Chapter XX
9:50 pm
I stood outside the circle of tents and waited for the music to stop, but the banjo player possessed a seemingly endless repertoire of songs like, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again”, “Goober Peas” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I finally gave up and visited again with the Virginia 1202nd.
During my second visit the reenactors spent more time talking about their motorcycles and the hand-to-hand combat stunts they used on the battlefield. They even indulged each other with demonstrations of their favorite stunts, and it seemed that they learned most of their new ones from the antics of some “professional” wrestling association. They were a fun-loving bunch of guys, and I was delighted with their company, but it was late and I was growing tired.
When the group inside the tents began to sing “Dixie” I assumed the music would soon stop. I stood up and said goodbye to the men of the 1202nd and walked away as if I was leaving the camp for the night.
One of the men said, “See you tomorrow hardcore.” His salutation was followed by an enthusiastic and drawn-out cheer; “H-a-r-d-c-o-r-e.”
I turned and waved and then walked on. When I got beyond the tents and the fence, into the moonlight-cast shadows, I turned and walked stealthily toward the far end of the camp where the large tent was set up. The guard was still posted outside, but Zeb was gone. Several horses were tied up in an area behind the tent. I hid in the darkness and moved slowly, trying to stay out of sight of the guard and hoping not to stir the horses. As I approached the tent, the horses became restless and I stood still, patiently waiting for them to quiet down. I soon realized that I could have more easily positioned myself behind the large tent while the music was playing, but it was too late for that. After a few seconds the horses settled but they stirred again when I tried to approach. Frustrated, I walked backward a few yards, sat on a large stone, and began rethinking my strategy. I was determined to listen to the conversation inside that tent.
Minutes later, two reenactors walked up to the guard and began talking with them. One of the men kneeled down and pulled out a pouch of tobacco and cigarette papers. Again, I tried to approach the back of the tent. The horses stirred slightly, but the three men outside the tent seemed far too interested smoking and talking to each other to notice me or the restless horses, so I continued walking toward a small area between the makeshift corral and the camp. When I finally arrived at the back of the tent I sat on the ground, less than three feet away listening to the conversation among the reenactors inside. I was concerned that someone wandering past the back of the tent could have easily seen me. But that was not likely, since the whole of the camp was on the other side and the base of the eastern mountain slope rose up just beyond where the horses stood behind me. I sat there illuminated by the light within the tent, but I cast no discernable shadow and felt comfortable and ever more curious.
The figure of a man and other indistinct shadows pulsated rhythmically against the outstretched canvas. Beams of light passed through small holes in the tent; most were near the bottom, no doubt from excessive wear. But a few were higher, about five feet above the ground, almost tailor-made for peeking inside.
The first words I heard, “Sergeant Andersen,” were drawn out in some muffled, southeastern dialect such that they sounded more like, “Saw-gent An-da-sen.” The speaker continued in his drawling speech, “I would like you to immediately disseminate the message written here to our regimental members – that is, the ones sleeping in this camp tonight. Tell them that their answer is expected no later than one week from tomorrow. The usual means of communication will do. And be sure they understand that if they fail to answer, it will be assumed that they are not interested in renewing their membership.”
“Yes sir.”
“That will be all.”
“Yes sir, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Yes sir.
The sergeant exited the tent and the colonel spoke to someone else. “Junior,” he said, “I’m troubled.”
“What is it?”
“We have a rather high number of soldiers from this regiment wearing a different color uniform this weekend.”
“You’re right, Leland; it’s ‘poor form’. Without them, though, we wouldn’t have enough Union soldiers for much of a reenactment.”
“I suppose that’s true,” replied Leland, “but, their disloyalty is not easily forgotten. Perhaps it’s best if I don’t even know who they are. Wouldn’t want to be tempted to put a ball of lead in my pistol to settle some score.”
“Most of them are pretty loyal, you know.”
“Pretty loyal is not good enough.” The men were silent for a moment, and during their silence I became aware of the sound of the horses behind me chewing hay. I could also hear the indistinct, distance voices of men talking quietly in the night.
