Napoleonic Greetings, Hikers

You may have heard that back in the 1860s there was a bit of a rumble between the southern and northern states of this nation.  For reasons that to this day are the subject of heated debate, the southern states took the decision to secede from the Union, the result of which was one hellish war.  It was America’s War Between the States, more commonly known as the Civil War.

Until my days on the Florida Trail, my knowledge of Civil War battles fought on Florida soil was sketchy at best.  When I hiked near Woodville, the locals filled me in on the Battle of Natural Bridge.  That fight began with an amphibious landing by federal troops near the lighthouse in the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge.  Over the next few days the battle raged north, stopping finally at a strip of exposed limestone under which a river flowed.  This place is called Natural Bridge and is today the sight of a state historical park.  Anyhow, in the ensuing battle the Union forces lost six men for every Confederate casualty.  The Union withdrew, bloodied and beaten.  They then retaliated by burning and destroying everything in their return path south to Apalachee Bay.

But that, hikers, was not the largest or the bloodiest of the Civil War battles in Florida.  That, my footloose friends, happened just east of Lake City, Florida at a small railroad stop named Olustee. 

And in every way possible for a man of my tender years, I was there.

It began with a favor granted by Ben Harris of Suwannee River Wilderness Park fame.  (see Lost and Found).  When I expressed an interest in participating in the reenactment, Harris put me in touch with Elaine McGrath, who oversees all of the folk life and historical events undertaken by the Florida State Park Service.  McGrath in turn connects me with Mitzi Nelson, her deputy in charge of the Olustee Battle Festival.

We’re on a roll, know what I mean?

The Florida Trail passes right through the battlefield.  All I had to do was get there on time.  This was not a problem.  I walked in to Olustee a couple of days later and a couple of days too early.  A Ranger named Frank let me camp out there.  Preparations, in the form of giant piles of firewood stacked just about everywhere I looked, were well underway. Signs directing the impending hoards of visitors, reenactors and camp followers to their pre-determined campgrounds were already in place. These were flanked by rows and rows of nice, clean portable toilets.  These betrayed unmissable clues about the number of visitors the park was expecting.  Thousands, hikers. But on this shadow laden evening, I had this phalanx of portable modern convenience all to myself.  Luxury, hikers.  Pure, hygienic luxury.  An embarrassment of dadgum riches, some might rightly opine.

The next day I called my buddy Tom Griggs, who just happens to live nearby.  We had a civilized bite to eat and hatched a plan by which I would slack pack farther down the trail by day and crash at his place at night.  Get some miles in, know what I mean?

And so I did.  I’ll get in to that experience later.  It was fun.

My orders were to report to an outfit called the 7th Florida Infantry Regiment on the Friday morning of the battle festival weekend.  I was able to chalk up some fun miles in the three days before reporting for duty as a private in the army of the Confederate States of America.

It was during one of these hiking days that I was able to actually check my phone messages.  One of these was from a fellow who introduced himself as the adjutant to General Jessee.  He called himself Captain Roger Statzer and the tone of his message was very formal and supremely Captain-like. 

“Whoa,” I thought to myself, “These guys are really a bit TOO in to this Civil War thing!” But hey, the guy was a bona fide Captain and even after being out of the Marines for almost 30 years, I am still unable to overlook the orders of a superior officer.  Its true what they say.  The change is permanent. Believe you me.

So, I dutifully returned his call and spoke with the good Captain.  He briefed me in no uncertain terms how things were going to be.  There would be two battles, not just one as I first believed.  Neither Harris nor McGrath had let me in on the Saturday battle scoop, known to the reenactors as the “tactical battle.”

‘The tactical engagement is too dangerous for the new men,” Statzer explained.  “It’s run and gun, and you need to know what you’re doing or you can get seriously injured or killed out there.”

“Seriously injured???,” I thought to myself.  “KILLED????????” No wonder this guy sounded so serious.  He went on to explain the various safety pitfalls of having a rank amateur such as myself on the field of battle with seasoned troops.  I was disappointed, but then, I had to admit that he made several valid points.  In retrospect, it was the death thing that figured most prominently.

My arrival on Friday was prompt.  I followed the signs to the Confederate reenactor camps, which are painstakingly created to correctly portray military life in the 1860’s.  My first encounter with a real life reenactor occurred at the camp gate, where I met “Pops.”

Well, as kindly and grandfatherly as such a nickname might imply about its holder, ‘Pops” was not a man to be trifled with.  A plank owner of the USAF Air Combat Controller profession, Pops was the camp Provost.  The Provost keeps order in the camp, a duty that Pops could manage with a single look from his chiseled granite eyeballs.  A real teddy bear, ole’ Pops.

He welcomed me cautiously, but after we exchanged secret decoder rings, we got along famously.  He gave me a primer on the reenactor lifestyle, a hobby which he and his family have enjoyed for years. 

I hung out with him until Captain Statzer dropped in by the fire to take me to Corporal Russell Mouser, the Quartermaster of the 7th Florida.  Another nice guy who couldn’t do enough for me, he brought me to one of the many white canvas tents that served as the shelters, command posts and hospitals for both sides in the Civil War.

As I stood there, Mouser held up trousers to my legs and jackets to my torso until he found those that would provide a passable fit.  To this he added a long sleeve shirt (one size pretty much fits all) and two ankle high shoes.  Not a left shoe and a right shoe, mind you, just two black shoes. “Back then you just picked two shoes out of a barrel of shoes,” he explained, “There was no right and left.”

The jacket and trousers were sewn from jeans cloth, a combination of wool and cotton with a tan color and the abrasive qualities of a pot scrubber.  My few Irish-German freckles would doubtlessly be gone by the end of the battle, I thought to myself.  And if that’s all, I’d consider myself lucky.

For my cover, Mouser provided me what is known as a foragers cap.  This style of cap was worn by the Yankees, and the legend that went with mine was that I souvenired it from a Federal who would no longer have use for it.  Its odd name comes from its secondary duty.  When the cap is turned upside down, it becomes a container with which one can temporarily store the nuts and berries for which a hungry soldier might forage in the field.

Then he handed me the best part of my Confederate battle equipment – my musket.  It was a replica of the British-made Enfield, Caliber .577, one serious smokestick capable of sending a serious chunk of hot lead downrange.  I smiled broadly. I was ready.

You see, I was starting to feel it, hikers, down to my bones.  I’d walked in that tent a hiker and departed it a Private in the Army of the Confederacy.  Oh yeah, hikers.  This was going to be way cool.

More to come.  I gotta get hiking.

Private cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike