Typical of most combat situations, my orders were simple yet vague: stand next to the forward artillery piece, and when the guys in blue uniforms emerge from the tree line, beat a hasty retreat.
Run away. Right. I could do that.
I stood alone in the middle of a vast grassy field roughly the size of Rhode Island, wearing the uniform of a Confederate private, and waited. Acres away from anyone else, I leaned against the big brass cannon, unsure of what, exactly, I was supposed to be doing. Hurry up and wait, I thought, shivering in the December wind. There are some things about the Army that never change, no matter what war you’re fighting.
Meanwhile, a crowd of almost a thousand curious tourists and schoolchildren had begun to gather along the sides of the field and atop the levee. I had the uneasy feeling that they were all looking at me. What else was there to look at? I became uncomfortably aware of my hands and my inability to find some suitable use for them. I stuffed them deep in my pockets and guessed at what was on my spectators’ minds: in a baffling strategy, the Confederate army had apparently chosen to post a lone, unarmed sentry—a short, pudgy writer nearing middle age and wearing an ill-fitting uniform—to guard their two forward artillery pieces. This, I thought, does not bode well for the war effort.
As the inaugural installment of this column, I’d volunteered to take part in a living history demonstration at Oak Alley Plantation and report on it for Country Roads. The first weekend in December, Civil War re-enactors from around Louisiana and Mississippi descended on that grand old plantation, pitched their tents, polished their muskets, and huddled around campfires to trade tales and talk history. These folks command an encyclopedic knowledge of the Civil War, and they talk about it with an evangelic passion that others reserve for religion or multi-level marketing. What’s more, they’re a heck of a lot of fun to hang around with.
I was warmly welcomed by elements of the Donaldsonville Cannoneers and the Mississippi Partisan Rangers. In order to arrange a fair fight, these men had “galvanized” for the event; that is to say, they’d agreed to be good sports, shed their usual Confederate grays, and don Union uniforms. “You know, it’s the damnedest thing,” one of the Rangers grumbled, scratching fiercely at the blue wool covering his forearms. “Every time I put on one of these things, I break out in this weird rash.”
My host was André Jacob, a tour guide at Oak Alley and one of the organizers of the event. Apparently having drawn the short straw, it fell to Mr. Jacob to try to teach me how to look and act like a proper Civil War soldier. He invited me inside his tent, pulled a trunk from under his cot and rummaged around in it. Eventually, he was able to assemble all the pieces of a private’s uniform for me. The cap fit perfectly, and the heavy, brass buttoned shirt hung from my frame tolerably well. The pants were too long, but I was able to blouse the excess over the top of my boots. Those boots, however, were another matter entirely. A size or so too big for me, the toes of the boots were empty by a couple of inches. This left me feeling a bit like I was walking around in a circus clown’s shoes, but I made do with them and said nothing to the ever-patient Mr. Jacob.
Apparently having drawn the short straw, it fell to Mr. Jacob to try to teach me how to look and act like a proper Civil War soldier.
In the end, I looked plausible enough to pass muster as a powder monkey in a Civil War-era artillery unit. The only problem was that I was wearing a Confederate uniform. As we emerged from the tent, the rest of the men in the encampment, all dressed in blue, turned and looked at me skeptically. “Sorry,” Mr. Jacob said. “It’s the only one that would fit him.”
Now, I didn’t particularly care which flag I marched behind; most of my Acadian ancestors had been conscientious objectors in this awful war anyway. But the rest of the day proved a bit awkward as I was the only Confederate soldier tagging along everywhere with an entire squad of Union soldiers. “Prisoner of war,” I shrugged in reply to the curious stares of tourists.
Wartime correspondent Charles Richard.
When the hour of battle arrived, Mr. Jacob still hadn’t figured out a believable role for me to play in this pantomime. A Civil War re-enactment is a carefully choreographed drama, I’d been told, and I knew I was an audience member about to stumble out onto the stage. Mr. Jacob and his friends debated how to keep me out of the way. Finally, a little exasperated, I suspect, they told me just to go stand next to a cannon.
But the rest of the day proved a bit awkward as I was the only Confederate soldier tagging along everywhere with an entire squad of Union soldiers. “Prisoner of war,” I shrugged in reply to the curious stares of tourists.
I fidgeted there for a while, looking at the crowd looking at me. Through a nearby tree line, I glimpsed Mr. Jacob and his men readying themselves for battle. Squinting, I could make out my rebel compatriots far downfield at the rear artillery behind me. They were loading their muskets.
It was around this time that I began to surmise just how untenable my strategic situation really was. If I did as I was told and retreated toward the Confederate line, I would be running headlong into their musket barrage. That wouldn’t do. On the other hand, I couldn’t turn and make a courageous stand against the invading Union troops; I didn’t even have rocks to throw at them.
Casting a panicky glance around the field, I spied a single oak tree a few hundred yards away from me. In the tradition of my ancestors, I decided I would desert the field and hide behind that tree while the others settled their differences.
At that moment, I heard a roll of thunder behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw what could only be described as death on horseback. A Union cavalryman was galloping toward me, waving an enormous six-shooter over his head and shrieking like he’d just outraced the other three horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Someone in the crowd taunted, “Better run, Johnny Reb!”
Sound advice, I thought. I promptly abandoned my post and sprinted toward that old oak tree. Just when I’d deluded myself into thinking I might actually outrun a horse, my clown shoes caught up with me. The empty toe of one of my boots gave way, and inertia sent me flying a good four or five feet. My body hit the ground with an alarming squishy sound, and when I opened my eyes I was seeing double.
Within an instant, the cavalryman was upon me. I heard his hoofbeats slow until he was hovering over my limp figure. “Wow, you die really good,” he said to me in a stage whisper. “That was so realistic. You actually bounced.” Then he pointed his revolver at my back, fired a single shot, and rode off. A mercy-killing, I suppose.
I lay there throughout the rest of the battle while Union troops tramped past me, following the horseman. Rifles crackled, cannons boomed, and a choking smoke hung low over everything. Later, Mr. Jacob and the others would congratulate me on my spectacular death scene, and I would try to tell them that it wasn’t acting; it was clumsiness. But as I lay there with grass in my teeth, I thought about all the boys in all the wars who’d fallen in this manner, trying to walk a mile in boots that were too big for them to fill.