“On a different matter,” Leland said softly. “I’ve been meaning to compliment you for your efforts to revise our by-laws – a masterful piece of work.”
“Thanks.”
“I particularly like this section.” Movement of the shadow on the back of the tent suggested that Leland had picked up a piece of paper. “I like the way it sounds, and I understand its meaning, but I believe we should have one of our attorneys to look at it.”
Leland began to read out loud, “‘Membership in the Association for Southern Heritage is limited to descendents of officers and enlisted soldiers that officially served in the Army of the Confederate States of America during the War for Southern Independence, commonly known as The Civil War. Official service is defined in accordance with the following historical documents.’” He stopped reading and rambled as if thinking out loud. “The documents are listed here. We know that each one clearly specifies who is included and” – he emphasized – “who is not.” Leland continued, “So as I understand it, by using this list of official documents as our criteria for membership will be more precisely what we want them to be. No longer will we have to consider any, any undesirable applicants.”
Junior responded, “That’s right.”
I wished I’d known what official documents were listed in the by-laws Leland was reading. What was clear, however, was that the by-laws of some “heritage”-type organization were being revised in a way that would impose strict limitations on membership. I presumed that the restrictions were intended to prevent those not sympathetic to the Southern Cause from joining the organization.
I was disheartened and thought that Anna’s feelings about the community she lived in and reenactments might be justified. But I wasn’t ready to give up. After all, it seemed apparent to me that a significant number of the reenactors I’d encountered were here for reasons that the Anna Foxhartes of the world would find tolerable.
Leland continued talking. “Now, tell me about the living history demonstrations.”
“Last week we had ten fourth-grade classes from different schools visit the Early Center. Two members of our regiment were there giving demonstrations and talking to the kids.”
“Talking about what?” asked Leland.
“They showed the kids how to clean muskets, passed around some food samples, and explained the significance of different flags. They also talked about Early and Breckinridge and other officers, as well as the VMI cadets.”
“The kids’ response?”
“Oh, they ate it up,” replied Junior.
“Excellent,” said Leland, “And what about the catechism?”
“I delivered a couple of hundred copies last week – some to Charleston and some to Charlotte. I hope to distribute the others next week.”
“Don’t make any special trips.”
“Oh, no,” Junior responded, “I drop them off while making the rounds for work.”
I did not clearly understand what the two men were talking about. My only experience with catechisms was from the time I spent in church as a child. They included a list of questions and answers inte
nded to educate children and adults about Christianity. Were these neo-Confederates attempting to educate people about the Civil War by using catechisms? This approach was consistent with the boisterous question-and-answer session I had listened to inside the circle of tents. The discussion between Leland and Junior made it sound as if the neo-Confederates might be using this method to educate children about the Civil War. I was disturbed by my deduction and hoped it was wrong.
“And the flag program?” asked Leland.
“After a slow start, business is picking up. I sent out a memorandum to the members of sixteen regiments. I explained that by flying the Battle Flag they would be making a public statement about their Southern values. I also gave the names of vendors who would give them a discount if they presented a membership number when making a purchase. Sales of flags and stickers and other items have increased almost ten percent since last year.”
“It warms my heart every time I see one of our flags flying in someone’s yard. If this keeps up Junior, every Yankee and every…”
The men’s conversation was interrupted by an announcement from the guard standing outside the tent. “Colonel.”
“Yes,” replied Leland.
“There is a handsome young soldier outside that would like to see you.”
“Is he loyal to the Cause, Sergeant?”
“I believe he is, Sir – very loyal, as a matter of fact….”
Leland interrupted, “Then by all means, let him in.”
A moment later I heard, “Hi, Daddy.”
Leland responded to his son’s greeting with a warm “Hey buddy. Come sit here.” A second shadow danced on the back of the tent in the flickering light of a lantern.
“What’cha doing, Daddy?”
“Major Squires and I are discussing a little business,” replied Leland.
