Off to War, but Back by Dinner

Like many people whose ancestry traces back to the losing side, my mother finds the Civil War embarrassing as she feels it forces her to support either slavery or Yankees, so I was surprised when she agreed to come with me to our hometown “re-enactment,” the Battle of Temple Junction. I say “re-enactment,” in scare quotes, because the original battle did not technically happen. Temple was not founded until 1881, and Civil War-era Texas was as big as it is today but much emptier, so it was largely spared direct Union assault. If the planners weren’t going to be dissuaded by the absence of an actual battle, though, neither were we, so we drove out to a farm on the edge of town, paid our five dollars, and stepped into, among other things, history.

The battle was set for 3 pm sharp, but we’d come early to take in the atmosphere and some of the extra events. Mom got a hot dog with cheese that she kept trying to make me eat (“I didn’t think there’d be so much cheese!”), and we walked through the Confederate camp, where inauthentically bright stars-and-bars and bonnie blue flags flapped and men in butternut and gray slouched in canvas chairs, melting in the late-spring heat. A few enthusiastic souls explained to scattered families how various “old things” like bellows and rifled muskets worked, but it was more a tableau vivant than a demonstration, which I liked—it was nice to walk around and just look and think without worrying about missing something. I was startled by the sharp-gazed, steel-eyed handsomeness of the re-enactors in their uniforms: they looked just like those countless, flaky, sepia pictures of young men fed by the tens of thousands into the meat grinders of northern Virginia. We ended up at a little peddler’s wagon, complete with costumed traders, and bought small souvenirs: I resisted the Confederate-flag bedspread-and-sham set in favor of a pack of six replica Southern bills. I used them as bookmarks—except for a Florida bill that featured slaves making merry, which I threw away.

It was time to find a seat for the presentations before the battle, so Mom and I quickly picked up snow cones and moved toward the makeshift stage. In line for the porta-potty, we made small talk with an older re-enactor, who griped amiably about being too old to wear a hot uniform and fall to the ground. He tried to talk me into joining a local re-enactment troupe (“You get to drink beer and get away from the wife.”), which I considered until he told me how much his uniform and rifle had cost. We found seats and watched a fashion show in which the younger women, sensibly, wore sneakers under their hoopskirts, followed by a brief demonstration of the cannons, then waited for the battle to begin. The battlefield that the organizers had chosen was a relatively flat area with an old chapel to one side; the whole thing was, at a rough guess, about two-thirds the size of a football field. We spectators sat in old metal bleachers behind and at an angle to the Southern lines, keeping us out of the way, but giving us a good angle to watch the action. The Union forces drew up behind the chapel, and the battle began.

Each side had thirty or so men, so this was no Gettysburg. The South had more cannons and weren’t shy about letting them off, but the North had cavalry—a total of four horses, but they were still beautiful galloping across the field. I couldn’t quite follow the plot of the battle, partly because it was impossible to watch all the participants at once and partly because I didn’t know what I was looking at: “Wait, what are they doing over there?” I’d imagined an actual competition, sort of a fancy-dress capture the flag, but the reality was closer to a performance. Gradually, more and more men were “killed” and lay still in the shallow grass—behaving more maturely than I would have. I wanted someone to go into a long, dramatic “He got me, Joe!” staggering death scene and then rise as a zombie bent on avenging the honor of the South; but alas, rules are rules. Our friend from earlier fell charging the Yankee lines, and then slowly, surreptitiously angled himself into a more comfortable death pose.

The whole shooting match lasted twenty minutes to half an hour, which was just right. Bugles were blown, the survivors saluted one another, and Mom and I darted for the car so we could beat the exiting traffic. As we walked, a Confederate re-enactor came up to Mom and handed her a spent, blank cartridge—a little brass cylinder with a hot, burnt smell, to keep as a souvenir. (Why is anyone’s guess, but he meant it kindly.) She thanked him and then left it in my car ashtray where it remains, ready to complicate a traffic stop. We’d had a fun, thought-provoking day out, but it was a small relief to drive home and leave the uneasy memories of war behind. 

As it turns out, a site in the Baton Rouge area is something of a minor capital for Civil War re-enactors. Nearby Port Hudson was the site of the longest siege in American history: the plucky little Confederate garrison held out for forty-eight days against an overwhelmingly superior Union force in the summer of 1863, surrendering only when the fall of battered Vicksburg made further defiance futile. The surrender of Port Hudson left the entire Mississippi open to Union shipping, bisected the Confederacy, and cut off hotly contested theatres in the east from supplies brought in from Texas and Mexico. Today, the site of the battle is a historical preserve, Port Hudson State Historic Site run by the Louisiana Office of State Parks, and hosts a battle re-enactment every year.

I had thought, incorrectly, that the Civil War was really the only war that was re-enacted, but Port Hudson site curator Michael Fraering said it’s more about what wars have the best local ties: New Englanders tend to refight the Revolutionary War, Canadians and Midwesterners revisit the French and Indian, and Wounded Knee gets an occasional on-the-ground replay out West. Even Europe sees occasional replays of the monumental set-piece smasheroos of the Napoleonic Wars and the more recent grapplings of the World Wars, which were, not long ago, sometimes graced by the presence of actual survivors of those battles.

A common question about these re-enactments is how a soldier “dies.” Does he, occasionally she, just decide that, statistically, he’d have gotten his bell rung by a certain point? According to Fraering, it’s a matter of honor. With the relatively close quarters and small armies of the re-enactments, a soldier can often tell if an enemy would have hit him. If the enemy’s gun is trained right on you and you hear the crack of the charge and smell the cordite, it’s only polite to die. Also, as you might imagine, some of the older or less fightin’-fit soldiers get tuckered running around in a hot uniform and are often willing to lay down their lives, if they can do so in the shade. The Port Hudson re-enactment takes place every year, generally on the last week of March, unless that date conflicts with Easter. They stay relatively true to the battle: on Saturday, the rebels repel a Yankee assault to commemorate the fort’s weeks of resistance, but on Sunday, they surrender, in deference to the ultimate fate of the defenders. It’s sometimes hard to attract enough Yankees—etiquette requires that the host groups wear the blue, with the understanding that eventually they’ll be invited to another battle and, as guests, get to fight in grey. The re-enactment is great for the site: not only is it a money-maker and attraction in its own right, but it also draws visitors to all the rest that Port Hudson has to offer. The site boasts a museum, a genealogical and research library, and six miles of hiking trails. Too few people know about these amenities, but the re-enactment draws people who might not ordinarily visit a historic site and helps Port Hudson’s promotional efforts.

As Fraering sees it, this hobby is about revisiting history—you can stand at a site and “let it all wash over you,” but in a re-enactment you see, hear, and (if the wind is right) smell the history. It is a rare imagination that can compete with the actual sight of men charging a rampart and falling still; and the it-happened-here immediacy that historic sites bring to the experience adds another layer of authenticity and interest. Besides, as Fraering pointed out, if you think grown men putting on costumes and fighting over territory while others watch is strange, you must not like football. To some observers, war re-enactment may seem irreverent or even ghoulish, but a real feeling of “there but for the grace of God” is threaded throughout.

Details. Details. Details.

The Battle of Port Hudson


March 28—29


Port Hudson State Historic-Site

236 Highway 61

Jackson, La. 
crt.state.la.us/louisiana-state-parks 

(225) 654-3775