Book 2 of The Legacy Series is now underway.

I'm very excited to announce that I have officially launched the writing and research of "The Legacy Ridge". This is the follow-up to The Legacy Road which began a series of travel essay / genealogy / military history hybrid books. I am uncertain how many will complete the series. I suppose that all depends on how long I am physically capable of traveling, hiking, and tapping a keyboard. One thing is for certain though, this book won't take me twelve years to complete like my first venture did.

The Legacy Ridge is another labor of love, and a salute to my best friend's father, who I knew so very well that I considered him my second Dad. In turn, he and his wife called me "Son #2."

Sergeant Hal Willits served his country during WWII in the infamous "10th Mountain Division". He survived the victorious assault on the Germans' impenetrable Gothic Line, by way of an ascent under the cover of darkness up the the sheer face of Riva Ridge in the Italian Apennine mountains in 1945. His Division was only active in combat for 4 months, yet the 10th suffered one of the highest casualty numbers of any unit in the European theater. Hal was a recipient of both the Purple Heart, and the Bronze Star.

As with my first book, The Legacy Ridge will include the realtime observations from the roads of discovery presented in journal form, this time from the perspective of three travelers: Myself, Hal's son Ken, and his grandson Kenneth. We will revisit some significant sites where the 10th trained in Texas and Colorado, and retrace the march from the Italian hamlet of Vidiciatico to the top of Monte Belvedere in the Apennines.

I will post updates here on The Legacy Road blog as the details emerge. Please share my blog with friends and family who might be interested in coming along for what I anticipate will be a very interesting ride, where we will meet many new friends and experience some profound discoveries along the way.


Sincerely,


Steve Enyeart

Introduction

What I thought would be a few weeks of online research has turned into quite the quixotic pursuit of an elusive, and charismatic ancestor that still continues, over 10 years later. I have met some incredibly generous people along the way, some of whom I found to be related by blood, and others by common interest in history, genealogy, or travel. I dedicate this blog to them. Through their encouragement, I am currently compiling my field notes, photographs, and journal entries into a book that I hope to publish in 2015. Stay tuned!

The Discovery

It all began years ago when my father passed away in 2003, shortly after my mother. As we readied his home for the estate sale, I found an old jewelry box in a cubby hole deep in my Dad's closet. Inside were an antique  pair of mother-of-pearl cufflinks, and a small bible, crudely, but carefully carved from a palm-sized block of reddish wood. The initials, H.I. BANks  were carved in neat serif characters on the front. I recognized the Banks name as my Grandmother's maiden name, so I knew it was a family heirloom, but assumed that it was fashioned by a child. I packed it away, and didn't see it again, until about 4 years later while I opened a box as my wife and I prepared for a move to another home.

Walter Ray Enyeart and catch

I couldn't recall ever seeing this little curio before I discovered it in my father's closet. Dad was an avid outdoorsman, who enjoyed fishing, camping and hiking: a gene that I thankfully inherited. I accompanied him on many fishing trips, camping, hiking and climbing all over the North Cascade mountains where he spent much of his time as a youngster. His love of the outdoors and nature was paralleled by his enthusiasm for literature and history, especially when it came to our ancestry.

He regaled me countless times with old family stories, which were interesting, but seemed to always be peppered with rumor and conjecture. There were wonderful photos that he cherished, and other keepsakes he produced for my curious eyes to marvel at, which were handed down from this relative or that. For this reason, I was confused why he never shared this small souvenir with me. It is my sincere belief that he most likely wasn't aware of the true significance of this possession, only that it offered some connection to his mother's lineage.

As I held the bible once again, I studied it with more attentiveness. Upon the spine, below the words HOLY BIBLE was carved the date: "1862 Dc.6." On the back of the bible was the following inscription: "Co E 102 RE ILL Vo." I quickly deciphered this as the abbreviation for "Company E, 102nd Regiment, Illinois Volunteers."

I decided to look “H.I.” up online, whoever he was. After a little detective work, I found his regiment’s roster on rootsweb.com, transcribed by Teresa Davis of the Illinois GenWeb Project, ©2000. I clicked forward under the heading of 102nd Infantry Regiment to Company E. ...sure enough, there he was: Henry I. Banks, Private, Resident of Suez, Illinois, Mustered in Sep 2, 1862, Mustered out: Jun 6, 1865.

Okay, one thing became clear. Henry was one of the lucky ones that made it through the war, and lived. Good for him. Further research led me to a book written in 1865, called “Our Regiment, A History of the 102nd Illinois Infantry Volunteers with Sketches of the Atlanta Campaign, the Georgia Raid, and the campaign of the Carolinas”. The book was written by Stephen.F. Fleharty, who I later learned was a Captain, and former newspaper man from Illinois. His book was in the Harvard Library, and scanned to a pdf which was a fortuitous find at Google Archives. I ordered a hardcopy on Amazon.com as well.

I had never read such a copious collection of dates, places, and events, so fresh in the author’s mind. I felt as if I was moving right along with the 102nd, from their mustering in Illinois in 1862, through marches and skirmishes in Kentucky and Tennessee, and finally, at Sherman’s side during the victorious, and destructive raid of Atlanta.

I couldn’t march alongside the 102nd, so I had to settle for the next best thing, (here’s what a tech/history nerd I am) I read through the book while tracing the regiments’ steps by way of “GoogleEarth” satellite imagery. It was kind of like following the troops’ movements in a digital hot air balloon...only 145 years forward in time.

My first objective was to learn where Henry was on that date, inscribed on the spine of his little wooden bible. Apparently, the Regiment was camped out at a little burg called Gallatin, Tennessee. Though the events of the exact day of Dc. 6 are not mentioned in the book, Henry and his company would be stationed here for the long haul.

Fleharty wrote a journal entry just 11 days before the date on Henry's bible: “We reached Gallatin in the evening—Nov. 26th—little thinking then that we would remain there six long months. But such was to be our destiny.”

I concluded that during this period, Henry had some time on his hands to do a little whittling, but why a bible? Why not? It may have been a source of comfort, strength, faith. He would later need it.

The book, “OUR REGIMENT” —a thoroughly engaging read from beginning to end— held a nice surprise within its final pages. A complete list of the enlisted was included, each according to their company.

Discovering the only place in the book where Henry is mentioned by name was worth reading every page that led to the appendix. Under the heading of “ROLL OF COMPANY “E” under the listing of PRIVATES is where I found him again.

“Henry Banks, North Henderson, Ill—wounded at New Hope Church.”

So now it was clear that Henry didn’t make it through the war completely unscathed, though Fleharty did not describe the nature of Henry's wounds.

Scanning through the pages of Fleharty's testimony again, my next objective was to learn what part Henry played in the action. In Chapter VII, Fleharty witnessed Company E on May 26th, 1863 being deployed to protect a work party charged with building the regiment’s Winter quarters which was later to be called "Fort Thomas."

An over-zealous Captain D.W. Sedwick led the company too close to the enemy in a morning fog, and seven men were wounded in a close-range skirmish with a rebel detatchment. Not before Henry’s company “let fly with their Spencer rifles in such an effective manner, that the rebels were compelled to retire, temporarily abandoning two field pieces which they had placed in an advanced position.”

I like to believe that Henry carried this little wooden bible that I am holding now, as a small source of inspiration along a brutal path of destruction and carnage during our country’s senseless period of civil conflict. A small symbol of strength for a 24 year old Union Private, who was a long way from home.

Resaca Battlefield 150 years later

The following is an excerpt from my journal that I kept during the second, and final leg of my trip down the Legacy Road. Suiting up with the 125th Ohio Civil War Reenactment Unit was a life-altering experience that allowed me to see the war a bit clearer through the eyes of Uncle Henry.

Thursday, May 15, 2014 

I drove off this morning at 0400 from Austin and headed northeast towards Resaca, Georgia to fall in with the 125th Ohio Civil War reenactors unit. Yes, though they all live in Georgia, it is a Union detachment. My drive was dark and dull as I made my way across East Texas. However, when the sun finally broke the horizon, I had nearly made it to the Louisiana border. I passed through Palestine, Texas with my radio blasting and sunroof open, to keep me awake, since I was driving on about three hours of sleep, and I hadn't stopped yet for coffee. I was in need of some rot-gut paint thinner foglifter java, the kind that the convenience stores couldn't provide, so I would have to wait until my favorite haunt, well, chain would open their doors at around 7 AM. Thank God that hour was approaching. I flew through Tyler, Texas at about 6:45 AM, and passed by the entrance to camp Fannin – an Army infantry training camp used in World War II from 1943–1946. I finally crossed into Louisiana, by way of the city of Shreveport.

The rising sun glinted off the high-rise jungle of casinos, with their mirrored windows blinding me with a flash! flash! flash! between passing garish billboards -their messaging was completely obscured by the bright strobes of sunlight that practically sent me careening off the overpass! I continued motoring East in my new 2014 Jeep Cherokee Trail Hawk. I was averaging about 25 miles per gallon, which was a vast improvement from the poor fuel economy that I had experienced with my Hummer H3 that I had just traded in. Andi had questioned my decision to purchase the trail-rated, four-wheel-drive version, which came with a locking rear differential and "Rock-Crawler Drive" mode. She wanted to settle for the soccer mom version, which I took a very stubborn position against. "When are you ever going to need four-wheel-drive?" she snapped. I would need it soon enough. 

Highway 20 passed beneath my axles as I left town-after-town in my rearview. Baudcau, Red Chute, Fillmore, and a McIntire slipped past in a blur. I wondered if Sibley, Louisiana had anything to do with Sibley tents, a Tipi or Tipi-looking conical tent used periodically by the Union Army during the Civil War. There had been over 40,000 of these tents produced, and that's the extent of my Sibley tent knowledge, for now. Soon, the turnoff to Gibsland, Louisiana was in view, and following the exit sign was a small billboard directing me to the Bonnie and Clyde ambush Museum. My memory was instantly populated with a montage of black and white photos that splashed across the spread of some old magazine my father kept in his study. These gory aftermath snapshots were most likely the first crime scene photos that I had ever laid eyes on. I was very young at the time, but they left an indelible impression. I would've liked to have stopped to pay a visit but it was still early, and the site was a conflict in context. I was, after all, in an 1860s research mode. 

