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Champion's Hill, MS May 14-15, 1983
John Maki and myself were returning to Dixie for the second year in a row, but this time it wouldn't be as orphan's in another unit, because the boys from Holmes Brigade were going also. Many drove to the event on their own, but several opted to take the bus, including Higgy, Newton Hughes, and Paul Walter (Maki and I were very conspicuous as we took to wearing Hawaiian shirts that trip). A KINCAID bus was again chartered for about $50 a head, loaded at Bannister Mall in Kansas City on a Thursday evening and traveled the old familiar route into the Ozarks. And just like the previous year, the bus was loaded with a mixed bag of both Blue and Gray reenactors who spent most of the 12 hour drive corned. At Springfield, we stopped at Battlefield Mall to pick up Dickson Stauffer and one or two others who'd come from Columbia. Steve Lillard made some sort of rude comment when some of the federals got off the bus to help Dick load his stuff in the cargo bay. John Maki was offended by these remarks and some words of his own were exchanged....in Steve's face! The situation cooled after a tense moment when Steve gave some sort of chortling smirk and sat down. Without any other incidents, we continued the drive into Arkansas, into Louisiana, and finally into Vicksburg early Friday morning where once again we viewed the battlefield before going to the reenactment.
When we arrived at the event site, the federals were once again camped on the opposite side of Baker's Creek, but this time about 200 yards further away. The all-you-can-eat fish fry was available to all at the Cactus Plantation that evening, so after we'd set up camp and dressed out, we went over and ate our fill (I'm not sure whether we returned to camp or spent the night at the plantation). A non-spectator skirmish was planned for Saturday, but a bit different than one done the year before. There were several other federal units here - at least 200 total infantry. A hand shaking agreement was made at Champion's Hill among ourselves, the 15th US Infantry, and Cal Kinzers' Union Rifles to form a 'battalion' size unit called the Army of the Tennessee. We all thought it would look 'cool' to drill and fight together as one unit than as a bunch of scattered companies milling about helter-skelter as we had been used to doing. The Army of the Tennessee fell apart after a couple of years (probably because nobody could get along with Cal Kinzer or vice versa), but the premise to field the most number of men as a battalion at a Western event once or twice a year eventually led (in my opinion) to the creation of the Western Brigade a few years later. We definitely had twice as many federals as a year ago, but the johnnies still outnumbered us by a 3-1 ratio.
Not sure what time the fight began on Saturday, but believe mid-morning about right. Holmes Brigade had a strength of about 20-something and we were sent out ahead of the main body into a skirmish line(we were the only ones who had successfully mastered the art of the skirmish drill, so we were the bait). We advanced through the most God-forsaken country man had ever laid eyes on. Thousands of skinny trees, each with hundreds of clutching/grabbing prickly vines and waist high weeds that threatened to snatch the clothes off our backs. 'Stick-tights' and thistles clung to our trousers legs and the pollen swirled around our heads like a snow storm. Holmes advanced cautiously in this fashion, spread out and at arms length from the comrade next to us. We eventually came into a somewhat open area that it was believed the johnnies would come through, so Captain Dick halted us. We were still in a skirmish line and our line extended from one edge of the field to the other (a distance of about 50 yards or more). The grass was still waist high here, so Dick ordered us to take a knee to be out of sight. It was while the boys were flopping down that someone stepped on a rabbit or some small creature and it screamed horribly and skeedaddled like it's ass was on fire.
The rest of the federal infantry was coffee-cooling a short distance to the rear, but they promised to attack once the enemy was suckered into the trap. With the main body of some 200 boys in the rear was GENL. US GRANT, aka Marty Brazil, artist for the CAMP CHASE GAZETTE. He'd played Grant a year before and had it down to a 'T', looking as cool as a freshly made turd. He postured quite a bit during the day, an unlit stogie worming from one side of his mouth to the other and his eyebrows contracting as if in a pensive mood or just constipated. When the enemy finally approached, we came to our feet and began to fire individually like little mosquitos. Only annoyed by our puny efforts, the gray battalions dumbly shuffled forward like moth's to a flame; a big blue flame. As promised, our comrades were there to spring the trap and a heavy fight developed. In the confusion, GENL GRANT somehow ended up in the wrong place and got himself captured. Dickson told us we'd been ordered to fall to the rear, even as the gray tidal wave continued its unstoppable path of destruction. Our gallant comrades in blue seemed to sacrifice themselves so Holmes Brigade could retire intact, but one of the last things I heard was this sobbing little voice pleading with his captors, "I'm Marty Brazil, dammit! Not Genl. Grant!" We expected the johnnies to pursue us, but they seemed please with their prize and let us be.
