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In the months that followed the grand adventure at Shiloh, members of Holmes Brigade and the MCWRA, hosted various State and Local events in Missouri and Kansas. May 16-17, we went to Fort Scott, Kansas for the annual Civil War encampment. The following weekend we returned to New Madrid (in which I've discussed in a previous chapter). The Holmes Brigade had its annual business meeting and elections here. As suspected, Dickson Stauffer resigned as our Captain. After seven outstanding years shaping Holmes Brigade into the fine unit it was, Dick stepped aside and Don Strother was newly appointed. Bill Fannin became our new 1st Lieutenant and John Maki became the 2nd. I was asked if I wanted to run as an officer and I said "Hell, no!" The guys nominated Frank Kirtley to the First Sergeant's position, I remained the 2nd Sergeant, and Robbie Piatt became the new 3rd Sergeant.
In June a few members (myself not included) went way out west to Glorietta Pass, New Mexico for an event hosted by the 1st Colorado boys and in late June we had the Lecompton, Kansas event in which we portrayed militants from 1856 (I've already discussed this as well). An old fashioned 4th of July celebration was held at Missouri Town and brought a few of us out to join in the fun. Children's games included pie eating contests, watermelon seed spitting, and tug o' war. The Declaration of Independence was read, political speeches were made, plus there was a parade, and an anvil was fired 20 feet into the air when black powder was ignited under it. Of Missouri Town, I've already spoken about at some length.
On July 18-19, we reluctantly returned to Heritage Village at Hodge Park near Liberty, then during the first weekend of August, we took the long road back up into the northeastern corner of the state to Athens. So much going on between April and August and I attended all except the New Mexican adventure. Unfortunately for Athens, I can recall nothing that went on here-three years after the infamous "quarter-mile more" march. From reading the old newsletters, it seems that during the '87 reenactment we went coatless. Extensive research had been done with the conclusion drawn that during the August 1861 fight, the Union forces were called Home Guard and mostly wore civilian attire in the fight. A few of the Home Guard boys had military leather cartridge boxes and the like brought up from St. Louis and might have had a few blue sack coats, but it was mostly civilian clothing. So off came the coats. Since the temperature was in the triple digits, one less wool garment was welcome by all. But other than that, I cannot recall any outstanding moments from Athens '87.
Two weeks later we returned to Lone Jack, Missouri. This was the 125th anniversary of this battle fought in eastern Jackson County and sponsors wanted a big shindig to mark the occasion (once again, a better description of the Lone Jack site and original battle can be found in an earlier chapter). Unlike the reenactment of '82 in which the fight was staged on property now occupied by a museum and parking lot, the battle of August 15-16, 1987 was relocated on an acre of pasture land approximately one quarter mile west. This new location was still considered part of the historic field, as it was where the Confederates formed up for their attack on the Federals that August morning of 1862.
Gregg Higginbotham was the head coordinator of the reenactment portion of the weekend celebration. He had the field mowed, then he had a narrow road cut into the ground with a plow to represent Main Street, plus fence rails from Missouri Town were brought in and set up along both sides of the "street". Finally two very roughly thrown together 8' x 8' plywood shacks were constructed with the understanding that during the battle, they would be put to the torch. When the reenactors arrived Friday night, the Confederates would set up their tent city another quarter mile west near a grove of trees, while the Union boys camped in the "town next to Main Street". Most if not all of us erected little "shebangs" by throwing canvas shelter halves over the rails and a few boys slept inside or under an old beat up wagon.
We had two mountain howitzers inside our lines. Hal Hamilton brought one gun from St. Louis. Hal was a veteran of the '82 fight but was reluctant to attend in '87 until I convinced him over the telephone that we needed him and his gun. The other gun might have belonged to Don Calvin, of Pilot Knob 1980 fame. During the battle reenactment, Hal and his St. Louis crew would man the howitzer as Confederates-they'd be in their shirtsleeves. When the Union boys "recaptured the gun" and turned it on the Rebels, the gun crew then would be Higgy, Maki, Erik Hansen, and myself. We opted to dress in dark blue, with red hat cords and artillery brass on our hats. I even went so far as to sew red corporal's chevrons on my jacket, plus each of us had a couple of pocket pistols in our possession. I had no holster, so I tucked both inside my waist belt.
The grand battle was slated for Sunday afternoon, so Saturday was spent doing drill and living history. The temperature was in the triple digits, so very little drill and much living history (lounging under a tent fly with cold beverage). The ladies had a refugee camp set up some dozen yards to the east of our camp. They did their best to stay cool under all those layers of clothes. Late Saturday evening, I think they stripped down to their under garments, but out of sight of leering eyes. On the Main Street of Lone Jack itself, there was much activity with food and craft booths, picnic tables and bar-b-cue eating going on. Musicians played country music on a makeshift stage near the museum. Later that day, the LUAS hosted a fashion show and another patriotic tableau, both on the same center stage. There were games sponsored by the local Boy Scouts, bake sales hosted by the local Baptist Church in Lone Jack, a parade featuring local politicians, the 4H club, Shriners on funny cars, and "Little Miss Lone Jack. A wreath laying ceremony was also held, as it is every year, at the cemetery where some of the fallen of the Battle of Lone Jack rest in peace. It was during the wreath laying ceremony and the rededication, that reenactors were asked to deliver a musket volley. It was here that John Maki gave each man one cartridge-the ones that Larry Williams had rolled prior to his murder back in June. A eulogy was read and a prayer was spoken for the dead we were honoring, but in our hearts we were not thinking of the dead of Lone Jack. We thought of Larry as we fired that volley. A moment of silence followed as "Taps" was blown. It's safe to say that each one of us felt misty eyed at that moment.
At the appointed hour Sunday afternoon, all hell broke loose as the guns from the Confederate lines began to speak. Us Union boys were supposed to be eating breakfast or just waking up just as in the original fight and the one we recreated back in '82; it was supposed to be sunup. Half-dressed, us Union boys began exchanging fire with the ragged rebel foe until the two lines collided. We'd practiced hand-to-hand earlier, pairing off with someone from the other side. Some pushed and shoved at each other with rifles at port arms, a few exchanged fake fist-a-cuffs or other body blows. The crowd of nearly 8,000 was at a distance of 50 yards, so they only saw a blur of activity.
Us Union boys retreated a few dozen yards as the guns were captured, turned on us and fired a few times, then we rallied, charged them and retook the two cannons after an equally ferocious, but bloodless few moments of hand-to-hand. After about three or four of these back and forth tussles-in which I had emptied both revolvers and faked a slight wound which made me stagger as if on an eight day bender-it came time to light the buildings. In order for them to go up quick and hot, the walls had been soaked in gasoline a brief time earlier. One of these little plywood shacks was no more than twenty yards from me and it didn't take long after it was lit for us to feel the heat. The fire consumed the gasoline like a hungry fat man on fried chicken and in less time than it takes to tell flames and black smoke was rolling skyward. Old pard Ken McElhaney has a unique observation on a piece of headgear that became a casualty in the inferno:
"Although I'm better known for wearing a shako sans stuffing, (which sits proudly on my shelf) I was rather fond of my cheap-ass Hardee hat. I bought it for twenty five dollars and it served me well for many an event. In fact, I had stuffed a number of small pamphlets in it, religious stuff mostly. At Lone Jack, we had the pleasure of sitting under the canvas along rail fences all day long. Save for the battle, where an actual wood shack passing for a house would be set ablaze. Of course, I got close, but not too close to the fire. However, in the haste of retreat, my hat blew off. There it sat about five or so feet away from the blaze. After the battle, I retrieved my hat and saw a big, burned out hole at the top. Several months later, I watched a home video of the event. And sure enough, it caught my hat sitting on the ground near the blaze. It starts smoking, thanks to all those pamphlets inside, then explodes into one nice fireball! "
Following the hot weekend at Lone Jack, we returned to Roscoe in mid September. This was three years after the infamous "live shoot" we'd suffered during an early morning tactical. See Chapter 21 for more details. This year I was acting First Sergeant and in charge of the left wing of our small company. We were all strung out along a split rail fence firing at the 'johnnies' who were at a short distance away. Captain Don instructed me to watch for the Reb cavalry, which was poised to attack our left, and when danger did materialize, I was to wheel the boys on the left like a swinging gate and have them deliver a volley into the horsemen. I'd already cautioned the boys of my section to beware, and no sooner had a half dozen rounds had been fired, than sure enough, the heathens on horseback came galloping along towards our left. I shouted the command and the boys pulled back perfectly, but a gap about 20 yards wide developed between the spectator area and us. Captain Don shouted something, but it was too late. The horsemen bolted through the gap (that I had failed to close) and made short work of us. Pistols popped all around us and especially in our faces and the Reb infantry joined in as well, leaping over our barricade like Olympians, clubbing any survivors. Thankfully this was the Sunday afternoon fracas and the conclusion of the event. As I gathered up my belongings and truck, I felt I'd let the Holmes Brigade down. In my first command, albeit in charge of one section of the company, I'd allowed the enemy to come through unchecked, resulting in the murder of all my pards. I felt low in spirit, but Captain Don said it was ok and not to dwell on it. In fact, he said, the boys might have gotten run over or injured in another way if they'd tried to check the advance of both horse and rider. It took me several days to get over my command indecision.