Soon I crossed over the Ouachita River as I passed through Monroe, Louisiana —the state's eighth largest city. But this passage was significantly trumped by my arrival at Vicksburg, and the long bridge crossing over the great Mississippi. I did decide to stop at this noteworthy city which was a key strategic prize for the Union, where two major assaults were executed against Confederate defenses by U. S. Grants Army of the Tennessee, resulting in heavy casualties. Enemy forces surrendered Vicksburg on July 4, 1862. This was a major turning point in the Civil War. Uncle Henry was still on picket duty, and drilling at Fort Thomas in Gallatin Tennessee at the time, so I only stopped for a fuel refill, and a large cup of dark roast for the road.
Gadsden was an attractive and idyllic setting, and my desire to investigate it was overcome by the nagging anticipation that seemed to press my foot harder on my accelerator in route to Resaca. It wouldn't be long, before I began to see some familiar milestones from my previous drive on this highway back in July. 

Once I passed through Jackson, Mississippi, Meridian was not far beyond. Here, my route took a swing from eastbound to a more northerly direction, which offered little more than a leisurely cruise between opposing stands of towering pine, until I reached Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Merging onto the 59 highway, I would soon pass through Gadsden. This was a beautiful town with historic façades facing the Coosa River. Second only to the seaport of Mobile, Gadsden had once been the most important commerce and industry port in the state of Alabama.

I wound up pulling into the Battlefield Park at about 11 PM. Men were darting about across the parking lot by the light of my high beams, and though I inquired numerous times, no one seemed to know where the union camp was located, so I kept driving down a dirt road which, by now was only lit by a quarter moon dimly shining through a thin cloud layer above. My eyes were tired, and were beginning to play tricks on me, so I stopped in a designated reenactors parking lot, and leaned back in my driver seat to rest my eyes. 

Friday, May 16, 2014

I must've been more fatigued from the drive than I thought, for I woke to a rising sun over my left shoulder and a very stiff and sore neck. I covered my tossled mop of hair with a baseball hat, and started out on a walking tour of the property. I had quit my routine of regular shaves and haircuts during the weeks that led up to my trip, and it took a while before she noticed, but days before, my wife called me out on my hygienic negligence as we shared a meal at our favorite restaurant which overlooked Lake Travis back at home in Austin. "Are you growing your beard and hair out for the Civil War thing?" I nodded and smiled as she gave me "that look" and rolled her eyes, as usual. 

As I continued walking, I emerged onto a gravel road, and a sign hanging on a fencepost directed me to "Federal Camp". The road led me past a large pond on my right, and I realized that I was walking along the dike of a dam. The road hooked to the left, and was draped on both sides and above with a canopy of trees, until it dipped downward into a fog-laden valley that opened up wide before me. I stopped in my tracks to take in the view in cinemascope. The peace I was absorbing was disrupted by a distant rumble that was followed by a reverberating wail that echoed through the valley. A long blast, followed by a shorter one, and two more long bursts announced the arrival of a freight train. I was suddenly reminded of the earplugs I had purchased before leaving Texas, and chastised myself for not using them during my attempt at a restful night in my jeep. (No wonder I was having nightmares about freight trains)

Two figures appeared on the gravel road at the base of the hill that I stood upon, so I descended, and approached. One man was bespectacled and dressed in light blue pants and a navy blue uniform jacket, along with a wide-brim slouch hat. The older gent was dressed in sweats, and a jacket that said "Del Mar, California". I asked them for directions to the Federal Camp, and the older guy pointed to a copse of trees within yards of the railroad tracks. Now I knew for certain that I would need the earplugs. We exchanged notes about San Diego, and compared our histories there, when suddenly, our conversation was interrupted with an earth-shattering boom! I don't think I even told the two reenactors thank you, or goodbye, for that matter, but the source of the cannon blast that had just raised the hair on the back of my neck was beckoning. A ridge at my right was crowned with a stand of tall trees that gave way to a rising halo of gray blue smoke. I was briskly ascending the hill toward the battery, and as I cleared the tree line, I recognized an artillery team by their gray uniforms, and butternut-colored hats as a Confederate unit.

They had positioned three field pieces behind a wooden breastworks atop a crest that offered a birdseye view of the entire battlefield. At that very moment, it struck me. I was on the same battlefield that uncle Henry and his company had charged across 150 years before, almost to the very day, and I would be charging the field myself, in uniform, with rifle in hand, looking down the smoking muzzles of rebel guns. It was almost too much to digest, as I removed my hat, and continued to scan the field in amazement, from the outcrop. I had visited Resaca previously in July, but on a section of the battlefield that was on the other side of the freeway that split the property. This location where I stood seem different. I had toured the other parcel with some uncertainty as to its authenticity as the 102nd's location of enemy encounter. Standing next to the rebel guns, I had a higher level of confidence that I was in the right spot, and my suspicion would soon be proven true.

Just then, I noticed some activity around the perimeter of the federal camp in the distance, and began to descend the hill toward the neatly arranged canvas tents that were nested within the tree line near the railroad tracks. I walked along the most enormous stack of split cordwood that I had ever seen, and approached a tent that had a canvas "fly" laid out behind it, where a man lay on his back, with one arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the morning sunrise. "Looking for the 125th" I said. The camp seemed deserted, except for the two of us, but an entire village of tents were set up among the pines, so I figured the rest of the unit had to be off drilling somewhere.

"Are you Steve?" The man on the canvas fly look up at me with one eye open. It was almost like he was waiting around for me to show up. "Yes," I answered. "I couldn't find the camp in the dark last night, when I arrived, so I slept in the parking lot." My new acquaintance rose to his feet, dusted off his shirt and said, "well, your tent was right here, ready for you." He pointed to a small, canvas true-to-period tent behind a larger, two-man model. It was surrounded by a scattering of hay to keep the wind and moisture out. We shook hands, as he also introduced himself as "Steve". He explained to me that Greg, Earl and Howard were at breakfast with Earl's wife and mother, and the ladies would be camping with us too. This was unexpected. Steve explained that both ladies participated and dressed in costume, and enjoyed the experience as much as the soldiers did. Suddenly, I understood who I was invited to spend the weekend with. These were professional living history actors. My modern LED lantern, high-tech sleeping bag, coffee maker and mess kit would have to remain hidden in my tent for the time being. These folks were after the realism on every level. Steve inquired about my reason for falling in with the 125th Ohio, so I gave him the background, and produced Henry's Bible which I kept in a leather watch case. I told him that I hadn't even thought about participating in a Civil War reenactment, let alone the 150th anniversary of the Resaca battle, but I looked forward to the experience. Steve assured me that the reenactors were all a great group of guys, and that I would enjoy the camaraderie.

Soon, a small pack of folks wandered into camp, and we commenced with polite introduction. I finally matched faces with the names of my email corresponders from the previous few months of preparation. Earl was the division commander, Howard was company captain, and Greg was first sergeant. He would be my instructor of the art of soldiering. Picture a cross between Robert Duvall and Chuck Connors. That was First Sgt. Krohn. He sized me up, and assured me that after some training, and the actual participation in the battle reenactment, I would have a completely new perspective and appreciation for the Civil War, and of those who actually fought in it. I felt my adrenaline begin to simmer as he described the schedule for the weekend, which would include a "tactical" later in the day, a parade on Saturday morning, followed by a full-scale battle in the afternoon, and another on Sunday. I followed Sgt. Krohn to his tent, where he handed me a military duffel and a long oilcloth sleeve, which was wrapped around a brand-new replica an Enfield musket.

Go ahead and "cooter-up" and will get you trained for war, he said. I rushed back to my tent and quickly slipped into my uniform, and draped my shoulders and waist with the leathers, which included a belt, cartridge box, percussion cap case, bayonet scabbard and shoulder strap. I previously had purchased some black leather boots that resembled G. I. Brogans, but were more comfortable for a rookie reenactor. They were a little big for my feet, but when I wore them with the heavy wool socks that I pulled from Greg's duffel, they were a perfect fit. I emerged from my tent in light blue wool trousers, dark blue wool jacket with brass buttons, and matching kepi hat, my rifle in my grip. I walked past Steve who had resumed his reclined position on his canvas fly. "How do I look?" I asked. "Good" he said. "Almost too good, you need to roll around in the mud, for the authentic appearance." Sgt. Krohn approached just then from his tent. "I think I'm about to get dirty" I said.

Steve waved his arm, directing me to Sgt. Krohn's direction. "Private En..., En..yard?? In..hart? How do you....?" As I have so often done throughout my entire life, I interrupted his struggle with the pronunciation of my last name. I held up my musket, "Enfield, just call me private Enfield." Sgt. Krohn smiled. He put me through a series of drills, and taught me how to march, position myself among the rank and file for when Capt. Morgan barked out his commands. We moved on to handling the musket, and correct posture and positioning for when the orders were issued to "shoulder arms," "secure arms," "present arms," "parade rest," etc., etc. As I was training, other reenactors began filtering into camp, and setting up their tents. Some just set up lien-two's, and I later learned that they were known as "campaigners" who went after all aspects of authenticity, even when it came to communication they were in character during the entire event. I was reminded that busloads of school children would soon be arriving, so tent flaps should be closed to hide anything that was not of the period.

Out came the crude wooden tables and chairs, the wrought iron fire stands, and kerosene lanterns. Hay bales would provide comfortable seating around the fire pits, but not too close! I decided that I would pretend to be the nervous private, whittling beneath the pine tree, as the kids entered our camp. I found a pine branch, and pulled out my "Texas Toothpick" – a small pocket knife that was the closest to "period" that I could muster – and began whittling away at my own piece of "trench art." At about 10:30 AM, the Confederate battery began firing off rounds, and a crowd of school children could be seen on the ridge above the field, with their hands over their years. It wasn't long before they were being herded through our camp. Some of the seasoned veterans took them through the camp, educating them along the way about the soldiers life, and providing insight into the surrounding accoutrements. Once the kids were gone, I carried my wooden folding chair up to the fire pit where others had since gathered.

