2010 News

John Hunt Morgan's Confederate Cavalry on the Move North!
July 8, 1863
Brandenburg, Kentucky

The sleepy little river town of Brandenburg, Kentucky was recently visited by Confederate cavalry commander, John Hunt Morgan and his men as they began their raid into the North across the great Ohio River.

Morgan arrived early in the morning with the main body of troops, meeting no resistance. At the wharf, were two boats: the Alice Dean, and the steamboat, John B. McCombs, both commandeered by his advance troops. The men quickly evacuated the passengers and gave them specific orders not to leave the town. Morgan made his headquarters at the Buckner home in Brandenburg, on a bluff high above the river, where he was able to supervise the ferrying of his troops across the Ohio.
It was learned that General Edward Hobson with a troop of Union cavalry was some twenty-four hours behind Morgan and moving toward Brandenburg. As the fog lay heavy on the river, a series of shots from the Indiana shore broke the silence. A rifled cannon, serviced by local Northern militia and regulars, had opened fire on Morgan's troops as they began ferrying across the river in the two boats. Most of the shots fell harmlessly out of range and when the morning fog lifted, the Indiana boys came clearly into view. Morgan's single battery of artillery, located at his headquarters on the high bluff, zeroed in on the Indiana troops, scattering them toward the cover of the wooded ridge.
But just as Morgan's men had chased the Hoosiers back toward cover and the ferrying continued, a union gunboat came from up river into range and began firing on the confederates. This was the gunboat, Elk, which had thick shields of solid oak and proved to be a worthy opponent, spraying shots from her three twelve-pounder howitzers. Confederate troops on shore and those attempting to cross the wide river were fired on by the Elk. Morgan's Parrott guns trained in on the small gunboat, scattering shot all around her. The battle raged for about an hour until the Elk apparently ran out of ammunition and made her way back up river.
With the Elk out of the way, Morgan's troops continued ferrying across the Ohio and by midnight, all of his men and horses were in Indiana. Morgan then ordered the burning of one of the boats, the Alice Dean, and allowed the captain of the other to take his up river out of the hands of Hobson's federals, whose advance party had already arrived in Brandenburg in time to fire a few shots at the last of Morgan's men.
The flames of the Alice Dean lit up the night sky and Morgan's force headed north toward Corydon and out of range for Hobson and his troops.

Report & illustration by Theodore R. Davis, Harper's Weekly

Morgan's Raid on Corydon
July 12, 1863
Corydon, Indiana

John Hunt Morgan's confederate cavalry was on the move again riding north into Indiana territory after crossing the Ohio River at Brandenburg, Kentucky. They paid a visit to the small town of Corydon where they put quite a scare into the citizens and defending home guards of this community.
Being in proximity to the events unfolding, this reporter happened to witness Morgan's cavalry moving north out of Kentucky across the Ohio River into Indiana. I was directed by the locals that the town of Corydon would be a likely target of Morgan's advance. Arriving there early on the morning of the 12th, I estimated there were about 400 local home guard troops gathering about the streets of town, preparing to take a defensive stand against some 2,500 reported enemy cavalry. It became evident that the town fully expected to be raided and the soldiers and citizens were busily preparing for the worst.
The booming of distant artillery had notified the town that Morgan had arrived. As the local home guard unit formed on a hill southwest of town, some of Morgan's advanced scouts rode up under a flag of truce, demanding the guards to surrender. Their request was rejected and they were soon galloping back to their lines cursing the guards and promising retribution.
As the guards formed a battleline behind a rail fence, I took position behind them and was able to observe the scene, looking south toward the direction from which the raiders would have to come. Down a wide field off to my right, was the expected avenue of approach and sure enough, a cloud of dust slowly approached our position as the sound of sporadic gunfire grew louder each moment. We were unable to see the direct enemy movement upon our position due to the trees in our immediate front but they soon appeared as expected, in the field off to our right.
A heavy volley rolled from the guard's line and a number of rebels tumbled to the ground as the raiders made their initial assault. The guards maintained a spirited resistance for a short time but were soon outflanked on both wings and began to melt away under the superior numbers of the enemy. At this point, I began to take heed of the rebel bullets passing over my head and seek refuge in a less conspicuous location. As many as 4 of the guards were killed and several wounded. Most of the rest were captured. The rebels reportedly had 11 men killed and about forty wounded.
I was able to make my way back into town just as Morgan and his men were making their entrance. There was a lot of sporadic shooting and commotion in the streets, as the rebel invaders commenced to collecting the spoils of victory. The county treasurer was relieved of $690, two stores of $600 each and contributions of $700 to $1,000 were demanded from the three area mills to save them from being burned. I also witnessed one rebel staking his claim to a pretty young lady who had been stripped down to her undergarments (though she seemed to be somewhat excited at the thought of being carried away by this particularly handsome young cavalier, and was not seen to be resisting too much).

This was far different than the other humorous incident I witnessed, where two rebels were demanding the spoils of victory from a woman who was scorning them from her second story window. As they stood below making their demands, she apparently dumped the contents of her chamber pot upon them, drenching them in sewage. In great anger and humiliation, they cursed and rode away.