It seems to me that that afternoon there was a slight drizzle which later in the evening turned into a steady rain. We may have drilled a bit more that Saturday afternoon, but for the most part we just lazed about in our fart sacks or visited the sutler's. Tommy Rye was here again as was John Zaharias-"the Button Baron". I think I bought a gum blanket from a sutler (it would definitely come in handy before the weekend was over). I don't recall seeing this first hand, but both Higgy, John Maki, and a few others tell of a vision they saw up at the sutler's that afternoon of a fair maiden all dressed in white. They called her the "Indian Princess", for she was copper-colored like a Native American (then again, it could have been a Coppertone tan). She was dressed in white leather and lace from head to toe, with a heavy amount of fringe at the bodice, sleeves, and skirt. Some type of white hat sat at a jaunty angle on her raven-haired head. Completing the costume were several strands of red ribbon, mostly tied to the front of her dress. Whether these ribbons were ornamental or were used to help hold back the heaving busom in the low cut bodice is anybody's guess. She gave several of these ribbon's to leering soldiers as souvenir's. When John Maki requested something a little different, she hiked her skirts up and took a red ribbon from her crotch-less bloomers.As the evening wore on, rain began to fall in an annoying drizzle. Though merely an annoyance, frantic efforts were made to move personal possessions as tiny leak's began to develop in the tents. Our camp was on high ground, and many of the guys dug trenches around their tents to turn the water away. Even with the trenching, the ground turned a little soupy. There was no straw to put down in our tents (I think the Confederates suckered us out of our share), but I had that gum blanket I'd bought plus an old gunny sack mattress filled with real lamb's wool that I got from my grandfather. However, I did not trench around my tent properly and rain water was running under the skirt of my A, developing into a nice little pond by morning. Newton Hughes got out of his dog tent about every half hour that night to hammer on each stake in a frantic effort to keep his tent from sliding downhill. The 'tink-tink-tink' of every one of those eight steel spikes being whacked with a metal hammer, was a symphony that all who attended Champion's Hill of May '83 would never forget.
Hig and Maki slept together in a dog tent next to the restless Newton Hughes. They had all their gear, muskets, plus Hig's six-foot and John's five-foot frame in this little shelter. Not only did they try to keep everything dry in this cramped space, but they tried to snatch a little shut-eye between each 'tink-tink-tink' of Newton's silver hammer. On top of that, Hig saw a spider crawling around in the semi-darkness (trying to stay dry, I'll bet). He immediately panicked claiming it was one of those dreaded 'Brown Recluse' monsters that when they bite, your skin swell's up and a fever sets in. Tossing gear from one side of the tent to the other, Hig chased the monster, slashing and stabbing at it with his coffin handle Bowie knife. After some tense moments (and as if fearing for his own safety) John convinced Hig that the monster had left the tent. Order was restored as the boys put their stuff back in place, then settled back to rest. No sooner had their heads hit their bedrolls, when 'tink-tink-tink!' went Newton's silver hammer.
Early Sunday morning we awoke with the rain still falling. For the most part it was still only an annoying drizzle, but the guys were reluctant to come out into it, so roll call was taken in the tents. (In a recent email letter, Dick told me that the rollcall in the tents " was done that way because I had spent the early hours watching Kinzer's boys sit around their smoldering fire in the rain because they had been told not to bring tents. A more miserable lot of men I had not seen before. They were so downcast and dejected I thought it would be fun to pull Cals chain and rub our relative comfort in a bit by having Bill call roll without making the boys go stand in the rain"...and I thought it was because he was concerned about our health!)
It was still raining when we formed up for the battle a little past noon. Luckily we didn't have far to march, because the battlefield was just down the hill from us and on the other side of Baker's Creek about 300 yards away. I think some people went home, but I believe our battalion was still intact. We marched out in a column of companies with our muskets at secure arms with the song "Singing In the Rain!" coming from the lips of every man. On the other side of Baker's Creek we formed a battalion line of battle and began throwing withering volleys at the advancing rebel horde. What was unique about this battle was the drizzle in the air actually had a effect of holding the gun smoke close to the ground. It did not readily evaporate but was like a shroud over us. Captain Dick and a few other officers had to hunker down on all fours and peer under the cloud of smoke to see where the enemy was. A couple of other interesting incidents of this battle included blue dye washing out a new slouch hat down a man's face, and Paul Walter who fell full length in a water-filled hole. The hole was less than a foot deep, but Paul emerged soaked to the bone, his slouch hat hanging like a hound dog's ears, and his musket looked like a dug relic.
Very soon it was GAME OVER and then began the unwelcome prospect of tearing down a wet camp and locating our transportation. Those of us that came by bus quickly located it and began packing the cargo bay, trying to locate all our stuff in one compartment. We had already changed into the 20th century duds we'd left on the bus, when our southern cousins arrived and began throwing a shit-fit about how the cargo bay was loaded. See they all brought wall tents, rope beds, and all kinds of outdoor furniture to the event (Same crap as last year. Johnny just don't know how travel light). So they had to haul out some of our stuff-pissin' and moanin' the whole time, until everything was reloaded to their satisfaction; then acted like it was OUR fault the bus was overloaded. It would take one more bus trip-another trip into Mississippi-before many of us finally decided that riding to an event by bus was no longer worth the trip.