Slowly, ghostly figures tumble out of their canvas tombs to light the fires that will boil their morning coffee and cook their breakfast bacon. Before long, after more snooze-button-style bugling, more men emerge, buttoning shirts and pulling on blue woolen jackets before the morning roll is called.
It's not the first time that these fields, which are located just a few miles northeast of the small village of Gettysburg, Pa., have seen this spectacle, but if things don't change soon, it might be one of the last.
Undoubtedly, Civil War reenacting is a bit of an odd pastime, and few who are not in "the hobby," as it's called by those in the know, can understand what drives thousands of men, women, and children to dress up in Victorian era clothing to party like it's 1863. Tell someone, with any degree of seriousness, that you're a reenactor yourself, and you can quite literally watch the look on their face change to what can only be described as a cross between incredulousness and pity.
In reality, though, this peculiar pursuit is much closer to a massive theater production than many in the public realize, and it's designed to breathe temporary life into the shadows of history for a few short days to give citizens a lesson they couldn't glean from their high school teachers.
And it certainly does that - from the loud, flea-market atmosphere of Sutler's Row to the sulfur clouds floating over the swarms of rifle-toting men that fight out the battle, the sights and sounds offered by the 150th reenactment of the Battle of Gettysburg could not be replicated in any classroom.
Sadly, though, as the current flock of reenactors continues to gray, the future of this undertaking may be in danger. Although about 8,000 living historians make the trek to the hamlet 40 miles from Harrisburg, it's a far cry from the now-legendary 135th anniversary, which had a remarkable 40,000.
On top of that, a civil war has erupted within the hobby itself as a growing number of reenactors - called "campaigners" or "progressives" by their mainstream counterparts - have split away to form their own groups that take the term "living history" to an extreme. They held their own event the weekend prior, and this not only cut into the number of participants at the official reenactment, but led to widespread confusion amongst the general public about which show is the "real" one.
This combination of an aging population and brutal internal politics may be creating a death spiral for the hobby, one that many, like West Milford's Mike Belgie and his reenacting compatriots, want to avoid at all costs.
A dying breed
For years, many thought that Gettysburg's sesquicentennial anniversary would be the hobby's moment of glory, especially after the triumphant 135th saw tens of thousands of Union and Confederate troops take to the field to perform a raucous full-scale recreation of the infamous Pickett's Charge.
And, although numbers aren't crucial to the reenactors themselves - Belgie says they often enjoy smaller performances more than these "mega-events" because of the increased flexibility and decreased stress - there was a sense that the 150th would draw far more participants than ended up coming, and the low turnout has several wondering if this anniversary was a "coup de grace" instead.
But still, most believe that at least one of the two major engagements held on Saturday, July 6, was a success. Without the numbers, they aren't as muscular as they perhaps could have been, but they are active and intense, and every unit gets to "burn some powder," as they say.
Belgie, 57, is an 18-year veteran of this hobby, and is reasonably high on the reenactor food chain; as a major, he fleshes out part of the body of a half-dozen men who serve on the staff of General Tony Daniels, commander of the Union Army's 2nd Division.
Tall and skinny with gray curly hair, a gray goatee, and a set of glasses permanently affixed to the bridge of his nose, Belgie is a laid-back sort who makes his living as a photographer but is also an ex-Deadhead, ex-security contractor, ex-everything kind of guy.
Daniels, 66, might be described as his opposite. Shorter and thicker, with a weather-beaten face and a dark beard, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Ulysses S. Grant and was born in Newark on 85th anniversary of the Battle of Antietam. A Verona native, he taught history for years in Jackson Township, and speaks carefully and deliberately. The letters "SPQR" - the initials of a Latin phrase once emblazoned on the standards of the Roman legions - are tattooed across his left shoulder.
The mercury rises quickly Saturday morning, and as it does, there is some doubt among Daniels' staff as to whether they, or many of their men will participate in the afternoon battle, which is slated to start at 1 p.m. As the hour nears and other units assemble, that doubt strengthens as the mercury climbs past 90, and although a few gear up, Daniels, Belgie, and many of their 800 or so reenactors don't leave the shade of their tents.
