Confederates in the Attic (2 page)

At a picnic soon after our arrival, I overheard a neighbor ask Geraldine how she liked Virginia. “Fine,” she sighed. “Except that my husband’s become a Civil War bore.”

I’d always been one, of course, but my obsession had lain dormant for several decades. With adolescence had come other passions, and I’d stuffed my toy musket, plastic rebel soldiers and Lincoln Logs into a closet reserved for boyish things. A Day-Glo poster of Jimi Hendrix supplanted Johnny Reb. Pickett’s Charge and Antietam Creek vanished behind dart boards, Star Trek posters and steep drifts of teenage clutter.

But a curious thing had happened while I’d lived abroad. Millions of Americans caught my childhood bug. Ken Burns’s TV documentary on the Civil War riveted the nation for weeks.
Glory
and
Gettysburg
played to packed movie houses. The number of books on the Civil War passed 60,000; a bibliography of works on Gettysburg alone ran to 277 pages.

On the face of it, this fad seemed out of character for America. Like most returning expatriates, I found my native country new and strange, and few things felt stranger than America’s amnesia about its past. During the previous decade, I’d worked as a foreign correspondent in lands where memories were elephantine: Bosnia, Iraq,
Northern Ireland, Aboriginal Australia. Serbs spoke bitterly of their defeat by Muslim armies at Kosovo as though the battle had occurred yesterday, not in 1389. Protestants in Belfast referred fondly to “King Billy” as if he were a family friend rather than the English monarch who led Orangemen to victory in 1690.

Returning to America, I found the background I lacked wasn’t historical, it was pop-cultural. People kept referring to TV shows I’d missed while abroad, or to athletes and music stars I’d never seen perform. In the newspaper, I read a government survey showing that 93 percent of American students couldn’t identify “an important event” in Philadelphia in 1776. Most parents also flunked; 73 percent of adults didn’t know what event “D-Day” referred to.

Yet Americans remained obsessed with the Civil War. Nor was this passion confined to books and movies. Fights kept erupting over displays of the rebel flag, over the relevancy of states’ rights, over a statue of Arthur Ashe slated to go up beside Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson in Richmond. Soon after my return, the Walt Disney Company unveiled plans for a Civil War theme park beside the Manassas battlefield. This provoked howls of protest that Disney would vulgarize history and sully the nation’s “hallowed ground.” It seemed as though the black-and-white photographs I’d studied as a child had blurred together, forming a Rorschach blot in which Americans now saw all sorts of unresolved strife: over race, sovereignty, the sanctity of historic landscapes, and who should interpret the past.

T
HEN, EARLY ONE MORNING
, the Civil War crashed into my bedroom. A loud popping noise crackled just outside our window. “Is that what I think it is?” Geraldine asked, bolting awake. We’d sometimes heard gunfire while working in the Middle East, but it was the last sound we expected here, in a hamlet of 250 where bleating sheep had been our reveille for the past six months.

I went to the window and saw men in gray uniforms firing muskets on the road in front of our house. Then a woman popped up from behind a stone wall and yelled “Cut!” The firing stopped and the Confederates collapsed in our yard. I brewed a pot of coffee,
gathered some mugs and went outside. It turned out that our village had been chosen as the set for a TV documentary on Fredericksburg, an 1862 battle fought partly along eighteenth-century streets that resembled ours.

But the men weren’t actors, at least not professionals, and they performed in the film shoot for little or no pay. “We do this sort of thing most weekends anyway,” said a lean rebel with gunpowder smudges on his face and the felicitous name of Troy Cool.

In the local paper, I’d often read about Civil War reenactors who staged mock battles with smoke bombs and reproduction muskets. It was a popular hobby in our part of Virginia. But when I asked about this, Troy Cool frowned. “We’re hardcores,” he said.

Between gulps of coffee—which the men insisted on drinking from their own tin cups rather than our ceramic mugs—Cool and his comrades explained the distinction. Hardcores didn’t just dress up and shoot blanks. They sought absolute fidelity to the 1860s: its homespun clothing, antique speech patterns, sparse diet and simple utensils. Adhered to properly, this fundamentalism produced a time-travel high, or what hardcores called a “period rush.”

“Look at these buttons,” one soldier said, fingering his gray wool jacket. “I soaked them overnight in a saucer filled with urine.” Chemicals in the urine oxidized the brass, giving it the patina of buttons from the 1860s. “My wife woke up this morning, sniffed the air and said, ‘Tim, you’ve been peeing on your buttons again.’”