I sat next to Steve, who introduced me to the crew, and explained to them the reasons for my presence among them. I was welcomed, and answered a few curious questions regarding Henry's place in the war. The fire was being attended to by Bob, who was our company Corporal. He was also responsible for brewing the coffee in the most enormous coffee pot I had ever seen. I sampled  a cup, and my heart nearly stopped at first sip – perfect! Steve invited me to tag along on a walk up to the parking area where all the "sutlers" were setting up shop. It was getting close to lunchtime, and I was craving something different than the camp rations that I had stowed in my tent. We were joined by Cpl. Bob, the fire tender, as we made our way out of the federal camp, through the back way.

We crossed a small creek, and passed a clump of trees that was the object of a neighboring Union company's interest. A foursome of boys in blue were studying a small impression in the ground. When I inquired as to what they had found, one of the group spoke up and shared with us that a local historian attached to the "Friends of Resaca" had led him to this spot, which was an original picket post. We were very near the railroad, so we assumed that it was most likely a Union defensive position. As we continued along our route up the gravel road, I mentioned to Steve and Bob that I was here at Resaca to reenact, but also to make a concerted effort to locate the position of the Confederate battery post where Uncle Henry had seized an enemy cannon. Steve had participated in the Resaca battle reenactment before, and had some insight to share regarding the location of a large Confederate battery that was very near to the sutler area where we were heading. As we continue to walk, he described a high point obscured by a heavy forest where there were still about a half dozen very defined impressions in the earth in a semi circle. I knew by his description that this could only be the location of the famed "Vanden Corput's battery". I felt my pace quicken, and at one point, I had to stop and let Steve and Bob catch up.

I didn't want to be impolite, or worse, accused of desertion! Though I wanted to make a beeline to that hilltop, I remained with my new friends. We arrived at the Sutler Village, which was a neatly arranged collection of large white canvas tents guy-roped to spikes hammered into the earth. (I tripped over one or two, and witnessed others doing the same) Among the four rows of shelters was a photography studio (true to period) and shops that sold everything from books, DVDs, soldier gear, Blackpowder, percussion caps and uniforms, to antique firearms, bayonets, leather accessories, high-quality hats, and costumes for civilians —both men and women. A bakery sold pastries and biscuits along with fresh hot cinnamon rolls – one of my weaknesses – and coffee! Just in case Cpl. Bob's Arbuckles blend began to erode my esophagus, I had a more palatable alternative, close to camp. Finally, we arrived at a heavily populated tent affixed with a stove pipe that was spewing gray smoke into the air. I caught a whiff as we approached. Barbecue! A crew of three were busy building fry bread turnovers stuffed with barbecued pulled pork, and I could not resist. We all ordered our lunch, which came with potato salad and a drink. Since sarsaparilla was not an option, I settled for a Diet Coke.

We returned to camp with our meals, and took our seats by the fire, which was still roaring. As we dined, we began to hear chatter through the camp about a "tactical" that would commence at 1400 hrs. "what's the tactical?" I asked. Steve described it as a practice run against the Confederate reenactors. Suddenly, I heard a deep, booming voice call out from the tree line. "Private Enfield!" I shot up from my chair, and reported to Sgt. Krohn's tent. "We have a tactical to prepare for, are you ready?" "Ready as I can be, Sergeant!" I shouted. Sgt. Krohn slipped me a handful of percussion caps, and ran me through the steps of firing the Enfield musket that he had loaned to me. I learned how to present my firearm for inspection; load, prime, shoot, fix bayonet, etc. "let's see how you do out there today, we'll keep an eye on you" Said the first sergeant. I was under the strong impression that firing a weapon was not a common privilege for your typical field rookie on his first day out. I filled my cap box on my belt, and told him I wouldn't let him down. "Form company!" he shouted. From the camp streamed out a river of bluecoats, who all lined up before Capt. Morgan's tent. Sgt. Krohn lined us up and called the roll. "Dress your ranks!" We all looked to-and-fro to straighten our lines. I took my place at the right end of the rear rank, next to Steve, and behind Cpl. Bob who stood at the end of the front rank, or front row.

The first sergeant would take his place next to Corporal Bob to complete the front rank. "You gonna fire that thing today?" asked Steve. "Just caps." I whispered. "Quiet in the ranks!" roared Sgt. Krohn. He was actually responding to two other soldiers who were loudly discussing politics, which had earlier made Steve's eyes roll. Captain Morgan paced in front of us and announced that we would be engaging the enemy during our tactical, but we would drill, en route across the field. We counted out from right to left establishing our file -"1-2-1-21-2!" We each sounded off down the front and rear ranks of our line, to the last man. We marched and drilled, right wheel, left wheel, then we rallied in groups of four, which was a little complicated for a rookie, newbie, greenhorn, cherry, or whatever I was. After a few minutes of drilling with the company, the hot sun and the wool outfit I was wearing began to disagree.

The Georgia humidity had begun to accumulate as well, and I was glad that Sgt. Krohn had loaned a canteen to me along with the other accessories. I stole a long drink while we all faced forward and marched. A detachment of younger reenactors suddenly arrived in a sort of Keystone Cops fashion, to join our ranks. Capt. Morgan was quick to assign them the duty of skirmishing. They didn't seem to mind. They ran forward in loose formation as we were ordered to halt. I was impressed that these high school-aged boys were taking part in this recreation, and though they seemed a little scatterbrained at first appearance, the sincerity on their faces made it clear that they were all-business.
I remember thinking, as they slinked away from our ranks, that most of the troops that fought in the Civil War weren't much older, in actuality than this lot. As we waited, a Union cavalry team approached us from the right rank. The cavalry Colonel had one empty sleeve which gave him an authentic appearance. Closer inspection revealed his right arm in a slung cast, but when he gave us a tip of his hat and bellowed, "give 'em hell boys!" I felt "that look" populate my face, ear -to-ear. My pulse increased as he put spur to his chestnut steed and galloped ahead of our line. Just ahead, the crest of the hill at midfield was broken by gray puffs of gun smoke.

A chubby little runt in a blue coat and wide-brimmed hat that he held tight to his noggin ran towards us. "Sir!"he panted with cheeks turning shades of red, "we hear drums." He was reporting to Captain Morgan from the skirmisher team. "Drums? your men are firing at drums?" he quipped. The scout gave the captain a puzzled look, and speechless, he turned about-face to rejoin the skirmishers. I am uncertain, but I think I heard Captain Morgan mention something regarding some skirmisher training that might be necessary. I was, for just a moment, reminded of Henry's letters, and Stephen Fleharty's numerous accounts of Henry's Company E, then under the command of Captain Dan Sedwick, who dispatched the company as skirmishers. Company E had been supplied with Spencer repeating rifles when they were assigned cavalry duty at Lavergne, Tennessee. To my knowledge, they kept the Spencers throughout the duration of the war. It is my belief that company E were  the Army Rangers of their time. Green Berets? The ragtag skirmisher team that now approached the tree line to the west carried single shot muskets, but still managed to flush out an entire company of rebels, who were now approaching us in a line parallel to our own. Here we go.

Sergeant Krohn took his position next to me, and I noticed that he carried a repeating Henry rifle replica. I made a mental note that I should try to acquire a Spencer at some point, as a keepsake to honor Henry. "How would I explain that purchased to Andi?" I thought. "Company halt!" The order from Captain Morgan was followed by another, which the entire company obeyed in unison. "Ready...Aim..." I brought my musket up and far to the right, a safe distance from Corporal Bob's ear, careful to move my right foot to the right, and not to the rear, as Sergeant Krohn had instructed. "Fire!" Ka-Blam. Blam, Blam-Blam! It was an okay volley with a few stragglers. I savored the unmistakable aroma of gunpowder that had some sulfurous tones, and a kind of earthy pungence that set my mind reeling back to 1864, as I pondered the thought: did black powder smell and taste like this 150 years ago? I was also reminded of whiskey shot that an out-of-town client put in front of me, at a bar in Colorado, which was mixed with real gunpowder. I hadn't tasted it since, until just now.

The rebels returned fire, and with an even more uneven volley than ours. A couple of our guys slumped over as wounded, or dead. Responding sharply to Captain Morgan's order, we wheeled around as a company, and faced the Confederate line in more of a flanking arrangement. "Fire by

file!" This was a new one. Steve quickly told me what to do. "Load! Load!" I tossed my spent percussion cap, and quickly replaced it with a live one, pulling the hammer on my Enfield back to first position. "Ready!...Aim..." Again, I raised the musket up next to my right cheek, training the barrel through the site, just above the heads of my approaching adversaries, as I was instructed to do. I then pulled the hammer all the way back until I heard and felt it lock into place. "Fire!!" Corporal Bob and I were the only ones to fire, then Steve and his file partner, then the two troopers next to them, and so on, until the entire line had completed their order. The Confederates who had fallen over wounded or dead opened up a nice even volley in return, which was evidenced by the uniform report of their muskets, but also with the even column of white smoke that wafted across their line.

We returned fire as a company this time, and I beamed with pride as Captain Morgan praised our volley. The cavalry came storming up from the tree line at the enemy's right, and they retreated back to their original position. Thus ended our Friday afternoon tactical. We all lined up, primed and fired our weapons into the air to clear any unspent cartridges, then we turned about-face. From within the ranks, someone spoke up and said, "Captain Morgan, we need to do some drilling." We marched back to our camp as a column this time, along the dirt road that snaked through the battlefield. We stopped in front of our tents, formed a line, and went through a series of drills which Steve and Bob both assisted me with —sometimes vocally, and sometimes with a hard yank on my shoulder, spurring me to fall properly into line. Finally, the order to be dismissed was announced by Sergeant Krohn, and we all dispersed.

Before Steve could finish asking me what I thought of the tactical, I burst out: "That was incredible!" Captain Morgan passed by me, and without eye contact he responded, "Wait till tomorrow." I noticed that a handful of tents had been raised in the Federal camp since we had marched out to meet the Confederates on the field. A few new faces passed by, and a series of greetings, handshakes and backslaps commenced among the men. It became evident to me that many of these reenactors were true-blue veterans of the "hobby" as some called it, and had shared many campfires with each other. I took this reunion as a cue to abandon camp to seek out the site of the original Confederate battery that was only about a half mile up the road from camp. I walked across the wooden bridge over a small creek that split the federal camp in two. A modest cluster of tents surrounded a crackling campfire that contributed some percussion to a small band of musicians who were belting out familiar tunes. They were seated in a circle, practicing for the entertainment of the crowd, and the morale of the Army.