At this point, it's far hotter for the recreation than it was for the actual engagement.
The battle kicks off 20 minutes late and is something of a mess from the start. Although the artillery cannonade is fearsome, the main infantry battle occurs over a quarter-mile from where the spectators sit and is blocked by a grove of trees.
As the standing-room-only crowd follows the fight, many end up crashing through a camp and breaking through a thin line of woods before coming out far too close to the action for the comfort of either the reenactors or the event staff, and several women on horseback ride the length of the unruly line, screaming at the onlookers to clear the area. Their efforts are met with a mix of begrudging acquiescence and, in some instances, belligerence, and in the end, it's only the threat of police intervention that accomplishes their goal.
Afterward, back at the cluster of five or six tents that makes up the 2nd division headquarters, the few officers who took the field reveal that the scenario strayed so far from the script that it eventually turned into an impromptu "tactical" - an unscripted battle that is more like living chess than a well-rehearsed play.
"It went well," one officer says, grabbing a Yuengling out of the wooden cooler marked "Adams Express."
"Yeah? I heard it was a cluster-[expletive]," Daniels replies quietly.
"Well... We had a small but effective force," the officer says with a grin. "I think it went very well. The men were happy."
Lunch is served shortly afterward, and a lazy afternoon passes as black ants crawl across the table and horseflies abuse everything with a pulse. The staff drinks cold lagers while discussing everything from (of course) reenactor politics to New York Giants football (Daniels had season tickets for years). Nearby, a band plays poor renditions of rarely heard songs like "Battle Cry of Freedom" and "Bonnie Blue Flag" on the violin.
By the time 5:30 p.m. rolls around, though, the staff is ready to get moving - the sun has tumbled lower in the sky, and a slight wind has made the heat more bearable.
As the men - along with the occasional woman - form up, Daniels mounts Gabriel, the massive 2,000-pound black horse that he rides into battle, and takes his place at the head of the line. He is an imposing sight.
Belgie used to ride, he says, but his back no longer can take the abuse, and a couple of close calls with an unbroken steed a few years back means that he now walks into his fights.
This time, the reenactment appears to go off without a hitch. Few of the officers know which particular piece of the battle they're reenacting, but they know the script and stick to it as Union troops take their positions in a dark woodline at the crest of a steep hill. The Southerners meet with success initially as they fight their way up the slope, but the closer they get to the top, the more blue lines step forward out of the thick leaves and ambush them.
By the time they reach the crest, many have fallen, and the Southerners realize that, having marched into the open end of a horseshoe, they're being enveloped by Union troops who send volley after volley into their flanks.
The federal fire intensifies, and cannons boom in the background. Understanding what the man next to you is saying is, at times, impossible, even though reenactors use only partial charges; if they were using real cartridges, every rifle would be several times louder, and the artillery would literally be deafening. The real battle, it's said, was heard 140 miles away in Pittsburgh.
By the time the bugles blow the "cease fire," it's clear that this is a resounding victory for the Union. When the voice of a woman singing "God Bless of America" clamors out of the loudspeakers, all hats come off, and the thousands on the field fall silent.
After the battle, the feeling in camp is markedly lighter, and the officers smile like a boxer who's just finished his bout.
"The boys had fun today," Daniels says to no one in particular. All nod in agreement.
But, while it was a good reenactment, it is clear that it could have been far larger and far more impressive if more men had shown up.
A 'general collapse'
Hours later, Belgie sips from an aged tin beer stein as he speaks about the day's battle and the divide that's driven down participation. What we're seeing, he says, is not an implosion of the reenactor community - it's more of a "general collapse."
The campaigner group, named the "Blue-Gray Alliance," had maybe 8,000 in its reenactment the week before, but regardless, only about 2,000 would have actually participated in this event, Belgie says. The rest have little regard for mainstream events, which tend to stay close to the history books on the battlefield, but are more laid back in camp. The site of women in the "company streets" (the lanes between the tents), enlisted men with tents larger than they should have, and cars and trucks visible in the distance as there are here would be unacceptable.
