Chin Music from a Greyhound

The Union artillery fired as a whole, in two’s or three’s at once, or sometimes one after the other from right to left. Randomly placed ground charges hurled potting soil and corkboard high into the air, while aerial bursts cracked with an ear splitting snap. The wind was blowing all that acrid smoke into the faces of all those paying men, women, and kids. Something a little extra on your baloney sandwich, perhaps? Before long these spectators would be using their precious bottled water to wash the grit out of their eyes and teeth. After dozens of loud artillery rounds had been vomited back and forth for about a half-hour, a calm settled over the scene. Ammunition limbers were wheeled away so they would not be in the line of fire once the infantry opened up. You never want to get too close to an artillery ammunition box with a flashing musket. You’re asking for a one way ticket to eternal damnation if a spark from your poorly aimed musket accidentally ignites the rounds in this ammo box. With the big guns silent, Union soldiers manned the split rail fence. Everyone else took positions as mentioned earlier, loaded their individual muskets, and anxiously awaited the appearance of Lee’s Legions. I had been using John Maki’s 1842 Springfield the entire weekend. I don’t know why I didn’t bring my own musket. I guess if John couldn’t be at Gettysburg in person, then at least his musket would. I should also note that I’d brought 300 rounds with me to the event. However, as a rule, First Sergeants rarely fire their musket in combat. The First Sergeant normally looks after the needs of his men, whether it is in weapons repair, ammunition resupply, or getting the men in proper alignment during the heat of battle. I may have fired some cartridges during the previous two days or I may have loaned some out. Nevertheless, I had at least one hundred rounds available for day 3 and I planned on making my musket sizzle. A sudden movement was detected from the tree line. Another gasp and squeal came from the crowd as the tree limbs parted, like the Red Sea, and out came the dreaded gray swarm; too many to count without taking your shoes off. They must have numbered nearly six thousand, for they were as many as the blades of grass. Quickly, but with precision, the Confederates formed lines of battle facing the Union lines. There were two or three lines in front of the formation with the rest following behind in reserve. Nearly a thousand men and at least six blood red battle flags were in each double rank of men. One hundred and twenty-five years earlier, the Union defenders on Cemetery Ridge had been awestruck on how grand the spectacle of the Confederate march looked. Here we were, in 1988, making the same comparisons. It was a thrilling site to behold, that massive gray wall inching slowly forward like an unstoppable tidal wave. The Confederate legions were advancing and began presenting a wider front by some shifting of forces. It looked like an attempt to outflank us and try to draw our attention away from the heavier blunt force advancing up from the center. I’m reminded of the tactics used by the ZULU warriors in the movie of the same name. The front rank of the attacking warriors was like the horns of an attacking bull, but the true strength lay in what was to follow-a type of battering ram up the center. Whatever fears our commanding general had on the proceedings, he was quick to act by ordering an extra battalion to strengthen both flanks, while instructing the reserves to stand by. The enemy continued their parade ground pace until they got to within one hundred yards of our lines, then they halted, and a hot debate with blazing muskets was commenced by both sides. It was load and fire as fast as you can. There was no firing by the drum or any other fancy trick shooting this day. Load and fire at will. Officers and file closers, in the rear of each company of men, ripped open fresh packs of cartridges as the men needed them or unclogged fouled muskets as they got dirty. Our battalion occupied part of the left wing of the Grand Union army. We were about mid-center. Thirty yards in front of us, our comrades in blue hugged the rail fence while we threw blazing volumes of smoke over their horizontal bodies. These boys dare not stand up! All up and down the entire blue line it was the same story. Muskets roared from those that stood, knelt, or lay prone behind that long rail fence. Ramrods are never used during a reenactment. For safety reasons someone might forget to pull it out, then just imagine the looks of embarrassment if the ramrod comes flying out when the musket is fired. During the battle reenactment, the powder is poured down the barrel then the empty paper cartridge is tossed aside. Most boys get overly excited during the heat of combat and will bite too much of the cartridge, getting a mouth full of black powder. After the battle reenactment is concluded it’s not uncommon to see dozens of lads looking like they'd applied black lipstick. After about ten rounds through the musket, the barrel tends to get about as hot as a stove. It doesn’t help that the summertime temperature is nearing the triple digits. You could wrap several strips of bacon around that musket barrel and fry ‘em extra crispy. If you try to grab that barrel with your bare hand, “brother watch out!” Some boys will splash a little canteen water on the barrel, while others might wrap a rag or handkerchief around the offending steel. Whatever the case, when the musket gets red hot, beware of an accidental cook off! That’s when the black powder blows up about half way down the hot barrel. If your face is hovering near the end of the musket barrel, you’re in for a world of pain. For safety sake, the men have always been instructed to hold the musket away from the face when reloading. If it would cook off, only the fingers would get scorched.