They handled their classic instruments and sheet music with the same care, reverence, sensitivity and respect that others paid to musket and saber. As I cleared the forest perimeter that opened to the dirt road leading away from camp, I noticed the activity in the sutler village had ramped up somewhat. More soldiers had arrived along with women in their bright gingham dresses, official-looking chaps in garish suits and top hats, and locals in their flip-flops and ball caps. Some Confederate reenactors passed, and I greeted them with a friendly "hello." This was met with silence, and a collective glare, as they passed. "Could there still be some remaining tension or resentment between Union and Confederate ideals-150 years later?" I wondered. An officer in a smart gray uniform with artillery badging approached me. He tipped his hat to me and wished me a good afternoon. His gesture made me feel a little more at ease in this surreal environment, and I had to stop for a moment to take in the cyclorama of activity that surrounded me. I was indeed experiencing living history, and I felt privileged, and fortunate to be a welcomed participant.

Over the hill, just a few yards beyond the sutler village, I approached the parking lot, and when I spotted the field of vehicles, I was instantly transported back to modern times. I didn't want to linger here for too long, because the 1860's seemed to suit me, at least for the weekend. I stood at the head of a narrow, paved road that led upward into a densely wooded hilltop. A historic marker had been placed next to the road, which identified the original position of Vanden Corput's battery. The sun was warm on my back, as I follow the blacktop upward until the trees that covered the hilltop obscured the sky almost entirely. I felt the temperature drop to a noticeably colder level. The roads split off in two directions toward a pair of private residences that appeared to be built in the 1980s. I chose to veer left where I spotted a slight trace of foot traffic wear that led deep into the forest.

I drew closer to the path, as all sounds from camp faded into a faint muffle behind the familiar exchange of calls between two cardinals perched above me. A slight breeze rocked the branches of swaying pines together, creating an eerie creaking chorus. Spotlights of sunshine passed between them to highlight the rims of a half-dozen knee-deep pits in the earth, just beyond the road. I swallowed hard, then followed the path until I stood in the center of a great semi-circular blufftop that overlooked the imposing grade leading down into a valley below. I made a point to stand inside every impression in the earth that had been excavated to accommodate the Confederate cannons that Henry Banks helped seize back in 1864. I knew that I would be standing in one of the pits where he had crouched beneath the cannon's carriage, defending the prize amidst enemy crossfire. I spent about 30 minutes taking photos, and recalling Henry's description of the Federal charge across the field, and up that hillside to overtake the battery.

Uncle Henry's Perspective (in his own words, and spelling):   

Sund May the 22 1864

in camp near kingston Georgey

Dear Brother I take the opertunity which has bin scares for the fast 20 days we have bin put threw hard thick & thin I supose you know more by the papers what the fiting has bin than eny of the solgers for they can not here eny thing onely what they see  we have bin fiting & twards (?) the enemy prety hard  I have bin in 2day fite it is just one weake a go Saturday Sunday fites are bigest(?) I wer in.  the rebels wer very strongley fortefide we had them nearle surrounded  we were closen on them every day taking those brestworks by the point of the bayonet  we had very hard fiting our regiment lost 

hevy 7,16 in kild & wounded here  meny in the hole Brigaid  I havent asertaind the enemy lost hevy the enemy found that we were determind to fite them at al haserds and they scadadeld for fear we woud suround them & capture there hole forse  we woud if they staid thair an other day  Sunday nite they left by fireng hevy artillery & fiting to cover there retreat but they did not get away without hevy loss  our men shld them all night  well Willess fiting is not what it is cracked up to be as for my part   I had rather be excused from goin in to one but now I am in I am bebound (?) to go threw if it dose cill (kill) me the bullets whiseld as close to me as I care to have them to  we captured 4 peases of artillery brass 

peases they wer cauld the first Georgen ("The First Georgian") the bell of Georga ("The Bell of Georgia") the prisoners say this was the first time they wer repulsed  satur day our men charged on it & wer driven back every time the 4 armey corps Old Jose (Old Joe's ref: General Joseph Johnston) corps  tride it Sunday  our Regiment and the 70 indian (ref: 70th Regiment Indiana joined Henry's Regiment in the 1st Brigade, 3rd Division, XX Corps, Army of the Cumberland in April, 1864) charged on the batery at the first charge we cleard them from there gones (guns) the guners wer all shot ded while in the act of loding  one canon had a dobell charge of grape (grapeshot) a canester in it but the poor fllows had not time to put it of  at the first charge I took my position under the musell of one of the peases and fired ofer (over) the carig (carriage) of the canon  one man wasshot threw the head behind me he fell on me & cride for help 

Oh ses he help me I sof (?) my gun up against the canon & raised him up he was allso shot threw the body he cride for a drinck of water I gave it to him I told him I coud not do eny more for him I then seased my rifle the bullets fliing as thick as hail but by the kind hand of providence I was not tutch  Juss then we wer ordered to fall back we fell back 3 differnt times but the enemy dared not persue these guns wer nobell ones 20 pounders  our generall was on the feald with us amonced (amongst) the boys he was wounded threw the left arm Joseph Hoocker (ref: Major General "Fighting Joe" Hooker) ses it was the best and most daring & ferosious charge he ever saw  It is a wonder we wer not all cild (kiled) or captured we wer under there cros fires the the enemy had a cros fire on us & threw mestake our one (own) men fired at us taking us fo the enemy  in our

falling back the bushess wer so thick what was plaid the mifchis(??)  I was never so near exausted in my life while making the charge threw the thicket & up hill at that  this was plainest and loudest preatching that I ever atended on sonday the poind(?) was tested in every plais & none found defended(?) on the write side the rite is the mite in this ishew the enemy has the advantige in every sens of the word they left here in sutch a haisty retreat they did not get time to taer up the railroad  a small town south from here 2 1/2 mi on the rail road is very strongley fortefid by the nam wawsackey (Wauhatchie, GA) but they 

did not stop  it is astonishing to see what strong fortifide  we have bin resting for the last to days we wer nearley run down going day & nite hundreds of our men gave out with heat & fatigue  I tel you it is the hardest biseness that I ever done caring (carrying) sutch a hevy & bundelling load I cary  over 100 rounds I have my spencer (rifle) & shooter (most likely a Colt 1851 or 1860 Army model revolver) and I am goin to stick to it as long as I can  the wether is very warm & dry here   georgey has some very nise farmes tell about starving the south it dont loock like it hear  grain of all kinds is plenty  catell & hogs wheat fealds is plenty but as our armey gose it sweapes all of the catell & evething to fead our armey there is hardley a siezun (citizen) to be sean here as the rebell retreated 

they toock every man and niger  I think this campain is gointo deside the grait desputing question betwean this aufell conflict that is I hope and pray that it may for the longer it last the wores it gits  that is in the slautering of men horibel to think of the site of battell filed will make the hardest harted man shudder  I saw nofe (enough) of this a weak agow to day  for me the orders is now that we will lave here to morow morning to where it is not for a privet to know  there is a long martch on hand that is one thing that I am shure  for we have 4 days rations to cary  wel as for me I am willing to bare my share of the flames(?) if it will end this ware but it is hard  the men are all in fine spearets (spirits) I stand it beter than 

I exspected I could  well I have not had no leture sens I have bin on this martch but still I feal it my duty to write & let my brothers know how I am geting along for I know they will be ancious in the presant surcumstance  write offten you will preserve that (which) is scares (scarce) down hear  give my love to all inquireng friends  as ever your brother

Henry I Banks

I send a larell (laurel) ring maid of the root of of loockout mountain that I maid for your wife   farwell Willis

To put Henry's letter into context, refer to the journal entry of Captain Stephen F. Fleharty as he describes The Battle of Resaca:

The Sunday morning of May 15, 1864, dawned luridly upon us.  The smoke of innumerable camp fires had enveloped hill and valley in a hazy mantle.

At six o'clock we were ordered to move around to the left of the 14th Army Corps.

Quietly we marched back over the hill, and through shadowy forest, almost feeling the death-like stillness of that memorable Sabbath morning.  And how like entering the valley of the shadow of death, seemed our march down through the smoky atmosphere into the deep valley, and around to our new position confronting the enemy.

Our Division had been selected for the desperate work of charging a rebel battery, which was supported by a strong force of the enemy behind entrenchments. The ulterior object was to break the enemy's line at that point, and thereby cut the rebel army in twain.

The 1st Brigade was ordered to make the assault, while the other brigades of the division were to be held in easy supporting distance.  The brigade was formed in column by regiments, right in front, as follows: 70th Indiana, 102nd Illinois, 79th Ohio, 129th Illinois, 105th Illinois.  The men had reviously unslung knapsacks and left them in charge of a guard.

There was evidently some warm work to be done. At first the real design of the movement was 

known only to a few, but when the column was formed, the men were ordered to fix bayonets, and as the ominous click ran along the line the nature of the task before us became apparent. Thought was busy then, and all faces seemed a shade paler.

The distance from the point where the charging column was formed to the enemy's line, was about six-hundred yards. A valley lay between, and their works were upon the crest of a hill beyond.  A heavy growth of young pines covered all the hills and completely masked their position.

At length, about half-past eleven o'clock the command "forward!" ran along the line, and the column quickly moved down the hillside. Simultaneously with the beginning of the movement the rebels opened fire. Then "forward!" was the word shouted and repeated by almost every tongue.  And a wild, prolonged battle yell that swelled from all lips, arose distinct and terrific above the roar of battle, as down in the valley and across the open field—where death rode on every passing breeze—then up the hillside where the twigs and branches of the young pines were clipped by  the bullets like corn blades in a hailstorm—the charging columns moved—not in regular lines, but enmasse, disorganized by the inequalities of the ground and the dense growth of pines—on to the summit, towards the rebel cannons which belched forth fire, grape-shot and shell to the last instant—men dropping dead and wounded on every hand—into the earthworks surrounding the guns, and the guns were ours.

All of the regiments in the brigade were represented within the earthwork. But the position was occupied only for an instant.  The rebel line had been pirced—not broken.  On the right and on the left of the redoubt, which formed a salient in their position, their line was intact.  They opened a withering crossfire and our men fell back to a position immediately in front of the redoubt, commanding the guns.