October 2-4, 1987 Perryville, KY
Don't know how we decided on this event. Most everyone else was played out after Shiloh and many of the other hot and wild events of '87, so a low turnout from Missouri was expected. However about 23 boys from the Brigade did make the trip, which wasn't too bad for this first visit to the "Blue Grass State". I was ignorant of a lot of Civil War history when I first came into the hobby and the Battle of Perryville was just another one of those places I had no clue about. I will not bore you with another history lesson, only to say that it was a pretty mean fight that took place on October 8, 1862 and unfortunately it has not been written about as well as some other battles of the war. Probably because the battle was a draw with the Confederates abandoning the field even after the victory seemingly had been won. The plan was to secure Kentucky for the Confederacy, but instead its armies retreated back to Tennessee after this fight.
Aaron Racine and I were the only lads attending this event from Kansas City, so bright and early Friday morning we hoped aboard my silver Mitsubishi pickup for a two-hour drive to Columbia, MO and the out-in-the-boondocks estate of Dickson Stauffer. Dick was building his own house-literally with his own hands. Whether the decision to build without help from contractors was based on a tight bank account or other reasons, Dick was content to do the work himself, but accepted help from Boyd Wilson and a few other pards from the area. I had to turn onto several different county roads until I found the secluded homestead. A good portion of the house was complete-it was a two or three story house-with only some inside work to be done. In other words, there was a roof and four walls and very little else. Dick and family were living the modern day Wilderness Family.
When Aaron and I arrived we were taken into the kitchen, and told to cool our heels for just a bit longer while Dick ran around the house finishing up an errand or two. I think the youngest child, a daughter, was at home eating lunch or something. Dick took us on a tour of his "construction site" as his home was phrased, then he announced we would take his pickup truck to the event, but first we had to pick up Boyd and Brent Wilson and Bob Potts. Dick's truck had one of those tall camper shells on it so whoever sat in back could be afforded some comfort. I sat in the front cab both going and coming so I can't say for certain how the back of the truck rode. Boyd Wilson seemed to do most of the driving as Dickson started to come down with hay fever and was horizontal most of the trip. Twelve hours later we were entering the Perryville State Historic Park. Naturally it was too dark to see much, but we located the Federal camp and soon had our tents and stuff set up.
Perryville hosts a reenactment every year or maybe every other year, like Prairie Grove, Arkansas. As this was the 125th anniversary, a big shindig was planned with several thousand reenactors on the 550 acres of park property. I don't recall too much of the battle on Saturday and Sunday, but sure it was of the typical generic shoot-em-up back and forth for an hour till all the powder is blown, casualties are taken, then time is called. We were on the actual battlefield, but again I was ignorant to the fact I was placing my reenactment brogans in the same spot that boys had placed theirs 125 years earlier. In 2001, a 400-page volume on the battle was published. Until then, there really was no single work on this fight.
By Saturday morning, Dickson was fully in the grip of his allergy attack. He had taken some sort of prescription, which knocked him as limp as a noodle with a nose running like a faucet. He spent the entire first day of the event in his dog tent wrapped in a wool blanket. Those early mornings were very cold by the way, with an unexpected frost to greet us on Sunday. Frost an eighth of an inch thick lay like a blanket on everything including canvas and metal. During the early hours, men huddled around weak fire pits wrapped in greatcoats, with woolen mittens and scarves until the autumn sun chased away the cold gray mists. That first night, Aaron and I played a series of games around the fire pit imagining that we were Olympians cast into Hades. We mimicked athletes who might balance over a roaring fire on teeter-totters, or in the performance of various gymnastics such as the uneven parallel bars, or walking a balancing bar, or even tumbling and cartwheels, all the while with Hell's fire licking our backsides. It was at Perryville that the canteen I'd purchased seven years earlier rusted out. I had coated the inside of the tin canteen with melted beeswax, but during the course of time and the hot summer months, pieces of wax flecked off and made there way into my mouth. I was pouring water into the canteen only to see it trickle out about an hour later and down my left leg. So I ripped off the wool fabric (I would save this for patching my pants), yanked loose the cork and chain, saved the cotton sling for binding, and cast the rest into the fire. Within a few moments, the fire had softened up the solder holding the two pieces of tin together, they became separated and I had two mess plates. Unfortunately, I then had to travel down sutler row to purchase a new canteen-which cost roughly 30 bucks. Note: The Civil War soldier did not waste anything if he could help it. Like I had done with my canteen, he had saved the fabric for patching his uniform, the tins for cooking and eating out of, and the cork as a stopper for plugging up the musket barrel against rain.