Morgan eventually paroled the prisoners before leaving town and headed north to continue his raid.

Report & illustration by Theodore R. Davis, Harper's Weekly

Lee Retreats! Richmond Abandoned!! President Lincoln Visits Rebel Capitol!!!

The death knell of the rebellion sounded at three in the morning on Monday, April 3, as the rebel ironclads that protected Richmond on the James River were destroyed and abandoned by their officers and crews. With the Army of Northern Virginia’s lines in front of Petersburg broken and overrun, the capitol is indefensible and has been abandoned. Lee’s army is fleeing westwards in an attempt to elude its pursuers as the Union armies immediately recognized the explosions as a call to advance all along the lines.
The Army entered Petersburg without opposition as the last of its rebel garrison took to their heels upon seeing the advancing troops in blue. General Wilcox’s division led Ninth Corps across the abandoned rebel works and into the city’s empty streets. Not far behind it the entire Army came into motion, these troops in pursuit of Lee, those troops securing the newly captured city, and still others moving on the now exposed rebel capitol city of Richmond.
Having myself entered the captured rebel city at dawn; I witnessed the visits of both General Grant and President Lincoln, the latter coming up from City Point via a special rail car. The soldiers caught sight of him at Meade Station and cheered him most heartily. He acknowledged the enthusiasm and devotion of the soldiers by bowing and thanking them for the glorious achievement of their arms.
Reaching City Point again at noon, I was soon mounted and riding towards Richmond itself, crossing the Appomattox at Broadway Landing, riding to Varina, crossing the James at Aikens landing on the pontoons, overtaking a division of the Twenty-fifth Corps as it also approached the city of Richmond on the New Market Road.
Elsewhere the whole rebel government was on the move with all thoughts of capturing Washington or flying the flag of the Confederacy from the dome of the national capitol forgotten! Found lying in the streets of the evacuated capitol were the bonds of the Confederate States of America, now worth less than the paper on which they were printed. General Ewell remained behind as

President Davis, his Cabinet, Senators and Congressmen, and even governors fled every which way in every conveyance imaginable. His orders were to fire the government buildings and the tobacco warehouses in the city as well as any of the army’s military stores that could not be removed and he did so at first light. The fires and explosions resulting from General Ewell’s orders resulted in destruction and devastation. The almshouse, not fully evacuated during the 15 minutes allowed by the rebel army for that task, was crushed by the detonation of the small nearby arsenal leaving only the bruised and blackened remains of the dozen inmates whose infirmities rendered them unable to escape.
It was a little past four o’clock when Major A.H. Stevens of the Fourth Massachusetts cavalry, and Provost Marshal of the Twenty-Fifth Army Corps, met a baroche bearing a five men and a white flag a mile and a half outside the city of Richmond. They included the Mayor, Judge Meredith of the Confederate States Court, and other gentlemen, who rendered the formal surrender of the city. Major Stevens proceeded to the Capitol, ascended to the roof, pulled down the State flag which was flying, and raised the guidons of the two companies, E and H, of his regiment, upon the building. He then ordered the fire engines into position, posted his soldiers to preserve order, and called upon the citizens to work the engines, and did what he could to stop the progress of the devouring element unleashed by General Ewell.
General Weitzel triumphantly entered the city at eight o’clock, the colored soldiers of his corps singing the John Brown song. With even ranks and steady step, colors waving, drums beating, bands playing, the columns passed up the streets, flashed with fire, to the Capitol. Then stacking their guns, and laying aside their knapsacks, they sprung to the engines, or mounted the roofs and poured in buckets of water, or tore down buildings, to stop the ravages of the fire kindled by the departing Rebels,--emulating the noble example of their comrades at Charleston: like them manifesting no vindictiveness of spirit, but forgetting self in their devotion to duty, forgetting wrong and insult and outrage in their desire to serve their oppressors in their hour of extremity.