At that time someone yelled out that the order was to retreat, and many retired to the foot of the hill. They were there re-organized and marched to another part of the field. Most of those whoremained had heard no order to retire, and were sanguine that the position could be held. Protected in a measure by the rebel redoubt, and sheltered somewhat by trees and logs, our men kept up a steady fire all the afternoon. But the rebel force was more active. They were protected by an excellent lineof works—fired low—and their balls cut close around, occasionally killing or wounding a man. 

In the squad which held the position, several regiments were represented.  If any fresh columns moved up the hill they did not reach the vicinity of guns. Towards evening it was feared the battery would be retaken.  One by one the men began to retire, not withstanding the expostulations of those who remained. After dark the enemy opened a sharp fire, as if menacing a charge to retake guns. A volley was fired in return; the boys yelled out a defiant cheer, and one shouted to the Johnnies: "Come over and take your brass field pieces!"

Help had been sent for, and at length we heard music in the valley below.  Sweet as the music of heaven, soothing the soul after the harrowing, discordant day of battle.

Inwoven with our very beings, the ecstatic sensations of that moment, when the soft, plaintive, but cheering notes of a field band were borne to our ears, will live in memory forever.

We learned afterwards, however, that the music did not herald the approach of a relieving column—but relief soon came.  ABout ten o'clock in the evening a strong force marched into position immediately in front of the earthwork. The guns—four in number—were held and brought off that night. They were handsome pieces—brass twelve pounders. One of them was named "Minnie, the Belle of Alabama."

When the relieving column came, those of the regiment who had remained on the field marched to the rear.

The day's work was over, and we were satisfied with the record the 102nd had made.

...

According to the official report, the casualties in the 102nd during that day were eightee killed, seventy-six wounded, and one missing.

Our commander, Brig. Gen. W.T. Ward, was quite severely wounded.It is said that when the ball struck the old General he invoked a "string of blessings" on the rebels in a style that was more forcible than elegant. He was in the thickest of the fight cheering on the men when struck.

During the night of the 15th the rebels evacuated their entire line of works and retreated to the direction of Atlanta.

Hip-deep in a surviving Confederate Cannon Pit

Though I had read the recorded sketches by Stephen Fleharty, and Henry as well, I could now visualize the details in Technicolor, since I stood in the very spot, so well-preserved and protected by the giant pines that stood guard overhead. Satisfied, and energized, I descended the hilltop at a quickened pace, and returned to camp. I passed by the sutler's village, crossed the creek once again, and was approached by a tall uniformed reenactor who introduced himself as "John Smith" from Maine. "No, really, what's your real name?" I asked. I could tell he had heard that one before. His wife had overheard us, and coming out of their tent, dressed in a period costume she said "he gets that a lot." John and I discussed the details of our histories, which had led us both to our participation at Resaca. We eventually came to realize that our ancestors had fought side-by-side as members of the 102nd and 150th Illinois Volunteers. Another reenactor approached us, who had overheard our conversation. John Fritz, from Arizona had found an obituary in his father's effects shortly after he had passed away. It was that of his great-great grandfather who had fought for the 105th Illinois Volunteers also.

John Fritz, Reenactor

John had recently ordered a headstone for his ancestor's unmarked grave, which he had located through a journey similar to my own. We discovered many more parallels between us that had resulted in our presence at Resaca. The three of us must have stood and exchanged notes and experiences for over an hour. I shared Henry's Bible with them, which I was now carrying in my jacket inside pocket. They both seem fascinated that the little hunk of red wood had survived for so long, and that it had come full-circle to dwell once again on the hallowed ground of Resaca. As we conversed, Sergeant Krohn emerged from his tent and motioned me over. He spoke in a low tone so only I could hear him. "You know I've been thinking about this a lot, and I think I know what your uncle's Bible is all about...it's his dog tag." "Think about it," he said. Indeed, I was thinking about it. It made sense. Henry had most likely heard about, or seen examples of carnage, rendering victims of a musketball, or grapeshot completely unrecognizable, resulting in an anonymous burial on "foreign" soil. Relatives back home would spend the rest of their lives wondering about the fate of their son, or brother, for father who marched off to war – never to return.

In his letters, more than once, Henry mentioned that he had decided to stay the course to the end. Sergeant Krohn was confident that the purposeful inclusion of Henry's name, Company and Regiment, carved onto his Bible was to provide clarity and closure for his loving family, should he join the ever-growing list of casualties. By grace, it would not be necessary. 

After some minor housekeeping —well…tentkeeping— I joined the small crowd that was gathered around Corporal Bob's effective campfire. Steve introduced me to some latecomers who were regulars at the reenactments. I passed my cell phone around to share the letter written in Henry's own words as he reflected on his Resaca experience. I was happy to contribute what I could in exchange for the gift of my invitation to participate as a first-timer. I hoped that Henry's words prepared some hearts for the next day's battle, and offered some valuable perspective from an actual survivor of the real thing. As the expansive field before us darkened beneath the descending twilight, a dense layer of fog rolled in, giving the landscape an eerie appearance. A noticeable reduction in temperature followed. Others noticed the same shift, for blankets came out, and more logs were added to the blaze.

Steve and I both lit up cigars, and he whispered to me that he had brought some fine, rare cigars… "the origin of which I am not at liberty to divulge." he said. I looked forward to sampling one. It was around midnight, and the diehard firetenders who remained could be counted on one hand. "Kurt!" Steve shouted. A mustachioed reenactor turn toward us. "Tell Steve here about your reenactors rush!" This was apparently what happens when you get lost in the moment, an experience a momentary lapse and discernment, uncertain which century you are living in. It's a sort of transporting, and though it's all a figment of imagination, it's very real to the transportee. I pulled out my cell phone and fumbled for the voice memo app, and activated the record button, as Kurt proceeded to describe his experience in his own words.

“We were at the Battle of Atlanta, out in Conures?...and they had candlelight tours...where people got on the carriages, and went from venue to venue to venue. And at each spot they would stop, and the actors there would act out a scene. And I volunteered to act out in a scene where I was a bummer—we were bummers— revisiting a house that had been burned earlier in the day, and the embers were still burning, and outside this were the food slaves that lived there and furniture that people had salvaged. And we were coming up basically to look for something to steal. And Grandpa came running out of the house, and I would club him to the ground, because he had a shotgun. And then we would tell all the slaves they were free, and the whole thing would last about 2 minutes. But before the buggy arrived, we would be in the shadows outside the firelight. Waiting for our cue. 

Well, every time we would retreat back into the shadows, we would move into this open field, and each time, there would be shots fired, from the tree line...at us. I didn't realize they were shooting at us. But there were three of us. One was a Corporal and one was a Private from a Michigan unit, and the Corporal is the one that realized, hey these guys are shooting at us.  And figured that this was a "hardcore" unit that was just out in the woods...they had a little spot, out in the woods. So he said, "When this is over, we're gonna go investigate those guys, and so when it was done, the three of us began sneaking across the field, and it was completely dark, and they could not see us coming, and we just got completely lost in the moment. And he was saying to us "don't fire...don't fire...don't fire...uh, I've got some coffee, I want to meet with them, I want to barter with them, I want to get some tobacco...I just wanna, but don't shoot...don't shoot." So, we cam sneaking up, and we could hear them talking as we came up into their encampment, and the fire was going...and we had to cross a little creek, and so forth, but at some point they heard us. And we were right on the edge of a road that went around past their encampment, and we're right along the margin of the road and there are bushes and trees that are hanging. And they heard us, because all of a sudden things got quiet, and the fire went out. They kicked their fire out. And so we just kinda froze. 

We had our rifles loaded, ready to go...just froze. They tried to flush us out...after several minutes, tried to flush us out by jumping out into the middle of the road hoping to startle us, and we'd be revealed, and so-on. I was in the lead...they jumped out, and they were right in front of my muzzle, no farther away than he is. (motioning to reenactor sitting next to him) And of course, they didn't have their night vision going, we did. I could see him fine, and I just watched him, as his eyes adjusted, and he thought..."oh shit"...it was just an "oh shit moment" for him. So we went up into the camp with them. I mean we had them...we had 'em. We weren't firing, so we went up into the camp with them. And we just started talking...but everything we were talking about was 1864. We were talking about MacLellan running for president. We were talking about this-that-and-the-other, and the Michigan guy kept talkin about slavery, and "we need to kill all of you guys because you own slaves..." and I kept telling him to "shut up", and we made an exchange, and we talked for about ten or fifteen minutes, and then we said good night, they said good night, and then, we went back into the shadows. But for that whole period of time, we were completely in the moment. That was an amazing experience. Completely spontaneous.”

Kurt's account opened up the forum for other reenactor tales to be told at the fire, and we were soon all roaring with laughter. I took this as a good opportunity to fetch some cold beers from my tent. I freely distributed them to the group, and we talked and laughed until the fire was nearly out. Aside from the living history element, it was obvious what kept these guys coming back to the firesides and battlefields. The camaraderie was as intoxicating as the beverages that we shared between us.

Saturday, May 17, 2014 0600 (Still dark...cooold)

Braptaraptapbaraptapatapbaraptapatapbrrappptap!!!

I sat up suddenly in my sleeping bag, inside a strange tent. It took me a moment to remember where I was, but the bugler blowing reverie at 0600 confirmed for me that I was indeed at Resaca, and not having some surreal dream. I had slept in my wool uniform through the night, and was thankful, for it was about 46° as the camp began to stir. It didn't take long for the realization to set in that the bungling bugler had roused us awake an hour ahead of schedule. The interrupted slumber, and the chill made for some very unhappy campers —what a morning! At least Corporal Bob's fire was already blazing, and the giant coffee pot would soon come steaming to life. After some visiting around the fire, Sergeant Krohn called out "form company!" and all federal troops in first company gathered on the field, once again for roll call.