Cell phones are banned, coolers aren't allowed, and beer is a no-no. Spectators, Belgie says, are more of a bother than a blessing to them.
"They would rather do it for the reenactors, by the reenactors - that's their motto," he says. "They don't want modern intrusions... You actually cross a time line, and when you cross that line, it is 1863. This is Gettysburg."
He's participated in events like this - most reenactors have at one point or another - but the rules get tiresome, and truly living in the field like it's the mid-19th century is less than pleasant if you're strict about it. And one can't help but get the feeling that mainstreamers roll their eyes at the thought of being "authentic."
"Authentic? The last authentic Civil War soldier was (Alfred) Woolson, and he died in 1956," Belgie says. "Everybody since then is just a reenactor. We're just recreating history so the public gets some education that they didn't get in school."
Pennsylvanian Carl Popadick, another long-time member of Daniels' staff who also portrays pirates, Revolutionary War soldiers, and everyone in between, is a bit more blunt about his feelings.
"They just don't give a [expletive]. They don't care if they teach anybody anything. They didn't want spectators, but to pull something off that size, they needed spectators to pay the way," he says. "They're just using the public - they don't care if they have a good sightline. They don't care if they're comfortable in the field or they have water. It's, 'We got your 20 bucks to get in, so we can have an event for ourselves.'"
Daniels agrees, and it's likely the history teacher in him speaking when he calls the campaigners "exceptionally selfish." And for those that sit around his camp table, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking cigars by candlelight late into the midnight hours, this blatant disregard for the public is a cardinal sin.
"We have a different slant in that we try to portray it as historically accurate as possible for the public to see. Those guys are just in it for themselves," he says. "The event last weekend, they had a handful of spectators, and they didn't care. They didn't even want [them]."
And the idea that the campaigners, who seem to have an increasing amount of influence, are trying to wrestle the entire hobby in that direction, is intolerable, even more so because they're meeting with some success - two years ago, no mention of this war between the reenactors was heard around anyone's table.
Now, it's a constant topic of conversation.
'The kids today are air-conditioned'
The other thing that worries the old guard is that the youth don't seem particularly inclined to take up the mantle that is slowly being abdicated by the graybeards. With many of the current crop of Baby Boomer reenactors reaching the age of 60 or 65, coming out into the field for a weekend isn't an option anymore, Belgie says.
"It's just physically impossible, and in fact, it's dangerous to your health," he says.
New members are needed if the hobby hopes to survive, because guys like him are "gettin' kind of tired."
Where that new blood comes from, however, is still unknown, and with kids spending their free time in front of iPhone screens and Xbox games, convincing them to come out for a weekend to learn to shoot a black powder rifle is harder than one might think.
"The kids today are air conditioned... They're not outdoor people," he says. "I could go to any high school in the country and say, 'We're not gonna' fight a battle, but we're going to go out and camp... You're going to have a rubber blanket, two wool blankets, it'll be a 90-degree day, you're going to put on three layers of wool and carry a musket that weighs 18 pounds,' and they're going to look at me like I got three heads."
Southerners tend to have better luck keeping their numbers up, and Belgie attributes this what he considers a mix of a "good propaganda system" that makes them believe that the South will "rise again" and the anti-government tendencies of its people.
Add to that the relative oddity of actually becoming a Civil War reenactor - which Belgie says has always earned him queer looks, no matter the year - and it's a tough sell to the Millennials.
Nearly everyone on Daniels' staff echoes the same sentiment; they wish they could get their kids to join them, but it rarely happens.
Belgie also notes that they've tried to help African-American regiments, such as the United States Colored Troops (USCT) and the 54th Massachusetts, recruit, but there's been a dismal response - even though 180,000 black soldiers served in the real Union ranks.
"We've tried to help [those units], but they just can't get any interest out of their communities," he says. "They're like, 'You're kidding right? I'm not doing that.'"