The business portion was a sea of flames when I entered the city in the afternoon after my ride from City Point. I tried to pass through Main Street, but on both sides the fire was roaring and walls were tumbling. I turned into a side street, rode up to the Capitol, and then to the Spottswood Hotel. Dr. Reed’s church in front was in flames. On the three sides of the hotel the fire had been raging, but was now subdued, and there was fair prospect that it would be saved. Having determined that there were no guests in the hotel and that the clerk expected that the hotel would be destroyed by flames by morning, I registered my name on a page which bore the names of a score of Rebel officers who had left in the morning. I took a room on the first floor, from which I could easily spring to the ground if case the hotel should again be endangered by the fire.
Throwing up the sash I looked out upon the scene. There were swaying chimneys, tottering walls, streets impassable from piles of bricks, stones, and rubbish. Capitol Square was filled with furniture, beds, clothing, crockery, chairs, tables, looking-glasses. Women were weeping, children crying. Men stood speechless, haggard, woebegone, gazing at the desolation.
Soldiers from General Deven’s command of the Third Division of the Twenty-Fourth Corps were on the roof of the Capitol, Governor’s house, and other buildings ready to extinguish the flames. The Capitol several times caught fire from cinders.
“If it had not been for the soldiers the whole city would have gone,” said a citizen.
The colored soldiers in Capitol Square were dividing their rations with the houseless women and children, giving them hot coffee, sweetened with sugar,--such as they had not tasted for many months. There were ludicrous scenes. One negro had three Dutch-ovens on his head, piled one above another, a stew-pan in one hand and a skillet in the other. Women had bags of flour in their arms, baskets of salt and pails of molasses, or sides of bacon. No miser ever gloated over his gold so eagerly as they over their supply of provisions. They had all but starved, but now they could eat till satisfied.
In the morning I visited the Capitol building, which, like the Confederacy, had become exceedingly dilapidated, the windows broken, the carpets faded, the paint dingy.
General Weitzel was in the Senate Chamber issuing his orders; also General Shepley, Military Governor, and General Devens.
The door opened, and Admiral Farragut and General Gordon of Massachusetts, commanding the Department of Norfolk, entered. They heard the news Monday noon, and made all haste up the James, landing at Varina and taking horses up to the city. It was a pleasure to take the brave Admiral’s hand, and answer his eager questions as to what Grant had done. Being latest of all present from Petersburg, I could give him the desired information. “Thank God, it is about over,” said he of the Rebellion.
It was a little past noon when I walked down to the river bank to view the desolation. While there I saw a boat pulled by twelve rowers coming up stream, containing President Lincoln and his little son, Admiral Porter, and three officers. Forty or fifty freedmen—sole possessors of themselves for twenty-four hours—were at work on the bank of the canal, under the direction of a lieutenant, securing some floating timber; they crowded around the President, forgetting work in their wild joy at beholding the face of the author of the great Emancipation Proclamation. As he approached I said to a colored woman,--
“There is the man who made you free.”
“What, massa?”
“That is President Lincoln.”
“Dat President Linkum?”
“Yes.”

She gazed at him a moment in amazement, joy, rapture, as if in supernatural presence, then clapped her hands, jumped and shouted, “Glory! Glory! Glory!”
“God bless you, Sah!” said one, taking off his cap and bowing very low.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! President Linkum hab come! President Linkum hab come!” rang through the street.
The lieutenant found himself without men. What cared these freedmen, fresh from the house of bondage, for floating timber or military commands? Their deliverer had come,--he who next to the Lord Jesus, was their best friend! It was not a hurrah that they gave so much as a wild, jubilant cry of inexpressible joy.
The pressed round the President, ran ahead, and hovered upon the flanks and rear of the little company. Men, women, and children joined in the constantly increasing throng. They came from all the streets, running in breathless haste, shouting and hallowing, and dancing with delight. The men threw up their hats, the women waved their bonnets and handkerchiefs, clapped their hands, and shouted, “Glory to God! Glory! Glory! Glory!”—rendering all the praise to God, who had given them freedom, after long years of weary waiting, and had permitted them thus unexpectedly to meet their great benefactor.
“I thank you, dear Jesus, that I behold President Linkum!’ was the exclamation of a woman who stood upon the threshold of her humble home, and with streaming eyes and clasped hands, gave thanks aloud to the Saviour of men.
Another, more demonstrative, was jumping and swinging her arms crying, “Bless de Lord! Bless de Lord! Bless de Lord!” as if there could be no end of her thankfulness.
No carriage was to be had, so the President, leading his son, walked to General Weitzel’s head-quarters,--Jeff Davis’s mansion. Six sailors, wearing their round blue caps and short jackets and baggy pants, with navy carbines,

formed the guard. Next came the President and Admiral Porter, flanked by the officer accompanying him, and the writer, then six more sailors with carbines,--twenty of us in all.
The walk was long, and the President halted a moment to rest. “May de good Lord bless you, President Linkum!” said an old negro, removing his hat and bowing with tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. The President removed his own hat, and bowed in silence: it was a bow which upset the forms, laws, customs, and ceremonies of centuries of slavery. It was a death-shock to chivalry and a mortal wound to caste. Recognize a slave! Disgusting. A woman in an adjoining house beheld it, and turned from the scene with unspeakable contempt. There were men in the surging mass who looked daggers from their eyes, and felt murder in their hearts, if they did not breathe it from their lips.
When the soldiers saw him amid the noisy crowd they cheered lustily. It was an unexpected ovation. Such a welcome, such homage, true heartfelt, deep, impassioned, no prince or prelate ever received.
The streets became impassable on account of the increasing multitude, soldiers were summoned to clear the way. How strange the event! The President of the United States—he who had been hated, despised, maligned above all other men living by the people of Richmond—was walking its streets, receiving every evidence of love and honor!
At length we reached the house from which Jeff Davis had so recently departed, where General Weitzel had established his head-quarters. The President entered and sat wearily down in an arm-chair which stood in the fugitive President’s reception-room. General Weitzel introduced the officers present. Judge Campbell entered, who at the beginning of the war was on the bench of the Supreme Court of the United States, afterwards espoused Secession, resigned and was subsequently appointed assistant Secretary of War in the Confederacy. He was tall, and looked pale, care-worn, agitated, and bowed very low to the President, who received him with dignity, and yet cordially.