After a briefing from Captain Morgan, we marched through camp and across the creek, and formed a line with other companies on the dirt road that separated our camp from the parking lot. After inspection of arms, we all marched up the road and a column to report from morning colors. At about 0900, we passed the Sutler Village, and judging by the number of camera flashes, and ogling children, a crowd was beginning to gather to observe the battle scheduled for the approaching afternoon. As we marched up the hill adjacent to the sutlers, our adversaries in gray formed their lines across from us. The cavalry formed their lines at the top of the hill, and the union band played as the commanders and their officers and aids emerged and inspected our ranks. We stood at attention in the warm sun, sizing up our Confederate counterparts across the ravine that separated our formations, infantry and cavalry, artillery and musicians all stood still as a lone bugler stood atop the hill and played a tune. Another line had formed along the road at the bottom of the hill where the armies gathered. This was the throng of spectators which had grown immensely. This was the first time that we were all exposed to the sheer numbers of participants who had turned out for the reenactment at Resaca.

Families, couples dressed in period garb, veterans and their signature black ball caps, uniformed soldiers in camouflage utilities, schoolchildren holding giant bottles of Sutlers' root beer, photographers, and others stood almost as still as we did as the music filled the crisp morning air. The field commanders dismissed us from the morning Parade, and we marched once again in our column formation down Chitwood Road, came to a halt for a final inspection, and a briefing with details of the ensuing attack that would occur later that afternoon. After Sergeant Krohn dismissed the company, I walked back to camp with Steve, who told me about the ball that was scheduled that evening, and how I might enjoy attending. He typically would attend the many reenactments around Atlanta with his wife, and they would camp together as many other couples were, here at Resaca. Sergeant Krohn passed by just then, and Steve called out to him. "Sergeant!, are you gonna let Steve fire his rifle today?" Sergeant Krohn stopped, looked at me, and in a low tone responded to Steve. "He has no training, no experience with firearms. I can't risk it."

I didn't argue with him, nor did I blame him. We returned to camp with about two hours of leisure time to burn. I decided to try to catch a cat nap, so I would be sharp during the reenactment battle. I deprived myself of sleep on Thursday night, and Friday night was a sporadic series of brief intervals between train blasts through the night. I had misplaced my earplugs, but made a point to locate them during my tentcleaning session. I crawled into my tent, arranged my gear, and collapsed on my bedroll. I was out! A coronet solo woke me up at about 1:15 PM, and the camp began to stir. I emerged from my tent with bayonet, leathers, uniform, and musket all assembled. I was ready for the battle. The collective energy in camp had a different vibe. Everyone seemed to move about with a heightened level of deliberation compared to their attitude before the tactical on Friday. This was, after all, the 150th anniversary of the actual battle of Resaca. We would cross the same field, occupy the same space as the ones who spilled her blood here for their cause, whether it was based on north or south idealism, and I hoped we would make them damn proud.

I believe if every volunteer in uniform was a praying man like myself, they all most likely would ask for the same thing on this Saturday afternoon – to do right by the ones whose sacrifice we respected, appreciated and revered, in the eyes of God, each other, and the gathering throng of spectators who were blanketing the hillside overlooking the field. Our company gathered out on the road once again, and somehow I wound up on the front of the column was Sergeant Krohn, Cpl. Bob, and Steve. At Captain Morgan's order "forward march!" We followed the gravel road south toward the railroad tracks. It was apparent that we were attempting to use the tree line along the tracks to obscure our presence, to attack from the rear, on the opposite side of the field from where we were camped. We marched along the trench that laid low between the trees and the elevated tracks. I looked to my rear, and was so astounded by the length of our line due to our staggering numbers, that I halted, and

directed Sergeant Krohn's attention to the sight. "Now that's a regiment" he said. There must've been about 400 men in blue marching in unison along the railroad tracks. We passed a break in the trees where we could view the field, so we crouched lower as we passed, and observed the Confederate ranks gathering in different pockets throughout the field.

Some of their cavalry passed by, and we were uncertain by their actions whether or not our position was exposed. We found a grown-over service road behind a thicket that provided enough room for our companies to halt and take cover. There, we stayed at ease behind a federal battery position at the southwest corner of the battlefield. We waited for what seemed to be about 10 minutes. Steve thought this might be a good time to produce two cigars "purchased in Dubai" he said with a wink. We lit up our stogies, and of course, after two or three puffs, we were ordered to load muskets. Sergeant Krohn pass by and reminded me that smoldering tobacco and gunpowder don't mingle well.

I exhaled with a final puff of smoke and stamped out my cigar in the grass. Steve cringed and moaned. "Sorry." I said. "I enjoyed what little I smoked." Despite the waste of a good cigar, Steve reminded me that he had two more that he thought were better to save for the ball, later in the evening. Finally, we were ordered to form a column, and advance onto the field. As I gazed across the expanse at the multiple detachments of troops, bursting cannons, and galloping cavalry I was overcome by emotion, and I felt a lump form in my throat. Captain Morgan ordered a left wheel motion, and the entire federal line reposition itself as a Confederate brigade emerged at our right. We halted, and responding to commands, exchanged a spirited series of volleys with our opposers who were only about 60 yards away. A few boys in gray dropped where they had stood, and a few of our federal troops collapsed as well. Me? I kept loading and firing according to Captain Morgan's orders. I must've been doing something right, for amidst the chaos, Sergeant Krohn tapped me on the shoulder and open my cartridge box – filling it with a large handful of paper cartridges, bulging with black powder...now we're in business!

"Bite off the loose end, pour the contents down your muzzle, and give the stock a light tap on the ground…you're ready to fire." "Fire by company!" shouted Captain Morgan. I wasted no time grabbing a paper cylinder from the leather pouch riding on my right hip. I bit into the loose end of the paper cartridge and tasted the metallic powder that coated my lips with the sizzling bitter sting. Emptying the contents into the barrel of my musket, I lightly tapped the stock on the earth to pack the powder, and raised the stock to my shoulder, as Captain Morgan shouted "ready!" "Aim!" I cocked the hammer back and trained my site just above the head of an official and authentic looking corporal who seemed to be coaching and encouraging his sidekicks. A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind in a split-second. Did he have children? A wife at home? Who now would those boys look to for leadership? Then… He wouldn't think twice about shooting me. If I don't take him out, he might kill me, or one of our officers… "Fire!" I pulled the trigger with no hesitation, remorse or regret – of course the corporal did not fall, but I somehow convinced myself that he would have, had I loaded a ball with my powder charge.

This time instead of a "pop" of my spent percussion, a twin report of cap and charge harmonized with the other rifles in the line… Kaboom! A swift kick against my shoulder from the rifle stock, the fine spray of Sparks and sizzling powder against my cheek, and the blossoming plume of gray white smoke, lilting past my face sent me back to 1864 for just a split second.  I looked over at Steve who seemed to be waiting for my response to my first rifle shot. He just smiled like a proud father, I got back to the business at hand of fending off a rebel attack. I had no words, but apparently my expression was satisfactory for him. Eventually the Confederates fell back, and I quickly spent most of my cartridges as Captain Morgan shouted his order to "fire at will!" Sergeant Krohn was carrying his Henry repeating rifle and stepping out of formation briefly, he popped off a succession of rounds in the direction of some rebel skirmishers who were getting danger close to our right.

His defensive foray was proven effective, leaving two victims lying in the grass. We were ordered to cease fire, as the Confederates retreated. We advanced as a single line, as Sergeant Krohn's order to "dress your ranks" was echoed down the entire union line by other company first sergeants. I could see down the entire line to my left as we advanced en masse, and straight as an arrow toward the retreating wave of gray. Just beyond them, I could see the hillside canvassed with hundreds of spectators, and attempted to imagine the scene that there were witnessing. I was proud to be playing small part of an incredible living history experience for this crowd, and hope to inspire all ages in attendance. After we halted, and emptied our rifles in the air, both to clear them of unspent charges, and to salute our adversaries, four buglers emerged, and everyone including infantry, cavalry, artillery, and crowd removed their caps, as the field fell silent to the chorus of "Taps". The mournful chorus echoed across the field from bugler to bugler.

Looking over my shoulder to the position from whence we marched, the dead and wounded lay still, scattered across the grass. Some of the victims had poured stage blood over their faces to add realism to the scene. The buglers' tune resounding against a hillside established a new meaning for me, and rendered the graphic scene before me into an indelible memory. As the buglers held her last note, there was a second or two of deafening silence, broken by the roar of the crowd. The lump formed once again in my throat, and my eyes began to water… I must've got some gunpowder in there somehow. I clutched my pocket where I carried Henry's Bible as we marched back to camp in formation. After some encouraging words from a beaming Captain Morgan, Sergeant Krohn dismissed us. I parked my gear in my tent, and made a beeline to the sutlers village, where I bought my own powder and a freezer bag full of 100 paper cartridges. Back in camp, Steve demonstrated for me how to fill and fold them, and he loaned me his brass measuring tool, so each cartridge held the correct amount of powder.

I spent a couple of hours in my tent, preparing cartridges, and filling my box for the next battle which would take place on Sunday. I heard some collective banter and laughter to the rear of my tent, where Earl, our company commander and his wife were camped in their tent. Theirs was a large canvas wall tent, about 12' x 14' with a large fly stretched out overhead, which made for a nice covered porch. When the fire wasn't roaring, this was the social center of the camp. I continued my fill-fold-and-tuck assembly-line, preparing my cartridge box, as I eavesdropped on the veteran reenactors, recounting their experiences at Kennesaw, Atlanta, Chattanooga, Charleston, etc. As I finished filling my cartridge box, Steve stopped by my tent. "I'm going up to the ball later, if you want to come along." Dancing has never really been my thing, let's be honest, and watching from the sidelines, well, where was the fun in that? Steve keyed into my hesitation, and said, "Come on, bring your camera, I think you'll really enjoy it." "Okay, let's do it." I said…"but I don't have a thing to wear."

We were the only spectators, as far as I could tell, who would represent the Federal camp at the ball. We grabbed a quick bite at the sutlers village, and followed the sound of fiddle, guitar and voice, arriving at a square grassy patch next to Chitwood Road, that was staked out by kerosene torches and hay bales for perimeter seating. A pair of tents arched over a 4-piece band who were wailing away in classic form, and a lemonade stand, tended by two ladies in colorful period gowns. I was blown away by the attendance. There must've been close to two-hundred participants, all dancing in carefully choreographed circles and lines.