During the summer of ’87, Aaron went out east to Boston. He had managed
to get himself enrolled in an 8-week summer program at Harvard University
in Cambridge, Massachusetts, studying Russian and generally fooling around.
He was contemplating a law degree like his father. It was the summer
before his Senior year of High School and prior to leaving for Boston or
soon after arriving he learned about a living history group in the area that
was rumored to be of the same caliber as Holmes Brigade. As Aaron tells it,
“I cannot now remember how I found this out or how I made my first contact
with them, but I met a guy named Chris something-or-other who lived in Somerville,
one subway stop away from Cambridge. Chris then introduced me to Pat McDermott
over burgers and (for me, underage) beers at a place in Somerville. Later
Pat invited me to his home where I met his then-wife and saw a lot of his
paper goods. At some point it was decided that I should join the 5th New
Hampshire for a living history event at Hildene, Vermont, the postwar home
of Robert Todd Lincoln. I had either packed my civilian clothes with me or
had them shipped east and fell in as an "observer" during the drill weekend
at Hildene. I got to know many of the guys in the 5th NH - Pat McDermott,
Dave Nelson, Greg Heppe (their captain and an old Mudsill buddy of Gregg
Higginbotham's from the late '70s), Bob Kilham, and a perfect baglady
candidate known by the moniker "Dogbone." Naturally, Aaron had
to tell these chowder eaters about the hobby as it was practiced in the west.
Most of these Bostonians had never been out west, but agreed to travel to
Perryville in October.
The paper products Aaron speaks of when he mentions Pat McDermott’s unique
vocation are reproduction Civil War era paper labels, advertisements, song
sheets, stationary, and “dime novels.” I received a complementary catalog
through Aaron and prior to the Perryville event, I’d ordered a few labels,
three song sheets, one or two religious pamphlets, and one “dime novel.”
The “dime novel” was a handsome reproduction of an 1864 story called RICKETY
TOM THE ROVER by Nicodemus Wildfire. The hero of this short novel
was fashioned after the Deerslayer, Natty Bumpo of the Leatherstocking saga.
The story of Rickety Tom the Rover takes place in the 1750’s and concerns
some citizens who are cast upon the wilds of New York after their ship is
sunk in a storm off Lake Huron. Rickety Tom escorts them through miles
of forest teeming with savage Indians and man-eating beasts. It was
heavy on action and romantic dialogue.
In reproducing this 100 page "dime novel", Mr. McDermott hand stitched the spine and included the original artwork on the cover, as it appeared in the 1864 edition, plus there were advertisements on both the inside front and back cover pages. These advertisements merely announced an upcoming or previous book. One advertisement was for a book called RATTLESNAKE DICK, or The Flower of the Wigwam. The hero was again of a similar stamp as Rickety Tom, just another great hunter of pre-revolution America. However, the story of Rattlesnake Dick was one loaded with humor and misadventures as he is saddled with three companions who are ignorant of the wilderness and its dangers. Even when the Indians capture Dick, he is able to laugh in the face of torture and soon finds an amusing way out his predicament. So far, Mr. McDermott has not been able to reproduce this "novel."
To make a long story even longer, by the time of Perryville, I had brought Rickety Tom along with me. We were to have a knapsack inspection, so I put the book in with my other to be inspected items-extra socks, shirt, etc. The inspecting officer remarked on the "dime novel" as he examined it and later asked if he could borrow it after I was finished with it. Of course I replied in the affirmative, but since it was Sunday and the event was near its conclusion, he never asked me about it again. I may have steered the officer into the direction of Pat McDermott himself who attended Perryville with a few of his chowder eatin' buddies.