President Lincoln accompanied by Admiral Porter, General Weitzel, and General Shepley, rode through the city, escorted by a squadron of cavalry, followed by thousands of colored people, shouting “Glory to God!” They had seen great hardship and suffering. A few were well-dressed. Some wore pants of Union blue and coats of Confederate gray. Others were in rags. The President was much affected as they crowded around the carriage to touch his hands, and pour out their thanks. “They that walked in darkness had seen a great light.” Their great deliverer was among them. He came not as a conqueror, not as the head of a might nation,--
“Not with the roll of the stirring drum,
Nor the trumpet that sings of fame,”—
But as a plain, unpretending American citizen, a representative republican Chief Magistrate, unheralded, almost unattended, with “malice towards none, with charity for all,” as he had but a few weeks previously proclaimed from the steps of the Capitol at Washington.
He visited Libby prison, breathed for a moment its fetid air, gazed upon the iron-grated windows and the reeking filth upon the slippery floors, and gave way to uncontrollable emotions.
Among the correspondents accompanying the army was a gentleman connected with the Philadelphia Press, Mr. Chester, tall, stout, and muscular. God had given him a colored skin, but beneath it lay a courageous heart. Visiting the Capitol, he entered the Senate chamber and sat down in the Speaker’s chair to write a letter. A paroled Rebel officer entered the room.
“Come out of there, you black cuss!” shouted the officer, clenching his fist.
Mr. Chester raised his eyes, calmly surveyed the intruder, and went on with his writing.
“Get out of there, or I’ll knock your brains out!” the officer bellowed, pouring out a torrent of oaths, and rushing up the steps to execute his threat, found himself tumbling over chairs and benches, knocked down by one well-planted blow between his eyes.
Mr. Chester sat down as if nothing had happened. The Rebel sprang to his feet and called upon Captain Hutchins of General Devens’s staff for a sword.
“I’ll cut the fellow’s heart out,” said he.
“O no, I guess not. I can’t let you have my sword for any such purpose. If you want to fight, I will clear a space here, and see that you have fair play, but let me tell you that you will get a tremendous thrashing,” said Captain Hutchins.
The officer left the hall in disgust. “I thought I would exercise my rights as a belligerent,” said Mr. Chester.
I ascended the steps of the Capitol and stood on the roof of the building to gaze upon the panorama, hardly surpassed in beauty anywhere,--a lovely combination of city, country, valley, hill, plain, field, forest, and foaming river. The events of four years came to remembrance. First the secession of the State on the 17th of April, 1861, by the convention which sat with closed doors in the hall below. From the roof of the Capitol anxious eyes watched the warclouds rolling up from Mechanicsville and Cold Harbor. Long lines of ambulances, wagons, coaches, and carts, filled with wounded, filed through the streets.
Beneath the roof on which I stood Stuart, Gregg, and Stonewall Jackson—dead heroes of the Rebellion,--had reposed in state, mourned by the weeping multitude.
Before me were Libby Prison and Belle Isle. What wretchedness and suffering there! Starvation for soldiers of the Union, with sight of the fertile fields of Manchester, waving with grain and alive with flocks and herds! Nearer the Capitol was the mansion of Jeff Davis, the slave-traders jail and the slave-market. What agony and cries of distress within the hearing of the Chief Magistrate of the Confederacy, as mothers pressed their infants to their breasts for the last time.

In front of the Capitol was the stone building erected by the United States, where for four years Jeff Davis had played sovereign, where Benjamin, Memminger, Toombs, Mallory, Sedden, Trenholm, and Breckenridge had exercise authority, dispensing places of profit to their friends, who came in crowds to find exemption from conscription. Beyond, and on either side, was the forest of blackened chimneys, tottering walls, and smoking ruins of the fire which had swept away the accumulated wealth of years in a day. How terrible the retribution! Before the war there was quiet in the city, but there came a reign of terror, when ruffians ruled, when peaceful citizens dared not be abroad after dark. There was sorrow in every household for friends fallen in battle, and Poverty sat by many a hearthstone.
Hardest of all to bear was the charity of their enemies. Under the shadow of the Capitol the Christian and Sanitary Commissions were giving bread to the needy. Standing there upon the roof I could look down upon a throng of men, women, and children receiving food from the kind-hearted delegates, upon whose lips were no words of bitterness, but only the son of the angels,--“Peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Robert Mosher

Bentonville Battle Report

PART 1
I have just returned from the small hamlet of Bentonville, NC where the 145th Anniversary of the Battle of Bentonville was reenacted this weekend (March 20-21, 2010.) This was a very large reenactment event that is usually held once every five years. Large numbers of re-enactors, vendors and spectators turned out for this one and the weather cooperated more pleasantly than one could have hoped for in early spring.

I had planned on attending this event for quite some time and had already paid my participation fee. I worked out a driving arrangement with one of my fellow correspondents to rendezvous near Charleston, WV along the way and drive down together from there in order to save gas and have some fellowship along the way.

I would leave the Toyota (our reliable vehicle) at home and use the Chrysler only to travel as far as Charleston. I planned to take limited cash for gas expenses and supply my own food & drinks. However, as events unfolded, my partner had notified me at the last minute (4:30am) that he would not be able to make the trip. Now I had to reconsider my plans at the very minute I had planned to embark (with the Chrysler already packed.)