The master of ceremonies, in an impressive top hat, introduced each dance, over the P.A. system, and demonstrated the movements slowly for newcomers, like myself. It began to rain as the sun tucked itself behind the hills —the torches picking up where it left off. I captured a few photos of the dancers, all decked out in their dapper suits, derby hats, bonnets, bows and colorful debutant gowns. The event was obviously owned by the Confederate crowd… but it didn't matter. I sat next to Steve, who had found an unclaimed hay bale. He handed me his last fine cigar "from Dubai" and said, "try to savor this one." I gladly lit up, and we puffed away on some very fine tobacco while enjoying the entertainment.

Steve suddenly bolted up and disappeared into the crowd. Before I knew it, he was twirling around with the ladies – all smiles. I photographed some couples, the band and bystanders until Steve return to his spot at the Haybale next to mine. Before he could catch his breath, a gentleman dressed in his confederate uniform, a long hair and gray beard approached us. He had been drinking something quite flammable, judging by his breath. He began chatting us up, and I got up to offer him my seat. It began as a gag to get him to bend Steve's ear, but the joke was on me, for he turned out to be a very experienced reenactor who wound up telling me a ghost story, which I recorded on my iPhone. His story was fascinating.

Our ghost story, just as I recorded it:

“We was down in Charleston, we go out there every year, camp at the same place, right up against the woods, away from everybody else...you can see as far as a football field that way (motions) and a football field that way...and everyone else is up on the hill, at least a football field away...right behind us is the woods, and there's an apartment complex right there...in the woods.

So we set our tents up, facing out this way from the woods. So we got all our stuff out throwed it out there, put the tents up, you know, we got everything out of the van. And I'm standing there sideways, and I can see good out of the corner of my eye. And I look and see this damn person, standing there...you know, I just happened to see him. So I turned around, I stood up, and I said, "Hey man...what's goin' on?" He's walkin' past me, and says "I'm goin' to the dance over here, I'm following those three women." And John Segal, —there's three of us— he says "Three women?...where?" And the guy says "They're all dressed up over there...we're goin to the dance right over here." I says, "Wait a minute, there's no dance over here...not over here...as a matter of fact, it ain't even tonight...it's Saturday night, this is Friday evenin'." It ain't even dark yet, we just got there.

He just looked at me...he didn't say, well, hell...somebody told me it was over here...he didn't say that, he's just kept  lookin'...he's lookin' right at the dance...he sees it...he's lookin' (gestures) that's the kind of look he's got. He was a rebel. So, my other friend, he come over there, and wanted to talk to him, and he wanted to talk to him about them women. He said, well, what are them women wearin'? He said they're wearin' them big dresses. So we says, there ain't no women up there with dresses, they're gonna be down that way (pointing in the opposite direction from the woods) ...he looked at us again, and by that time Scott, y'know he's over there he's very intelligent about this Civil War stuff, and he noticed that the guy had this red piping on...red piping...ya see that, ya see that bead around my sleeve right there? (motions) ...he had a little red bead all the way around his uniform.

Scott happened to notice that he had somethin' else on there because Scott told us later that he was a Captain or something...'don't know what he had on, so he come over and said, "I noticed you have the artillery uniform on...what unit are you with? He said "Oh, I'm attached to Battery Wagner."And Scott said, "Oh yeah? well, where do you live at?" and he said, "well I always lived in Charleston all my life." So Scott asked him a few more questions, and the guy went over and sat down. John come up, and started askin' him some more questions, but all he wanted to know about was them women! So, I went, and started puttin' shit in my tent, ya know, and I heard John say, "Well, let me put some of this stuff up, but I want to talk to you some more...I got somethin' else I got to ask you..."

So I'm puttin' some of my stuff up, and as I came out of the damn tent, I seen John goin' into his tent, he's walkin' in, and I'm lookin' and the guy's gone. Well, Scott is over there foolin' around with his stuff, cause he's sleepin' on the ground...he's makin' him a "sasquatch" bed...and this guy's GONE!...I said "Where the hell did he go?! John come out of the tent and says, "Well, he was standin' right there!" And I'm lookin'...(motions)...football field that way, and a football field that way...and the woods back that way...he couldn't have come through our tents...but he did!

He came through our damn tents to go to that dance...you know why? Because everybody out here...all these people...and all these reenactments that we ever go to...the three of us...they stop the whole damn unit...the photographers...and the Captain asks, " What do you want?", and he says "I want that guy, that guy, and that guy..." and we come out there and he takes pictures of us, and then we get back in line and the Captain says, "What else do you want?" and  he says, "well, hell...they look original." And that's the reason why he showed us...showed his self to us...was because we looked original...he thought we was original! ...is the only thing I can figure out why...he showed his self, he thought we was original!... Hey! I tell you it'll mess you up when you think about this shit...I ain't got but half a brain...I shouldn't...I don't...and uh...I told Scott and them, I said "You know what? If he can be here...we can be here at the 200th event! If HE can be here...WE can be here...'you understand what I'm saying?" I responded "Absolutely." "That's good." he said.

There was something otherworldly and spiritual at work here and I wasn't the only one to notice it. I thanked the soldier for his colorful testimony, and I meant it with all my heart, for now I had both a Union and a Confederate Reenactor's perspective of a supernatural experience recorded in digital audio.

When the ball was over, Steve and I walked back to camp beneath a light drizzle. There were two empty spots left at the fireside, so after grabbing a couple of beers from our tents, we joined Sergeant Krohn and others next to another perfect bonfire, courtesy of Corporal Bob. "Steve, tell us what you were most impressed with at the battle today," said the first sergeant. I paused and noticed Captain Morgan watching me intently from the opposite side of the blaze. Sergeant Krohn's question caught me a bit off guard, but I knew the answer. "The turnout…both the reenactors, and the crowd." "I have an enormous amount of respect for anyone who believes in the importance of preserving our history enough to act on it, or at least support those who do." "When I looked down the railroad tracks today at that long line of blue uniforms, I thought to myself, anyone who calls this a hobby, doesn't get it." "I'm proud to belong to such an elite group, even if it's just for the weekend." We sat around the fire until around midnight, and I listened to reenactor stories —mostly about this film, or that film— and the moviestars that different reenactors had encountered while appearing in Civil War movies…who was polite, and who is an "a-hole," etc. etc.

As embers glowed, the conversation shifted to a deeper reminiscent theme, as stories were shared about reenactments at New Hope Church, Charleston, Fort McAllister, Olustee, and Atlanta. The beer cans crumpled one-by-one as the stories became more fantastic, and the laughter grew louder. The fire continued to roar late into the evening, and I finally rose to my feet, bid the remaining handful of firetenders goodnight, and wandered off to my tent. I journaled for a while by lamplight, as the symphony of camp conversations, cracking fires, the rattling of gear, and shuffling of feet dissipated into a soothing serenade of crickets and frogs. After dousing the lantern, I drifted off to sleep, but was soon reminded of our close proximity to the Southern Railroad line, formerly known as the Selma, Rome and Dalton railroad. The distant signal from the approaching diesel prompted me to make use of my handy earplugs, and before I knew it, I was out and dreaming.

Revelry blew promptly at 0700 on the morning of Sunday, May 18, 2014

—a date that I remembered as the Mount Saint Helens eruption in my home state of Washington, which had also occurred on a Sunday in 1980 when I was 14. My sleeping bag was soaked, and the hay that I had strewn around the daylight gaps at the base of my tent was damp to the touch. Parting my tent flaps, I peered out onto a soaked campground. It had rained consecutively for hours as I slept soundly. I got dressed in my blues, and scurried out into the muddy camp. Sergeant Krohn stood beneath a shelter, holding a snare drum around his waist, and drumsticks in his hands. He began to beat out a rhythm. Next to him, our bugler joined in on a small, high-pitched silver fife. An unattended bass drum stood upright on a stand, so I grabbed the mallet and joined in to complete the trio. We entertained our groggy, soggy audience for a while, performing about a dozen numbers, as the campers shook off the cobwebs, and gathered themselves for roll call. I managed to keep fairly good time, thanks in part to my brief stint as percussionist in ninth grade band class. Soon after we finished, a report came in from command, stating that morning colors would be canceled due to the downpour. I wandered over to the fire, to help myself to a cup of Corporal Bob's java, and found a dry place under the fly cover on the front of Earl and Terry's tent, where others had gathered as usual.

We all sat in repose as the battlefield became soaked with the downpour. Just then I remembered that I had loaned my camera to the company commander's wife, and began reviewing the images which were outstanding! I complimented Terry on her photographic skills. I was impressed by the images of our regiment, as they appeared from the perspective of the crowd. Again, the number of reenactors who showed up for the recycle event was staggering to me, and though the Union Army typically is outnumbered by Confederate participants, the ratio appeared to be well-balanced from my point of view. "That was some fine drumming this morning, Austin!" A deep voice was addressing me from the other side of the shelter, nearly drowned out by the rain that peppered the canvas fly above us.

John Smith from Maine desired to capitalize on our free time to learn more about my book. As we discussed the details, I learned that he owned and operated a small bookstore in his home state of Maine. In the past, he had written and published a book about his ancestor who had taken a bullet at Resaca, while serving in the 105th Illinois volunteers obviously, we had some common ground to cover. John shared some encouragement and advice on publishing options with me and I thanked him. He would later send me a copy of the book that he published which provided some valuable background as a reference tool. As morning gave way to the afternoon, I found myself loading more cartridges in my tent, and busying myself with some general housekeeping. My bedroll was still soaking wet, so I spread it out to dry, and hung a makeshift close line across the length of my tent to airdry other articles that also had been soaked.The rain had since subsided, and I sensed the sun beating down through the pines once again on to our camp. Sergeant Krohn called roll again at about 1300 hours. Once gathered and organized, our unit marched in a line through wet grass to the opposite side of the field.

Fresh earthworks had been created previously for a film project, which we used as our defense, crouching behind it as a group before the crowd of onlookers that gathered on the Hill to our left. The hillside was more densely populated with spectators that had been on Saturday. We were flanked by two Union artillery teams who were preparing their field pieces. Over the region front of us a ragged mass of silhouettes emerged, Andrew closer in a massive line. Captain Morgan ordered us to ready are muskets. I grasped my chest with one hand to make sure that my inside jacket pocket still contain the most important article I had packed for the battle. It was still there – uncle Henry's Bible. I raised my Enfield, which now had a full charge of powder, and aimed it just above a young Confederate private in gray jacket, and blue gingham shirt. he and his company halted, and he commenced to train his rifle straight at me. Ignoring my instinct to fire him, I waited for my Captain's order. I thought about how frustrating that forced hesitation must have been in 1864 for a soldier who had the enemy in his sites but was ordered to wait before firing.