Major Squires? – I thought to myself. Was the other man in the tent Owen Squires’ son – Junior? I wanted to see, so I quietly stood up and stepped toward the back of the tent. I positioned my head a couple of inches from a hole and moved from side to side. The hole was large enough for me to see one person at a time. At first I saw the back of a man’s head; he was holding a red sash in one hand and repeatedly pulling it through the other. His sword was leaning against the table and his young son was sitting next to him.
In the corner of the tent, toward the front, I saw a man that I presumed was Junior Squires. The frayed edges of cloth around the hole made it impossible to bring the man’s face into focus. While it was hard to see him, his presence in the tent fit with the uneasy comments made by Owen earlier in the day.
I edged closer, hoping to get a better look. I stood, precariously balanced, and felt that if I leaned forward any more I would surely fall. I was shifting my eyes from one person to other, when the flames from the lantern on the table between Leland and Junior suddenly wafted. Like a forced exhalation, air rushed through the peephole and the canvas lightly touched my nose. For a moment I feared that the impression of my face appearing on the inside of the tent might cause me to be discovered, but the conversation continued. I bent my knees slightly and withdrew my head an inch or so.
Pulsating with light and gently expanding and contracting like a giant lung, the tent was alive. And, I sensed the irony of looking inside this particular tent – the one that stood authoritatively among the circle of tents. It was like looking into the very soul of a frightening part of humanity that I could not comprehend.
“Will I get to be the drummer boy tomorrow, Daddy?”
Leland answered his son, compassionately, “You know you’re too young to be a drummer boy.”
“Awe Daddy. I promise I’ll do a good job.”
“Now son, I told you that when you turn ten you can be a drummer boy.”
“But that’s not till next year,” complained the boy.
“You can wait one more year.”
“Awe Daddy,” he whined.
“Listen, why don’t we talk about something else? Tell Major Squires about that sporty new bicycle you got for you birthday?”
“But I want to talk about being the drummer boy.”
“I know you do, son,” Leland sighed.
Junior spoke up. “I’d like to hear about that bicycle.”
The boy replied, “It’s a mountain bike. It’s got twenty-one gears.”
“Do you ride it in the mountains?”
“Mr. Squires, you know there ain’t no mountains where we live. And, Daddy, he won’t let me ride it in but one direction.”
“One direction?” said Junior, making it clear that he didn’t understand.
“He won’t let me go in the other direction on a count of the blacks that live down the street.”
“He won’t?” Junior replied, facetiously prompting the boy to elaborate on his remarks.
“No, cause Daddy says, ‘We ain’t prejudiced, we just don’t like ni…’” The boy’s words suddenly became muffled.
“Not so loud, son,” said his father. He must have placed his hand over the boy’s mouth.
Surprised by what the boy had just said, I barely avoided falling into the tent by bending my knees and taking a big step back. As I put my foot down a stick cracked and the horses stirred. I held my breath, afraid that I might be discovered; but I heard hushed laughter from inside and knew that I was safe.
“Chip off the old block,” said Junior.
Leland said to his son, “Now why don’t you run along outside, and I’ll come after you in a minute.”
“No drummer boy, Daddy?”
“No, son. If I break the rules for you then I’ve got to break them for everyone. Now run along.”
“See ya, sport,” said Junior as the boy ran outside.
I stood behind the tent and reflected on what the boy had just said. The words sounded familiar, and I soon realized that what he had said, at least to the extent that he was allowed to speak, was identical to the comment made by Owen’s neighbor when he was talking about the black family that was looking at property in his neighborhood.
If Leland’s son was about to say what I thought, then I had heard enough. Anna was justified in her dislike for reenactments, and Max was right about the craftiness of those in charge – at least at this reenactment. If Anna was with me she probably would have marched into the tent and demanded that Leland and Junior leave immediately; but, I didn’t know what to do. Under the circumstances I didn’t think I could do anything that would make a difference. I was taken by surprise and needed time to think. I slowly walked away.