FrancisPage

Both Sides Then

Caught In The Middle Of The "Battle Of Winchester"

“We are going to be invaded,” said Miss Kay, putting a dark period on a sentence inside the one-room schoolhouse.

The warning seemed out of place amidst the teacher’s inviting nature. Wooden desks in front of her stood at attention, equipped with fountain pens and writing books stamped with the motto “try, try again.” In one corner lay pocket-sized schoolbooks on arithmetic and grammar. A chess set and marbles sat in another corner. Rays of light pierced holes in the roof, pricking the floor. Facing the blackboard at front, one saw the teacher’s name and a mild admonition: “Please, only kind words!”

“Come, come to school!” the teacher coaxed, and the children outside in the unseasonably warm February morning wandered in. They forgot it was Saturday, forgot it was Arizona, and forgot -- for the time -- the threat beyond their sight.

Pioneer Village, a living history museum north of Phoenix, had morphed into town of Winchester, Virginia during the Civil War. The town of loyal, Confederate Virginians was in the sights of Union soldiers. And numerous civilians, myself among them, were about to see a dramatic slice of life during wartime as portrayed by members of We Make History and various re-enactors and actors portraying the Blue and the Grey.

Morning drifted towards afternoon with uncertainty and a sense of trouble ahead. Confederate troops lined up early that morning to hear the yanks were on the move, headed in this direction.

I wandered about the various parts of the town: the Victorian house, the bank, the print shop, the church, the schoolhouse, soaking up history. During this time, the Confederate commander wandered over.

The person, I had met before at a certain ball. His character, I had not.

Yet he seemed to know me and I introduced myself again as before.

“Christopher Francis of Tucson,” I said.

We chatted for a bit, in character, as Captain Scott thanked me for making the journey and introduced me to a member of the 1st Virginia. Without much effort, my voice lapsed into a southern drawl.

“I hear there might be trouble,” I commented, still in something resembling character.

Yes, there was. Capt. Scott was well aware of the movement of the Union forces. “But I am confident we shall hold this town,” he said, unwavering in his convictions.

“Are you here buying or selling on Market Day?” the member of the battalion asked.

“Both,” I said. “Buy here, sell there. I go both ways.”

Our talk turned to the weather and I remarked how warm it was, with the temperature headed towards the 80’s and how winter seemed so unreasonably mild.

“I swear we haven’t even seen any snow on Mt. Lemmon,” I said.

“Mt. Lemmon?” Capt. Scott replied.

Ugggghhh. I’d blown it. That part of my brain still wired to Tucson had cracked out of turn and I’d thrown him for a loop. But a member of his battalion stepped in to make the save, suggesting I was talking about a mountain in Virginia.

“I’m a little geographically challenged right now,” I said sheepishly.

But Capt. Scott took it in stride, asking how the men at Virginia Military Institute were. I didn’t know the answer, but I made up the best one I could.

“They’re doin’ just fine. They’re off and out there,” I said, perhaps trying to draw a parallel in my mind to the reporting staff I supervise.

At eleven in the morning, the rumors proved true. A Confederate lookout ran back into town. “They’re coming!”

A nervous townswoman or two ran to the commander, begging them to hold off the Yankees. Consoled, all they could do was wait.

“Citizens of Winchester,” Capt. Scott announced, “there’s gonna be a fight. I’m sorry this is happening on Market Day, but we need everyone to get to the side of the building here.”

Minutes later, the Union soldiers moved in. Volleys of shots sprayed across the green of the town square, punctuated by cannon fire. When the gun smoke lifted, one Confederate soldier lay dead and two others wounded. The others had retreated. Those Yankees had won this round.










Women and girls in hoopskirts huddled over the casualties as a few stray shots rang out in the distance.


“We must remain strong! We are Virginia women!”

As medics carried the injured off to the medical triage, the ladies of Winchester took their outrage to the Union soldiers.

“Yankee scum!”

“How dare you invade our peaceful town!”

A particularly cunning lady snatched a Union officer’s sword and waved it at him, itching for a fight. He dispatched her with a pistol shot.


“You have no right to call yourself a gentleman!” a woman spat.

“I never called myself a gentleman,” the commander replied, seizing her and laying on a forced sloppy kiss.

The crowds of modern-day townsfolk were choosing a side now. No longer neutral, scattered children and adults took great pleasure in shouting “Yankee scum!” over and over.

“Who said that? Bring him here!” the Union commanders would shout, often in vain.

Back at the triage, more shots rang out. Someone had wounded a Union officer as he argued with a lady, injecting a ray of light into the mournful countenances of the Winchester women.


Half an hour later, a Union commander of Irish stock gathered the townsfolk around the veranda in the center of town.

“Martial law is now in effect!”

The crowd booed.

The Union troops would take money, livestock, and whatever else they needed under authority of President Abraham Lincoln.

Hearing his name left the newly-minted Confederate sympathizers in a quandary. Though hating the troops, they still loved the president. Nobody booed.

“We have our own president!” ladies protested.

The next order of business: a census. All the townspeople -- mainly the ladies for the purpose of this historic exercise -- were to sign a roll. And sign they did, all stating the name of “Sarah Lee.”

The act of defiance frustrated the Union official, so much that he declared the next person to state that name would be taken around back and shot.

“But sir,” one soldier pointed out. “If we shoot these ladies we won’t have enough ammunition left.”

A battle of bullets had progressed into a war of wits. Those filthy, wretched Yankees could take the town, but not the hearts and minds.

The siege grew fiercer.

Union soldiers went door to door taking silverware and whatever else they wanted.

A raid on the bank made their payroll, as they sent the banker to jail with a loud skirmish reminiscent of the Wild West.


The mayor of Winchester narrowly prevented a hanging with his pleas for justice for an accused man.

I found myself confronted by a Union soldier demanding to see inside my backpack as I wandered in a direction he didn’t like. All I could focus on was the sharp point of his bayonet as I fumbled with the zipper.

And the taunting continued, as a group of ladies picnicking under a tree sang “The Bonny Blue Flag” within earshot of the enemy.

Three hours after the occupation had begun, help arrived. Stonewall Jackson’s men came in, and with more volleys, smoke and fire, the rebels reclaimed the town.


“Hip hip, huzzah! Hip hip, huzzah! Hip hip, huzzah!”

The spectacle wound down beneath the shade of a tree in the town square, as Capt. Scott called the spectators together with the Union and Confederate Armies filing back in.

“We have compressed about two months of history into a few hours,” he explained with an invitation to meet and ask questions of the various re-enactors. The kids went first, asking about gunpowder. But I still stood in admiration, at a loss for a question.

However, I had one for a lady of Winchester.

“That bit where you all signed in as Sarah Lee. I gather that was an act of defiance. Did it actually happen like that?”

Actually, it was improvised on the spot, she explained. And everybody went with it.

For all the planning, studying, and broad outlining, the magic had come through again. They had become their characters both in words and spirit.

“You do so well at what you do,” I said. “I just find it absolutely amazing.”

My comments heartened her. She was still learning and was glad to hear I enjoyed it so much.

And once again, I prepared for the long trip back across the Shenandoah… back to southern Virginia… southern Arizona… wherever Mt. Lemmon was, anyway.