Now this begs the question: how does Rattlesnake Dick figure into Holmes Brigade history? Simply because the "dime novel" was passed around for all to see that first Perryville weekend with the advertisement remarked on and laughed about, and poor sick Dick Stauffer merely branded with the name just because he was there. There are no "dime novels" about Rattlesnake Bob, Wildman Aaron, or Pickles Higginbotham that I know of. Dick Stauffer did not ask for the name, it was given to him unanimously because we were probably cold and bored and sought to bring a smile to the poor man with the runny nose and watery eyes.
I should mention one final episode of the Perryville weekend before talking of the trip home. It seems both Boyd and Brent Wilson sat out Sunday afternoon's battle, complaining of a sore knee and cold respectively. An unattended fire in the Federal camp was fanned by the wind and set the nearby grass on fire. Boyd and Brent saw the smoke and flames, some fifty feet from camp and quickly rallied some other non-combatants to smother the blaze. I guess there was some moments of high excitement for a while including the loss of several dog tents, but the fire fighters quickly had things under control. A good thing too, because about ten feet away stood a wall tent with a one pound can of black powder inside.
With Boyd and Brent Wilson staying in camp during the Sunday afternoon battle, they not only put out the fire, but had time to bring the truck into camp and began packing the stuff up for our trip back to Missouri. After breaking ranks for the final time, once the battle was concluded, it was only a matter of a short time before we had the truck loaded with the rest of our stuff and headed out from the park.
Although Dickson had participated in the Sunday fight he was still somewhat weak from his battle with hay fever, so Boyd drove us out of Kentucky. By some strange turn of events, Aaron got hold of a 24oz. bottle of Cinnamon Schnapps. It was purchased either Friday or Saturday night, but it ended up being left in Dick's truck all weekend because it was too far away to retrieve it. Moments after exiting the Perryville State Park, Aaron was tipping the bottle back. He offered me a sip, but the stuff was too nasty, so he drank it all himself. I remember we listened to music from the dashboard cassette deck. MEAT LOAF or DAVID BOWIE’S-DIAMOND DOGS (“fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats”). Boyd was more of a fan of the Kingston Trio, I recall, but didn't seem to mind the screeching coming from the tape, nor Aaron's attempt at sing-a-long. After we'd put several miles under us, we may have stopped for a bite at a drive-thru, then Aaron insisted on crawling in the back of the truck to sleep.
We'd traveled up from Kentucky, through Indiana, and were well into Illinois when there came this commotion and banging from the back of the truck. Boyd eased the truck over to the shoulder and we got out to see if the boys needed to pee or something. Aaron staggered out as if one leg was shorter than the other, hair mussed up, clothes wrinkled and smelling of rotten cinnamon. He was giggling like a schoolgirl, but managed to pull his whacker out without pissing all over himself. The shoulder of the road dropped down into a grass covered ravine about ten feet deep. I know I shouldn't have, but I gave Aaron a little shove and he tumbled down the gentle slope like a child's toy. Aaron managed to claw his way out of the ravine, still giggling, and then that's when I heard the story. Dickson told us that Aaron had woke up some time earlier and declared he needed to vomit. With the truck roaring down the interstate at over 60mph, Dick, Brent, and Bob Potts had levered open the top hatch of the truck cover, and with a death grip around the waist of his britches, they had allowed Aaron to lean his head over the tailgate to spew. Dick told us there had been a car following us with mom, dad, and three kids in it. Imagine the look of horror on their faces as the vomit exploded out onto the highway and towards their windshield. If this were to happen to you, you're left with only three options: hit the brakes and hope the vomit falls short, quickly switch lanes and hope you don't run into another car, or pray your windshield wipers are working.
It was around 2 AM when we got back to Columbia, we dropped off the Wilson's and Bob Potts, then we drove back down to Dick's house in the woods. Once we'd arrived at the homestead, Dick ordered Aaron to use a garden hose and wash the vomit from the back of his truck. Aaron was cold sober by this time in the morning and very humble and apologetic as he rinsed off the tailgate and bumper. It was 3 AM and Dickson asked if we wanted to spend the night. I had Monday off, but I didn't want to spend it lolly-gagging around in Columbia. Besides, I felt refreshed enough to drive, so Aaron and I said our good-byes and hit the highway for Kansas City. At one point, I pulled off for gas, a carbonated beverage loaded with caffeine, and a pack of Sweet Tarts. Aaron got a soda and a Chic-O-Stick. I kid him about it because it looks like something you put in a cage for the parakeet to nibble on. We got into KC by dawn and the rest in history.