The wedge tents spread out as far I can see, rows upon rows of canvas beige pointing to the sky. Soldiers are lining up for drill or finishing off breakfast. One camp spills into another as I search for any sign of my 1st Virginia compatriots. Confederate uniforms of butternut and gray surround me, but I spot no familiar faces. I walk through camp after camp, expecting somebody to challenge my presence until I hear someone calling to me from an isolated corner of the campground. "Private Francis!" one greets.
Three of my fellow soldiers are resting underneath a small tent fly. The quarters, I learn, are borrowed. Our people with the tents were not able to make the journey to Virginia this time around. The wedge and fly, however, are enough to sleep three hearty souls with room left over for stashing supplies. When our other soldiers arrive later this morning, we will have about eight people in our company, enough to fall in with another battalion at the afternoon hostilities. A huge grassy slope awaits us on the grounds of the New Market Battlefield State Historical Park.
Sleep weighs on me. Three hours last night is not enough after the marathon plane and road trip. A large breakfast is only partially recharging me. With no drill for a couple of hours, we take some time to catch up. I slip inside the tent and lay down until the sun bursting through the clouds pierces my eyes.
We're doing some things "wrong," says our Corporal, the acting drill sergeant this day, "wrong" as defined by the host battalion. We've got our hands in the wrong place for "parade rest," he tells us. And we're going from columns of twos to fours wrong. We run through the manual of arms and some marching to shake the dust of several inactive weeks.
"This is going to be fun," our Captain remarks as we stand at ease on the edge of the New Market battlefield.
Most of the action so far has amounted to hurry up and wait. Form up, attention, shoulder arms, march, halt, wait. Our commanders on horseback have the monstrous task of maneuvering several hundred Confederates into their assigned starting positions. Mixed in with the other companies, most of whom haven't traveled nearly all the way across the country to be here, we have time for some fraternizing in the shade before being called back to attention.
"You Arizona boys are probably used to this heat," somebody says.
"Not the humidity," I reply. "Hot and sticky." Yet storm clouds are building in the distance. I know the pattern from all my years in Missouri: sticky morning, stormy afternoon.
A support team rolls around with ice. Our Captain scoops some cubes into his hat and passes it among us. "Put a few down your shirt," he advises to all of his men as he does the same.
I slip two cubes underneath my collar and they slide down to my stomach. The cooling power instantly relieves the lethargy of heat stress. The rest of the ice goes to my head, secured under my kepi, pumping cold all the way through my skull.
"I think I froze my brain," I say, removing my hat.
Artillery fire booms across the field to our right. The battle is on, but we are still waiting. A few other units are getting their chance at some early action, crackling off rifle fire almost continuously.
A commander darts back and forth on horseback, surveying the lines and waiting for that moment to push us in. From a distance, I see a long line of bluebellies moving forward, at least a hundred men, unless they're flanking us somewhere. It is hard to tell who is where, but the battle spreads to a nearby barn. I see skirmishers rushing about, firing at will with the cannons backing them up. We are still waiting. It looks like we will get to play reinforcements or flankers.
That's if nature doesn't beat us there. The storm clouds in the distance have matured into thunderheads, flowing out towards our line from behind. The sky behind us is turning dark... dark gray like our uniforms. One can consider it a sign of Providence.
Indeed, before the march to the battlefield, heads bowed and knees bent as the chaplain of the battalion cried out to the LORD to help us show that "the Southern man will not be vanquished!" He called on GOD to send an unmistakable sign to the enemy, to be like a flaming sword to them, turning them back. An outflow from the clouds gusts from behind, stripping leaves from the trees. One could fear a hurricane blowing into the Shenandoah Valley. We, however, shall lead the charge.
"Form up!"
We scurry into our two ranks and await the command.
"Battalion!"
"Company!" echo the various captains up and down the line along with several privates of other units, trained to repeat it over the din of battle.
"By the right oblique!"
"By the right oblique!"
"March!"
"March!"
Rain sprinkles us as we move forward at an angle to engage the line of Federals to our right. Normally we would shoot, advance, and shoot some more, but we're going to skip that and hit them with everything in the cartridge box.
"Fire at will!"
The two lines of soldiers squeeze off shots as fast as they can load them. I reach around in my hip box for a powder cartridge, tear the top off with my teeth, dump it down the barrel of my 1861 Springfield, and dig out a percussion cap from the pouch on my belt. I am not as fast as I would desire, but the time is somewhere in the range of the 20-second load and shoot benchmark considered the standard for the well-trained soldier. Firing from my position in the rear rank requires extra caution. "Coming through!" I yell as I raise the rifle into position and discharge it with orange-flamed bravado.
Musket smoke mingles with the dewy smell of rain as we advance forward and fall back. A round takes out a compatriot in front of me.
"Come up and take his place!"
I rush up to his spot in line as he writhes in the tall grass. Our commander halts our free-form fire and sets up a few volleys.
"Aim high!" a fellow soldier yells as we push closer to the bluebellies. Maybe that's why those Yanks aren't going down. A few more spent cartridges, and we are only a few feet away from them. They are not returning fire, just standing in formation. They have to be surrendering, but this early? Most of their line is still standing.
Whatever is going on, I have no time to sort it out. A line of Federals is moving in on our right. We advance and hastily reform to set up another volley.
"To the left oblique!" our commanders call. I nearly fire at the wrong angle, focusing on the threat to my right up the hill, somehow missing the other, bigger line to my left.
"Left oblique!"
Smoke plumes out of our 1st Virginia rifles. "Well done!" our commander cheers.
My gun barrel radiates scalding heat. Federals are all over the place. Who's flanking whom? Will I have enough cartridges to last through it?
We press towards the new line of Yankees. They aren't going down. We aren't going down. That makes it fair, I gather, although I spot a few fallen soldiers seeming to enjoy the pillow of the grassy hills as they sit up just enough to watch their brothers in arms avenge their deaths.
Down the hill, a cavalry regiment storms in on their horses, letting pistol shots fly. We can't help but smile.
"Cease fire!" calls the battalion commander, and just like that, the action ends. A few buglers on the field play Taps and the battlefield players, Union and Confederate, remove their kepis in tribute to the veterans who fought this battle for real.
Our audience at the foot of the hill applauds as we reorganize ourselves and battalions reclaim the men they've lost. Rain showers pour down on us now. Nobody minds the sogginess. It's the lightning in the area that has halted the hostilities.
"Who won?" a compatriot asks. "I guess it was a draw."
"Mandatory rematch," I jibe. We will have it tomorrow.
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