In the field, hardcores ate only foods that Civil War soldiers consumed, such as hardtack and salt pork. And they limited their speech to mid-nineteenth-century dialect and topics. “You don’t talk about Monday Night football,” Tim explained. “You curse Abe Lincoln or say things like, ‘I wonder how Becky’s getting on back at the farm.’”

One hardcore took this Method acting to a bizarre extreme. His name was Robert Lee Hodge and the soldiers pointed him out as he ambled toward us. Hodge looked as though he’d stepped from a Civil War tintype: tall, rail-thin, with a long pointed beard and a butternut uniform so frayed and filthy that it clung to his lank frame like rags to a scarecrow.

As he drew near, Troy Cool called out, “Rob, do the bloat!” Hodge clutched his stomach and crumpled to the ground. His belly swelled
grotesquely, his hands curled, his cheeks puffed out, his mouth contorted in a rictus of pain and astonishment. It was a flawless counterfeit of the bloated corpses photographed at Antietam and Gettysburg that I’d so often stared at as a child.

Hodge leapt to his feet and smiled. “It’s an ice-breaker at parties,” he said.

For Robert Lee Hodge, it was also a way of life. As the Marlon Brando of battlefield bloating, he was often hired for Civil War movies. He also posed—dead and alive—for painters and photographers who reproduced Civil War subjects and techniques. “I go to the National Archives a lot to look at their Civil War photographs,” he said. “You can see much more detail in the original pictures than you can in books.”

A crowd of blue-clad soldiers formed down the road. It was time for the battle to resume. Hodge reached in his haversack and handed me a business card. “You should come out with us sometime,” he said, his brown eyes boring into mine with evangelical fervor, “and see what a period rush feels like.” Then he loped off to join the other rebels crouched behind a stone wall.

I watched the men fight for a while, then went back inside and built a fire. I pulled down Poppa Isaac’s book from the shelf. The tome was so creased with age that the title had rubbed off its spine and the pages discharged a puff of yellowed paper-dust each time I opened the massive cover. Searching for pictures of Fredericksburg, I quickly became lost in the Civil War, as I’d been so often since our return to America.

Geraldine came in with a cup of coffee. She’d chatted with a few of the men, too. “It’s strange,” she said, “but they seemed like ordinary guys.” One worked as a Bell Atlantic salesman, another as a forklift operator. Even Robert Lee Hodge had seemed, well, normal. During the week, he waited on tables and sometimes freelanced articles for Civil War magazines. I’d once worked as a waiter, and at twenty-eight, which was Hodge’s age, I’d been a freelancer, too, although writing about more recent wars.

Then again, I’d never spent weekends grubbing around the woods in urine-soaked clothes, gnawing on salt pork and bloating in the road. Not that my own behavior was altogether explicable, sitting
here in a crooked house in the hills of Virginia, poring over sketches of long-dead Confederates. I was born seven years after the last rebel soldier, Pleasant Crump, died at home in Lincoln, Alabama. I was raised in Maryland, a border state in the Civil War that now belonged to the “Mid-Atlantic States,” a sort of regionless buffer between North and South. Nor did I have blood ties to the War. My forebears were digging potatoes and studying Torah between Minsk and Pinsk when Pleasant Crump trudged through Virginia with the 10th Alabama.

I took out the card Robert Lee Hodge had given me. It was colored Confederate gray; the phone number ended in 1865. Muskets crackled outside and shrieks of mock pain filled the air. Why did this war still obsess so many Americans 130 years after Appomattox? I returned to Poppa Isaac’s book. What did that war have to do with him, or with me?

A
FEW WEEKS LATER
I gave Rob Hodge a call. He seemed unsurprised to hear from me and renewed his offer to take me out in the field. Hodge’s unit, the Southern Guard, was about to hold a drill to keep its skills sharp during the long winter layoff (battle reenactments, like real Civil War combat, clustered between spring and fall). “It’ll be forty-eight hours of hardcore marching,” he said. “Wanna come?”

Hodge gave me the number for the Guardsman hosting the event, a Virginia farmer named Robert Young. I called for directions and also asked what to bring. “I’ve got a sleeping bag,” I told him. The voice on the other end went silent. “Or some blankets,” I added.

“You’ll be issued a bedroll and other kit as needed,” Young said. “Bring food, but nothing modern. Absolutely no plastic.” He suggested I arrive early so he could check out my gear.