The first thing I did was get permission from my commander (wife) to use the Toyota and noted that I was going to have to spend more money on gas. Once this unpleasant request was approved, I began to question myself upon the fact that I should even be going at all. It would be a long journey by my self… take several tanks full of gas to get there… and risk the possibility of an unexpected breakdown or car trouble. As I rolled out of the driveway and down the interstate, guilt and uneasiness seemed to occupy my thoughts and mind. I had a bad feeling about this trip and tried to alert myself to anything and everything that might prevent me from reaching my destination, enjoying the reenactment, and returning home safely without spending too much or having something go wrong.

The spending started in Charleston, where I filled up the car with $42 of gas, leaving just $10 of which I had to unexpectedly pay WV Turnpike Tolls. It’s amazing how one can worry so much about money when there is none to have, but I did. The good news was that the weather was clear and sunny! Full Speed Ahead!

Initially, I had planned to visit the small town of Mt. Airy, NC (Andy Griffith’s boyhood hometown) on the way down and take a few snap shots of the local tourist attractions dedicated to the Andy Griffith Show. To break the guarded attitude and worrisome drive, I decided I would have to do this, but not spend too much time or gas while visiting the town. I rolled into Mt. Airy directly off the interstate and was able to actually snap a few shots (of the Blue Bird Diner, Opie’s Candy Store, the Soda Fountain & Malt Shop, and Cinema on Main Street as I rolled through town (much bigger than Mayberry.) I even got a shot of Wally’s Service station as I passed south out of town and back onto the interstate. All without stopping to get out or exit the vehicle.

Wally’s Fillin’ Station… Where’s Gomer and Goober?
I felt like I was in “The Man in a Hurry” episode, though my car did not break down and I was thankful to leave town and head toward the civil war once again, but not before traveling past Pilot Mountain, a.k.a. Mount Pilot in the Andy Griffith Show. This mountain is visible from many miles away and part of it reminds me of a butte that one might expect to see out west, except for the trees covering the top and sloping sides.

I finally arrive at Bentonville in the early afternoon, 9 hours from leaving home and the weather is absolutely beautiful. My tent is to be set up in the civilian camp in the front yard of the old historic Harper House, used as a hospital during and after the battle here. The ground is very soft and spongy with thick short-blade grass (almost like padded carpet) and is the finest floor I’ve ever laid on in my tent.

After getting the tent set up, I relax in the sunshine and have a drink, watching others file in and set up. I arrange my easels and artwork around the front of my tent and am soon visited by one of my other fellow correspondents, David Foote, who had flown in from Tennessee earlier in the day. I am glad that he has found me and we are able to make plans for later, as I will go visit his camp in the union lines after supper. Tonight my supper is a ham sandwich on rye bread with onions and a cold beer. Afterwards, I am off to find the yankee camp and meet up with David and his son, Josh, who is off to sail away with the US Navy next week. I am also looking forward to seeing Captian, Dave Brunner, a friend I met through David, and who has accommodated me in the past, particularly at Atlanta, GA.

As darkness sets in, I approach the union camp and reach the fork in the road that indicates where I am to find the 9th KY Infantry camp just ahead in the woods. There are many, many glowing lanterns, candles, campfires and tents spread throughout this area with soldiers coming and going, as well as many groups of men gathered around campfires. It is dark and hard to distinguish faces as I walk around taking in the spectral atmosphere of a busy and active army camp that seems to be oblivious to my presence or observation. I walk around the dirt road, only to discover it is a loop that takes me right back where I started. But the walk was a very pleasant stroll through time in which I am able to observe an army in camp; dark silhouettes of soldiers walk pass me along the road; soldiers sit around campfires, some eating, some swearing, others singing to the tune of a plucking banjo, and also the occasional outburst of loud laughter that rings throughout the smoky forest canopy. This is home for now, and seems like the right place to be at the right time. Am I the only one who seems to feel that I’ve stepped through a window of time, back to 1865? After questioning several camps near the fork in the road, one unit eventually replies to my call for the 9th KY and I find my friends around a campfire further off the road than expected. As we converse, Cap’n Dave asks if David and I would be interested in attending the Officers Call that evening at 9:30 and we gladly accept the invitation. Cap’n Dave informs us that General Zeckman has a very low opinion of the press and that we are likely to be publicly scorned by him during this meeting, which is a fairly common behavior among the top brass during this war.

The meeting begins and Cap’n Dave introduces us as members of the press interested in reporting the news and assisting the men and armies in any capacity we may have to offer. The general immediately remarks that he is distrustful of reporters and that it is only by his Captain’s invitation that he allow us to be here in attendance at all. As the officers discuss specifics, we learn a great deal of what is planned and expected for the battle scenarios, among them are the plans for the federal army to dig shallow earthworks prior to the main attack by confederates, and that there will be a 23 man company of Henry Repeating Rifles to beef up the federal defenses, in which the general is most delighted. Later, the general again remarks how some men have a streak of yellow in them and would rather stay behind the lines drawing pictures and writing stories for newspapers. I am somewhat amused and recalling the fact that at least 31 reporters suffered wounds in this capacity during the war and that it was not considered a safety zone by any means, as many accounts tell of bullets frequently being fired over the heads of forward positions. I am also thinking of the young special artist, Theodore Davis, who sketched for Harper’s Weekly, and how he received two bullet wounds and had a horse shot out from under him during the war. He remained a special artist throughout the war and never quit his responsibilities or duties as a correspondent, staying with it to the end. But thinking it would not be appropriate to rebuke the general in front of his subordinates, nor putting our dear friend Cap’n Dave in an awkward position, I held my tongue, still amused at the general’s ill-conceived and delusional paranoia and disdain for “the press”. The most disturbing news for David and I, is that no civilians will be allowed (by event staff) on the battlefield with the troops during the battle; no exceptions. I have never been banned from the field at any event in my seven years of reenacting and am not sure if it was a state park rule or if it was someone else with an evil agenda.

Afterwards, the night air is getting quite cold and all thoughts turn to getting warm. As I returned to my tent and pull out my blankets, I realize I have no cot to sleep on (as that was going to come with my friend from Ohio who had to cancel) and I will be on the ground without the extra warmth of my sleeping bag, which I have left behind on this trip. I try to cover up with two short blankets in a fetal position, fully clothed, including my dress coat. As I squirm on the ground to shift positions, I accidentally pop off two buttons from my coat and curse the cold. I laid most of the night awake trying to stay warm until dawn, only to find myself unwilling to arise from what little warmth I had established, and slept in late with the blanket pulled over my head to dim the daylight. Eventually, it is time to relieve myself and I must emerge from my tent at 8:20am. The frost on the ground eventually gives way to sunrise and I cook some bacon and brew some coffee at my neighbor’s fire pit. I am the only one still eating breakfast at 9:30 when droves of spectators begin strolling through the camps and I quickly shift my attention to my artistic duties. I contemplate what role to enact and what possible subjects I will record today. The logical choice becomes apparent as the historic Harper House is only yards away from me and the sun is now shining bright upon the grounds.
Using charcoal and an 18” x 14” sheet of ivory paper tacked to my easel, I sketch for about 2 hours, engaging with curious spectators and explaining the role of the artist/correspondent during the war. One local photojournalist takes a few pictures of me and begins to tell me how he was here several years ago when there was nobody around and he sensed he was being watched by someone. He explains that he suddenly is compelled, perhaps by movement, to glance to his left at the Harper House. For a fraction of a second, there appeared to be a woman standing inside the second story window. When he stops to focus his eyes, there was nothing there. Evidently, it spooked him a bit and he still wonders what he saw in the window. I believe he saw something. I immediately look at the window he referred to and see nothing but the sheer drapes hanging down. I think I will include this in my drawing later.

PART 2

As I sketch and present my display of artwork, my neighbor reenactment friends come to observe and watch. Of these people, there is an older couple next to me named Bob and Judy. They have a big wall tent with nice accommodations inside and are pleasant and friendly, as almost all re-enactors usually are. Bob reveals to me that he is a retired forensic sketch artist who used to work for law enforcement. He tells me fascinating stories and tips of how he “saw the suspects through the victims eyes”. Basically, he used a process of elimination to achieve the approximate likeness of wanted suspects. He claims to be no portrait artist, but rather a well-trained composer of facial features able to present a somewhat close representation of a suspect by listening to a victim’s careful description.

Soon, my fellow reporter, David, has come to visit and see what progress I have made with the portrait of his son that I have been working on for his son’s graduation present. He seems to be very pleased with the copy that I’ve brought with me for his approval and I’m looking forward to finishing the rest of it before the end of this month.

As David and I talk, we are interrupted by an animated voice, offering greetings and great joy at finding us amidst the crowded event. As we turn our attention, we are greeted by A. R. Waud, special artist for Harper’s Weekly. This is John Rapp, a fellow artist/correspondent history buff who is a professor at a university and is visiting for the day. John is very good at first person impression and quite an enthusiast of the bohemian history, particularly that of Alfred R. Waud, who is probably the most notable of the civil war artist correspondents. John has a large leather “artillery” case, which carries his drawing pads, books, newspapers and other supplies necessary to the profession. His sketchbook has renderings that resemble quite familiar sketches and subjects that have been previously drawn by Waud 150 years ago. It is apparent to me that John is truly passionate about the history and portrayal of the artist correspondent with particular attention to A. R. Waud. He is also quite good at rendering in his sketchbook with a style that is consistent and well composed. It was good to see another person stepping into the role as an artist correspondent, as it is a part of reenacting that is seldom represented.

As we share our experiences and discuss the correspondent affairs, the approaching hour of battle nears and the crowd is getting heavy now. This is a good thing and I am able to sell several prints and even an unfinished original charcoal sketch throughout the early afternoon. This is a huge relief to me and I am no longer feeling guilty of spending too much money on myself for my own selfish pleasure. In fact, I will have extra spending money even after covering all my expenses for the weekend!

I eat a ham sandwich for lunch and am off to record the afternoon battle and meet up with David and John if I can find them. The crowds are thick and packed along the viewing area in a large mass (to heavy to try and squeeze through for a front row seat.) I walk for several minutes trying to locate one of the other correspondents, but it is getting late and the skirmishing begins.