Finally, the trench where we stood was instantly enveloped with gray smoke as we fired upon our

enemy in a tight volley. A few of their ranks fell to the ground. They returned fire, and I watched two of our men fall to the ground in front of me. For the benefit of the crowd, both of them anointed their heads with stage blood for effect. As I reloaded, I noticed John Fritz had slumped over the earthworks too, and was lying still. Suddenly, I heard it – the wild rebel yell. The entire Confederate company before us charge forward with bayonets fixed. Captain Morgan ordered us to hold the line. We managed to repulse their advance, but only for a few moments. They eventually came charging Addis a second time, and though we executed a spirited defense, captain Morgan ordered us to fall back into the woods behind us. There, we took refuge behind trees and boulders, as the rebels nested themselves in our trenches, and continue to fire upon us at will. Some close contact activity was happening in the trench, and I recognized John Fritz getting swatted and slapped by two reenactors dressed in gray.

Was this some strange unfamiliar rebel ritual that I had never heard of? Why was John not fighting back? And why was he stripping off his clothes, as the rebels continued to swat and slap at him from shoulders to waist? Apparently, he had collapsed right into a nest of biting fire ants, and the rebs were assisting him in exterminating them. John ran full-gallop up into the woods in his skivvies to join us, clutching his musket hat and laundry. None of us who had experienced our own encounter with those tiny little raiders and their painful poisonous bite were laughing. The over-zealous Confederates had failed to overtake our artillery, who had trained their barrels on the earthworks that they now occupied. As the cannons fired upon them one by one their lines ruptured and with our order to "fire at will!" We blew them out of their defenses, and sent them scurrying across the field, back to their original position. The carnage was horrendous! Bodies carpeted the field between our position in the woods, and where the rebels now stood. We were putting on a show for our crowd in Hollywood proportion, and now it was our turn to charge the field. As Captain Morgan beamed proudly, we obeyed his audible, loading our muskets, and joining forces with the other units, we formed an immense single-line that nearly spanned the entire width of the battlefield. "Dress your Ranks!" shouted Sergeant Krohn. We advanced, as our collective adrenaline boiled over. This conflict was peaking on climax, and we all felt it.

"Charge!" We swept the field in a mighty wave of navy blue, firing at random as we approached our opposers who stood their ground and briskly loaded their muskets, returning fire. Our colors passed impressively through a curtain of gray blue smoke, leading us at full speed toward a brave gang of rebels standing their ground, with barrels trained upon us. I figured this to be my one and only chance to contribute to the drama unfolding, so I charged at my targets, screaming at the top of my lungs, while firing my weapon in their direction. They noticed my advance, and returned fire toward me as a crew, and I tumbled to the ground, as the rest of my company charged forward to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the Confederates. I remained still, with my rifle just out of my reach, and my face in the soil as the sounds of combat eventually subsided to the chorus of taps, which was blown by a distant bugler. A second bugler echoed the tune, and then the third, who was standing right above me, facing the crowd. Again, I clutched at Henry's Bible which was still safe in my jacket pocket, and at that very second – the sky parted, spilling rays of sunlight down upon the corpses scattered across the field.

The final note was held at length by the bugler who stood above me, then there was silence for just a few seconds. The crowd on the hill erupted in spirited applause, and it all became too much to take in without breaking down…which I did. I sat up and gathered myself…attempting to wipe tears, sweat, black powder and dirt from my face, but smeared the mix into a mess on my face instead. I spotted a small cabin which had been erected on the field. It was currently being put to the torch as we drove the rebs from the field. I suppose it represented Sherman's penchant for aggravated arson. Our company aligned with the rest of the regiment, and we raised our rifles skyward to salute our adversaries, and to clear charges. The crowd gave a final cheer, as we formed company for one final march back to camp, where we were addressed by each officer, from Captain Morgan to the Union Supreme Commander, who became tearful when we all gave him a collective "hip hip hoorah" times three, followed by a hearty rendition of "Happy Birthday." He just walked away with his head hidden beneath his hat brim -an imposing figure outside, but a big softy inside. Sergeant Krohn was the last to address us, and offered his congratulations for a successful battle.

He dismissed us, and we all dispersed into our camp. Many went straight to their tents to pack up and

Sharing post-battle impressions with Captain Morgan

prepare for the drive home. I remained behind, and conversed with Captain Morgan for a while. Sergeant Krohn walked by, and I couldn't resist asking him how I did on my first attempt at soldiering. "You were an effective killer." He said. "Something new to put on my resume" I exclaimed. Captain Morgan made a point to invite me to participate anytime at other reenactments that would follow Resaca. I told him that I had planned to only participate in one, but was considering showing up at the Atlanta battle event in September. As much as I hated to, I changed out of my uniform and into a pair of cargo shorts and a teeshirt. As I returned all my gear to you Sergeant Krohn's tent, I was flagged down by John Fritz. He was on his way to his car, and wanted directions to the site of Vanden Corpett's Battery. This was an opportunity to visit the sacred spot one last time, so I offered to escort him there.

As we emerged from the Federal camp, we found ourselves surrounded by a chaotic barrage of activities. The Sunday rains had transformed the parking lots into a giant mud swamp. A fleet of tractors were chaining up vehicles one by one, towing them out of the muck, and onto the gravel road that led to the main highway. By the time we reached John's car, it was nearly covered entirely with the thick red goo which had been splattered by the passing tractors and vehicles. Once we cleared the windshield we drove up the hill to the cliff top in the woods, where I pointed out the artillery pits to John. I stood back to allow him to navigate and study the site on his own. John was on his way to Atlanta to visit sites where both of our ancestors had fought, camped and foraged. He was moving South as I was moving North with a common purpose, so we agreed to text news of our discoveries to each other as we progressed. He thanked me for sharing the battery site, and waved as he drove away. I lingered upon the hill a while longer, walking through the trenches for one last time, enjoying the sounds of the peaceful Georgia forest, and reflecting upon the details in Henry's letter that I had memorized."It is a wonder we were not all killed, or captured." "We were under the crossfire of the enemy, and through mistake, our own men fired at us, taking us for the enemy." "I was never so exhausted in my life while making the charge through the thicket and up hill, at that!" I was presently looking down the East bank of that hill from where I stood, and it was now overgrown heavily with pines, and shrubbery, but I could still see to the bottom, which was a distance of about 100 meters, at about a 50% grade.

Map showing where Henry, under W. T. Ward charged up the hill
 to overtake Van Den Corput's Battery

Imagine charging up this steep incline under enemy rifle fire and grapeshot, just after sprinting across a wide open field, negotiating uneven terrain covered in waist-high underbrush. No thanks! I hiked down the paved hill, across the Reseca property and across the small bridge that spanned the creek. Many of our tents had been replaced with SUVs and compact cars that were being packed up by their owners, now dressed in their "civvies." Steve had packed up and was saying his goodbyes to the rest of the unit. I stopped in my tracks and ran to my tent. I returned with his Powderhorn, a full bag of cartridge sleeves, and a near full tin of percussion caps and a can of black powder. "you're going to need these at Kennesaw" I said. It seems only fitting to repay him for the ammo that he had been nice enough to loan out to me, not to mention the Cuban cigar that I was ordered to stomp out on the battlefield.

"You should join us again, I think this stuff agrees with you." Said Steve. "I couldn't agree more." I said. We shook hands and he wished me good luck with my book, as did the others that I thanked as they packed up their gear, and disappeared up the gravel road and out of sight. Soon, only Sergeant Krohn and Earl were left in Camp. I had swapped my canvas tent for my bright orange 2-man nylon dome.

I would stay one final evening in the Federal camp and set out early for my drive North, but to my surprise, Earl would remain for one more night as well. His wife, Terry had driven home earlier, and Sergeant Krohn was gathering up his gear, stowing it tightly in his Jeep. Earl and I decided to drive into town to have dinner, since the sutlers had since closed up shop. Sergeant Krohn was anxious to get on the road, so we said our goodbyes, and he extended a a kind invitation to fall in with that 125th Ohio anytime. We parted ways with a handshake, but I had the feeling we would meet, or even march together again. Earl and I drove past the parking lot where tractor drivers were still assisting stranded spectators with their vehicles in the rain. Though my wife had questioned the upgrade previously, I had earlier proven the necessity of four-wheel-drive as I relocated my Trailhawk from the muddy parking lot to the Federal camp with ease. Others looked on with envy as they stood in ankle-deep mud waiting for tractors to drag their vehicles out to the safety of the gravel road.

The notion of a steak dinner at one of Calhoun, Georgia's fine eating establishments appealed to both Earl and I, so we obliged our appetites at the first spot we could find that seemed appropriate. As we dined together, we discussed the process of becoming a bona fide reenactor, and some of the benefits that accompany the privilege. The satisfaction of preserving our country's rich history, the camaraderie, the outdoors, and the constant pursuit and adherence to authenticity. Earl reminded me, "It gives you an indescribable appreciation for the luxuries they didn't have that we take for granted." I raised my icy cold bottle of beer, and said "I know what you mean." As we drove back to camp, I noticed a giant truckstop on the fringe of downtown Resaca… A sign hung in the window with just a single word in bold print that enticed me, as it was intended to: "SHOWERS". That sounded nearly as good as the steak dinner did. Returning to the battlefield, the monster tractor pull and mud show was over, parking lots were empty, and only our two tents remained in the Federal campsite.

Sergeant Krohn had left, but not before building Earl and I a perfect bonfire setup with tinder, kindling and cordwood all stacked and ready to light. His noble gesture must've taken at least 15 minutes to complete – I sent him a photo of the blaze that we enjoyed in the late evening hours and thanked him for everything he did for me. Earl and I had a good conversation at fireside until about 11 PM, then we doused the flames and retired to our tents. I journaled by lamplight for a while, then drifted off to sleep, to dream of cannons, muskets and marching in formation next to private Henry Banks.