I donned an old-fashioned pair of one-piece long johns known as a union suit (which sounded Civil War-ish), a pair of faded button-fly jeans, muddy work boots, and a rough cotton shirt a hippie girlfriend had given me years before. Ignorant of nineteenth-century food packaging, I tossed a hunk of cheese and a few apples into a leather shoulder bag, along with a rusty canteen and camping knife.
Surely the others would share their grub. I imagined the Guardsmen gathered round a crackling bonfire, talking about the homefront while slicing potatoes into a bubbling Irish stew.

Two young Confederates stood guard at the entrance to the drill site, a 400-acre farm in the bucolic horse country of the Virginia Piedmont. One was my host, Robert Young. He welcomed me with a curt nod and a full-body frisk for twentieth-century contraband. The apples had to go; they were shiny Granny Smiths, nothing like the mottled fruit of the 1860s. The knife and canteen and shoulder bag also were deemed too pristine, as was my entire wardrobe. Even the union suit was wrong; long johns in the 1860s were two-piece, not one.

In exchange, Young tossed me scratchy wool trousers, a filthy shirt, hobnailed boots, a jacket tailored for a Confederate midget, and wool socks that smelled as though they hadn’t been washed since Second Manassas. Then he reached for my tortoiseshell glasses. “The frames are modern,” he explained, handing me a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with tiny, weak lenses. Finally, he slung a thin blanket over my shoulder. “We’ll probably be spooning tonight,” he said.

Spooning? His manner didn’t invite questions. I was a soldier now; mine was not to question why. So half-blind and hobbled by the ill-fitting brogans—boots weren’t always molded to right and left in the Civil War—I trailed the two men to a cramped farm building behind the inviting antebellum mansion I’d seen from the road. We sat shivering inside, waiting for the others. Unsure about the ground rules for conversation, I asked my host, “How did you become a reenactor?”

He grimaced. I’d forgotten that the “R word” was distasteful to hardcores. “We’re living historians,” he said, “or historical interpreters if you like.” The Southern Guard had formed the year before as a schismatic faction, breaking off from a unit that had too many “farbs,” he said.

“Farb” was the worst insult in the hardcore vocabulary. It referred to reenactors who approached the past with a lack of verisimilitude. The word’s etymology was obscure; Young guessed that “farb” was short for “far-be-it-from-authentic,” or possibly a respelling of “barf.”
Violations serious enough to earn the slur included wearing a wristwatch, smoking cigarettes, smearing oneself with sunblock or insect repellent—or, worst of all, fake blood. Farb was also a fungible word; it could become an adjective (farby), a verb (as in, “don’t farb out on me”), an adverb (farbily) and a heretical school of thought (Farbism or Farbiness).

The Southern Guard remained vigilant against even accidental Farbiness; it had formed an “authenticity committee” to research subjects such as underwear buttons and 1860s dye to make sure that Guardsmen attired themselves exactly as soldiers did. “Sometimes after weekends like this, it takes me three or four days to come back to so-called reality,” Young said. “That’s the ultimate.”

As we talked, other Guardsmen trickled in, announcing themselves with a clatter of hobnailed boots on the path outside. Rob Hodge arrived and greeted his comrades with a pained grin. A few days before, he’d been dragged by a horse while playing Nathan Bedford Forrest in a cable show about the rebel cavalryman. The accident had left Rob with three cracked ribs, a broken toe and a hematoma on his tibia. “I wanted to go on a march down in Louisiana,” Rob told his mates, “but the doctor said it would mess up my leg so bad that it might even have to be amputated.”

“Super hardcore!” the others shouted in unison. If farb was the worst insult a Guardsman could bestow, super hardcore was the highest plaudit, signifying an unusually bold stab at recapturing the Civil War.

Many of the Guardsmen lived outside Virginia and hadn’t seen their comrades since the previous year’s campaign. As the room filled with twenty or so men, greeting each other with hugs and shouts, it became obvious that there would be little attempt to maintain period dialogue. Instead, the gathering took on a peculiar cast: part frat party, part fashion show, part Weight Watchers’ meeting.

“Yo, look at Joel!” someone shouted as a tall, wasp-waisted Guardsman arrived. Joel Bohy twirled at the center of the room and slid off his gray jacket like a catwalk model. Then, reaching into his hip-hugging trousers, he raised his cotton shirt.