As I walk further down the field behind the crowded masses, I notice some figures sitting up in the trees along the edge of the battlefield and presume they are confederate snipers (which is a clever addition to the battle scenario.) But upon further examination, these are boy scouts and spectators who have climbed up trees to get an advantageous view of the action and I realize this may be just the answer to my viewing situation as well. Many of the easily accessible trees are already taken and occupied but there is one tree I am drawn to that has a good-sized limb branching out at a 90 degree angle. Upon closer examination, as I stand at the trunk looking up, the lower limb is just out of my reach by a foot or two and I do not think I will be able to jump and grab on to pull myself up. I contemplate how to reach the limb from here for a while, taking off my hat, canteen, haversack, and canteen. It suddenly occurs to me how to get up this tree. I reach up and embrace the trunk and squeeze my legs around it and begin to shimmy up and within seconds, am able to reach up and grab onto the lower branch and pull myself up and over, though it is not in one swift movement and takes a moment to hoist the legs up and over the branch. Now, I ask for my accouterments to be handed up to me from a most helpful spectator and am only able to obtain them by asking the person to hang the items over my dangling foot and then raising my foot enough to reach down and grab with my hand. The view is mostly unobstructed except for a few thin branches hanging above and two trees just to my right front. As I get acquainted with my new surroundings, I am careful to situate myself in a somewhat comfortable position, which does not last long. I begin sketching, observing the union lines entrenched behind small but practical earthworks, just off to my left front. In the distance to my right front, beyond the two trees just in front of me, I can see the rebel lines at the edge of the woods. The area to my immediate right is forest and woods, and here the spectators are few, but off behind and to my left, the crowd is very heavy and packed in, everyone trying to get a glimpse of what is going on in the fields to the front.

The battle lasts for at least an hour or more and I am beginning to get very sore hips and butt cheeks, as the branch I sit on is not very wide. I soon discover that I am able to stand on this branch and even see more than sitting without as many small twigs and branches in the way. Once the action is over and the crowd begins to thin, I am very anxious to exit this perch and relax back in camp. As I walk, the soreness in my hip is very uncomfortable and I limp my way back, eager to take some pain reliever and sit.

An artist getting high.

This is the view to my left. The branch running across this image is the one I am sitting on.

This is the view to my left front.

The sketch made from up in the tree.

After a couple cold beers and a cigar at my camp, I am happy to sit and prepare my dinner. I slice my potatoes into thin wafers and cut up some onions… fry several pieces of bacon in my iron skillet and then add my potatoes and onions. Being very hungry, this all tastes very good and I’m quite satisfied with my simple meal. But a woman across from me tells me that she has left over stew and invites me to finish off the rest, which I gladly comply with.

Soon, I am approached by my good friend David, and his son Josh. I am glad to notice that he is holding a supply of brandy (as I had earlier alluded to the fact that he would need to bring this along if he wanted to see the portrait of his son I was working on.) David pours a round of brandy and we toast to Bentonville 2010. It is blueberry flavored brandy and tastes like sweet syrup. It is way, way too sweet for me but I like the novelty and tradition of the sipping of brandy among fellow correspondents, and so we drink another round and chat for a while.

As the evening air cools down again, I am determined to stay warm and will go to my car to find my parka to sleep in later tonight. David and company bid farewell and are off to their camp for the evening and I decide to visit the Ball that is taking place in the large tent nearby the Harper House. The band providing the dance music is The Huckleberry Brothers and they are a 10-piece band and they are very good.

I enjoy the liquid refreshment that I have brought in my haversack and the foot-stomping music. Fortunately, they have CD’s available and I purchase one, knowing that I will be able to later listen to it on the way back home and also possibly use some tunes to accompany my website.

After the ball winds down, I am off to find my car in the darkness. I search for the gravel road that is supposed to be somewhere nearby and seem to be walking longer than I should have to, when I finally reach a small camp near another gravel road that is obviously not the one I’m looking for. Hmmm, the liquid refreshment probably had nothing to do with my misdirected footsteps, just the darkness of an unfamiliar North Carolina field. As I ask the soldiers if this is the road to the parking lot, they cannot tell me for sure. As we converse, one of the soldiers says “oh, I know who you are, you’re the artist that was at Corydon”. I’m quite surprised to hear this and begin to think back to last year’s Corydon reenactment and who this may be. I soon realize this is Jerry, who has a small spider web tattoo on one of his outer nostrils, which is quite unforgettable (as he explain the regret of acquiring this blemish upon his face when he was younger.) Jerry and I talk about past events, friends , family, and future events as his other buddy gets very quiet and then rolls over, staggers behind a tree, and begins to vomit. Too much to drink, I guess. Thankfully it is dark, and we do not have to watch. Jerry seems unconcerned about his friend and tells me he needs to find more firewood for the rest of the night so I agree to go help him. As we walk toward a tree-line to scavenge for some wood, we both witness an awesome site. A streaking point of light sails across the clear evening sky from left to right. It is not high off the horizon and seems to last much longer than the average shooting star (perhaps 4 or 5 seconds). Before it is able to disappear, I say “Look at that, look… it’s still going… did you see that? Whoa… that was awesome! That may have been one of the best shooting stars I think I’ve ever seen!”