Daniels admits that the low turnout for Gettysburg is "a bad sign, no two ways about it," and worries that the hobby might someday shrink in popularity to that of, say, Revolutionary War reenacting, which was immensely popular during the 1970s but is now a shell of what it once was. But he seems more optimistic than Belgie, and believes that a TV miniseries like Ken Burns' 1990 PBS special "The Civil War," or a new movie in the fashion of "Glory" or "Gettysburg" could kick start things again.
"We are a culture that is attuned to what we see on television," he says.
The next couple years will be tough, though, as many old-time reenactors who stuck around just to see the Gettysburg sesquicentennial will now likely retire, he says.
"Right after this event, it's going to be like you pulled the plug in the bathtub. You're going to lose probably a quarter of the guys who are here, because they were staying in it for this," he says. "This is going to have a marked effect on reenacting."
There are some connections that will continue regardless, though, and Popadick points out that people are still closer to the Civil War than they ever were to the Revolution because of heirlooms like letters, Bibles, and other artifacts that are still being passed down within families.
"[They say] 'Oh, I still have my great-grandad's Bible, his glasses, the hat he wore.... So that's still getting passed down, and that's going to help keep this alive," he says.
Daniels also notes that over the last two years, he's seen more young kids around the camp than he used to, and there's always the hope that as the economy improves, reenactors who are either out of work or can't take off the necessary days may begin showing up again. Also, better paychecks mean that more beginners might be inclined to spend the initial $1,500 that it costs to outfit oneself with the appropriate gear.
"The economy has a lot to do with it, the price of gas has a lot to do with it, the weather obviously has a lot to do with it, but I'm feeling a little better about the hobby now than [last year]," Daniels says. "Not like super-optimistic, but I'm thinking, 'Hey you know what...'"
Nothing has been formally proposed among the reenacting hierarchy to prop up the faltering numbers.
A thing worth saving
Ask a reenactor why, what with its back to the ropes, "the hobby" is worth saving, and you'll get a variety of answers.
Daniels is of the opinion that it's important to educate the public on its history, and points out that the crushing multitudes of participants and spectators do, in fact, boost the local economy of whatever town an event is held in.
Popadick says it's important because in a nation that's famously ignorant of its own past, knowing what happened before helps us understand what's going on today. People in the British Isles, he says, not only know what happened 300 years ago, but understand that it transcends the centuries and still affects current events.
In America, that's not the case.
"Our average kids don't know anything about our history, or what happened in any time period," he says. "And what happened in the Civil War definitely affected the way we live today - it literally made America."
Plus, he points out, where else could a conversation like this even take place outside of this atmosphere?
Belgie's answer is perhaps the most revealing. It was the family stories about his great-great grandfather, William C. Louderback, a coal miner who served with the 79th Pennsylvania Volunteers, that piqued his initial interest in the war. Louderback, after all, had been a part of General Sherman's infamous "March to the Sea," which burned its way through Georgia in 1864, and saw action at several brutal battles.
But it was something that happened after Belgie's first night in the field nearly 20 years ago that cemented his place in the ranks.
He'd been dropped off that weekend by his "better half" and told, more or less, "See ya Sunday." When he arrived at the site, the reenactors pointed to a low "dog tent," told him that's where he was sleeping, and gave him a wool uniform to wear.
The next morning, he says, he awoke to a scene that was out of place in time.
"I looked out, and there's five guys sitting around a fire, they've got their pipper on [it], they're boiling coffee, they got the little pans out and they're making bacon, and I'm like, "[Expletive], this is what my great-great-grandfather saw,'" he says. "That's it. You know what I mean?"
Suddenly, he chokes up.
"God, that was a long time ago," he says quietly, sending a thousand-yard stare into the distance.
"You can read a book," Belgie says, pausing momentarily. "It ain't the same....We can't lose this. And I don't know how we're gonna save it, but there's got to be a way to do it."
Whatever their plan is, they'd better start soon. Or else, like the souls of the men they portray, they may end up haunting these fields, wondering what went wrong, and wishing they had one last chance to do it differently.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/215471381_New_Jersey_reenactors_take_the_field_for_Gettysburg_s_150th_anniversary.html?page=all
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