain reenactment. In yet another example of the remarkable generosity that seems to run through a number of the campaigner companies, Chris offered to share the Confederate bounty. Soupbone (who shares my tendency to get ill when hungry) and I (still a little leery of bacon after enduring visions of hogback swirling in my head) wandered through the labyrinth of trails into the Confederate campaigner area. Within short order we were provided with a country ham, bread, potatoes and cheese (I was told that cheese would counteract the effects of excessive bacon fat). Needless to say, we ate well that morning. Our bounty prompted Soupbone to comment that this was probably the first time Yanks ever went scrounging for food from the Rebs . . .

We spent most of the morning conversing by the fireside and frying up our ham. Conversation is always a pleasant activity at events, but I have noticed that discussions seldom revolve around the events, preservation or the Civil War in general. This was considerably different. We discussed proper equipment, preservation efforts and past events, and all the while I realized how special this weekend truly was.

Needless to say, few of us were hungry enough to eat lunch at the second day's "School of the Campaigner." We merely took advantage of the time to relax before today's scenario, the thrashing of Cobb's Legion.

Today's battle was among the most realistic I have ever witnessed. Vincent's Brigade moved forward, took heavy losses and then broke to the left. Our battalion moved forward into line, and promptly went to ground. We exchanged fire for some time before the Confederate line wavered and broke, with our forces close behind. At one point, the color guard took heavy losses, and I found myself next to the flag. We were at the forefront of the action as the forces in blue swarmed through a sunken road and forced the rebel line back to the campaigner area in the woods.

A lone Confederate horseman blocked our way. Several of the campaigners quickly pointed out the futility of the man's position, but he insisted on emptying a pistol into our ranks. As he went down (fortunately he was dismounted), his foot became tangled in the reigns, and the writhing mass of horse and rider provided a few frightening moments as the hapless hero tried to clear the road.

This year's Fire on the Mountain rates as one of the best events I have attended, and I must confess that my appetite for trying more campaign style events has been whet. Bill Watson and company provided quite an introduction to an entirely new reenacting experience, complete with a diploma (for the "Godawful Mess), bacon galore and powerful memories.