We find the wood and carry what we can back to his campfire. I hang around for a while longer as he offers me some pistachio nuts, which I cannot refuse, and so I stay a bit longer. Jerry has come here in a vehicle that he is not sure will make it back to Indiana (or Ohio) and he tells me his girlfriend, Kim, is sleeping in the car with some kids. Wow! She must love him a lot! He reminds me that someday, he would like to have a sketch made of Kim and himself and I tell him that would be good with me… just save up some money!

I finally leave Jerry’s camp to retrieve the parka from my car and make my way back to my tent. Around 2 a.m. I finally step inside my tent. It’s not as cold as the previous night and I am able to sleep much better.

PART 3

As dawn breaks, I can hear many people around me waking and starting their breakfast and conversations. I choose to remain wrapped up and comfortable with no reason to disturb my comfort. Eventually, I emerge from my slumber and it is another beautiful sunny day. I dress in a new set of clothing, fry some bacon and warm some cornbread for a quick breakfast. One of my neighbors has a large kettle of coffee still available and so I indulge. After breakfast, I sit and relax, share conversation with neighbors, and watch the spectators come rolling through.

As the noon hour approaches, the sky begins to get cloudy and the wind begins to pick up, forcing me to take down some of my artwork on the easels. The battle is scheduled to take place at 1:30 that afternoon and event staff indicate that we can move our cars to a field about 75 yards away from our camp in order to get our vehicles closer as we break down our camps after the event. I decide to bring up the car and put away what I can until the battle starts, and take the rest down after the event. After a 15 minute walk and parking the car at a very advantageous spot, I am alarmed by the rain clouds, fast approaching, and it seems apparent that rain is coming. The immediate concern for me is to get my artwork, guitar, and canvas (tent) secured inside my vehicle before the rain falls. Essentially, this means I will completely break down camp and load everything NOW! This is done in great haste and I scurry to and from my vehicle about seven times, trying to beat the rain and start of the battle (which is to take place quite some distance from this location.)

Before I finish this task, I hear the muffled sounds of battle to the east and gather my things to make my way to the sound of the guns. I hurriedly walk pass many others who are making their way to the battle. As I get closer and closer, the sound is coming from my left front, but all traffic is heading straight ahead and I am told to proceed in this direction. I am hoping the rain holds off and that I will not miss too much of the action. Upon this approach, I follow a path that runs into a “street row” of period houses and quaint little buildings lining both sides. Perhaps twenty or so structures are along this street and I was pleasantly surprised to stroll through here. Very nice little village street, but onward to the battle! It is almost 20 minutes before I am able to turn down a path to the battle site where droves of spectators are exiting. What? Why are they leaving? The flow of spectators leaving is unusually heavy, many of them remarking to me that “you missed it” and I’m disappointed to think it’s all over, though I can still hear gunfire. As I approach the battlefield, the crowd is packed and there is no chance to step beyond the event staff and onto the field from this point, nor does there seem to be any hope of finding David and linking up with him.

The number of re-enactors appears to be decreased from yesterday’s battle and the union army is posted out in the middle of a large field to my left front surrounded by trees on all sides, though they are entrenched again. Further to my right front, the confederates are firing along the edge of the treeline. Perhaps there was a lull in the battle scenario or the rain clouds scared away those spectators who I passed on the way here, but the action was beginning to heat up and the rate of fire definitely was increasing. I decided to take digital pictures instead of drawing, as I had no advantage in acquiring a good “sketching” view during this engagement. I was pleasantly surprised to see two, and then three additional rebel formations emerge from the treeline across the field behind the union position. Now I can see more rebs than I did during yesterdays battle and the numbers look pretty good.

The union troops were seen scurrying to form a battleline facing their rear, while the other half was fighting the opposite direction from shallow trenches. There was a lot of movement and shifting of lines during this battle and several assaults made by the confederates to make it quite interesting for me. The 23-man squad of Henry repeating rifles made an assault from the union lines, which was very impressive. I was also surprised at the length of time this battle played out and to see the sun come back out. Towards the end, the casualties mounted up and lay strewn about the field, giving it a good dose of carnage and clutter (a beautiful thing.)

Once the battle is over, I am anxious to leave and get on the road headed for home. But first, I walk back through the village street where I ask a spectator to take my picture on the porch of a house and she obliges.

Unfortunately, I have used up all my picture card and have no more pictures left to take, so it’s off to the vehicle and head for home. The ride home is not so bad and I enjoy my CD of the Huckleberry Brothers and all the memories from this event. I’m glad to have met the people who were camped around me and for those that bought prints of my artwork. It was good to live in a world small enough to run into Jerry at 1:00a.m. 500 miles away from home. Mayberry is now a real place that I can say I’ve been to and may even consider coming back this way again. I did run into some extremely heavy fog when I ascended the Appalachian Mountains at the NC/VA border and driving was treacherous for a while, but the fog lifted and the rest of the trip was without incident. I finally reach home around 11:45pm and hit the showers! Glory Hallelujah! Home Sweet Home!

Theodore R. Davis, Special Artist for Harper’s Weekly
a.k.a. Jim Hoffmann

Bummers Report