In March of 2000, my cousin Michael Osbourne invited me to participate in a Civil War reenactment, "The Battle of Bentonville," in North Carolina. Mike's a reenactor in the 27th South Carolina Volunteer Infantry, and he thought I might like to join him and his friend Dick Howells in the reenactment. He had a great idea: I could portray an 1860's newspaper sketch artist, in the vein of Harper's Weekly artist Alfred Waud. He e-mailed me a list of items I'd need to find, including a duster or frock coat, a wide-brimmed hat, pants designed for suspenders instead of a belt, and tall boots without laces (but not cowboy boots). I managed to locate almost everything but the pants and Mike loaned me those. The evening before the trip I trimmed my goatee down to something more befitting an artistic dandy of that period (or if you prefer, more befitting Leon Redbone). The first day of the reenactment I walked around the battlefield and encampments, sketching soldiers and cannons. I also checked out the wares sold by the "sutlers," dozens of vendors in big tents who proffered authentic replica uniforms, guns, food, toys, artwork, CD's of period music, and almost anything else with a Civil War theme. The one item we all had to buy was heavy knitted gloves, because it was a cold, cold morning. They were necessary expense, since, as Dick so eloquently put it, "It was either that or watch our fingers drop off... and then it's no more sex."

The other purchase I made that day was the super cool ambrotype photo displayed here. The talented R.R. Morgenweck had a tent set up where he practiced this primitive form of photography. The image is actually etched (or something) on the surface of the glass in negative, then treated with chemicals so that it reverses to positive. Then the image is framed with white paper behind it, which shows through the clear parts. The whole process was really amazing to watch. He had other samples of his work, and they really looked like they came out of a time machine. Mr. Morgenweck attends a lot of these reenactments. What a fun job!

That afternoon I joined all the tourists in the crowd to watch the day's battle reenactment. While we waited for the action to start, an actor dressed in a period conductor's uniform walked in front of the crowd, talking to people in a lilting Southern drawl. He had a very serious demeanor, but his one-liners were priceless. My favorite: "I apologize for the sorry state of my dress, but I had to leave Atlanta in a hurry." See, 'cause Sherman was headed there, burning everything in his path to the ground, y'see... Aw, I guess you had to be there. There were thousands of actors fighting and dying. The field where it took place was enormous. On one end, "Union" cannons were set up and firing constantly. The whole spectacle was fascinating. although the spectators had to observe everything from a distance. For safety reasons, I suppose. The next day I got a much closer view of the action. In fact, I was in the middle of it!

Bill Smith, Mike's friend from the 27th, had to leave the reenactment the next morning, so I got to take his place. I donned a spare uniform jacket and hat and practiced drilling with a black powder rifle. That darn hat... Southern soldiers, especially toward the end of the war, were more prone to wear a wide-brimmed felt hat instead of the official army issue model. This was to ward off the sun during long marches. And for the South, uniforms in general were in short supply. (The original Battle of Bentonville took place in 1865, near the tail end of the war, and supplies of all kinds were quickly running out in the Confederacy.) Well, this particular hat was a floppy, shapeless gray felt model, and it did not want to stay on my massive, melon-like head. Especially when drilling. Soldiers usually marched holding their rifles vertically, pointed high in the air, and pressed against the sides of their heads. Which pushed against the brim of my hat, forcing it upward and eventually popping it off my head. During one of my group's dramatic charges, it flew right off. Another actor retrieved it for me, but at that point I was so sick of it I just wanted to leave it where it fell. It's not as if it was capable of stopping a bullet or anything.

Before the day's reenactment began, Mike, Dick, and I checked out of our hotel and joined Mike's regiment in the woods near the battlefield. Most of the actors had camped out. Mike and Dick had decided that it was too cold for their middle-aged bodies, and I was happy to agree to a hotel room. Mike said that the ultra-hardcore reenactors wear period undergarments and brush their teeth with baking soda, for a more realistic experience. They'll even dine on military rations like hardtack. I had met a 22-year-old the day before who had marched with his regiment through seven miles of swamp on the way there. That's dedication. The reenactors who feel the need to pick apart every minutely inauthentic detail of your uniform are known as "stitch Nazis." Sure enough, one soldier immediately spotted and commented on my inauthentic "motorcycle boots." (Deal with it, buddy. They were the only ones I could find in Wichita that weren't plastered with a gigantic Harley Davidson logo. And I wasn't about to spend even more money on yet another pair of boots.) Most of the actors were very friendly and helpful as I tried to memorize all the drill maneuvers for marching and handling my rifle. The regiment marched out of the woods and lined up along with other regiments for the benefit of the tourists. Our unit's commanding officer yelled, "Who are WE?!!" and we yelled back, "South Carolina!!!" We did this three times in a row, and after the third time waved our caps in the air and whooped and hollered the "rebel yell." On the way back from the battle, I heard another version from another unit:

Officer: "Who are WE?!!"

Troops: "Artillery!!!"

Officer: "What do we DO?!!"

Troops: "Kill Yankees!!!"

Officer: "How MANY?!!"

Troops: "ALL OF 'EM!!!"

At one point, I joined in with some soldiers singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." "Cornbread," a grinning, dilapidated character from Mike's regiment, ran in front of the line of soldiers with a huge Confederate flag. We removed our hats to let the fabric run over our heads. For luck, I guess. The beauty and sadness of the moment was marred somewhat by the endless line of blue porta-johns directly behind us.

Finally it was time to start the reenactment. We marched a few miles to the battlefield and took our places. The man in line next to me explained that our group would charge toward the Union line three times, taking more casualties each time. Since this was my first reenactment, he thought I should stay alive until the last charge. He explained how I was supposed to take a hit: I had to be careful not to land on my rifle. I was to have the pouches that held caps and packets of black powder pushed to the sides of my belt so I didn't land on them. And I was supposed to drop to my knees and fall forward, so I didn't land on the guy directly behind me. A commanding officer on horseback addressed the troops, and not long after that, the fighting began. We marched and ran shoulder to shoulder, straight toward the Union army, as they "fired" on us. When ordered, we fired back, reloaded our rifles, and fired again. And again. I kept firing and reloading as ordered until we had to retreat. I admire anyone who had the nerve to do that in a real war. I had to retrieve a cap and put that on my rifle, get a paper packet of black powder, bite off the end, and pour the contents down the barrel, aim and fire while my pretend enemies were firing at me. A real soldier would also have to deal with loading the projectile and tamping the whole mess down while dodging enemy bullets.

With the first retreat and subsequent charges I had to be careful not to step on the actors portraying casualties. Running back on the second retreat I saw a weird tableau: identical twins-- burly, middle-aged men with bushy red beards-- who had died with their heads turned toward each other. While we were waiting to make the second charge, one actor from another unit ran back from the field with the "lifeless" body of another actor draped over his shoulder, his face a mask of anguished sorrow. An award-worthy performance, pal, but you're facing away from the tourists. The sick, twisted puppy in me immediately thought of Scarlett O'Hara's plea to Rhett Butler when he slung her over his shoulder and marched up that huge red staircase: "Rhett! Rhett, put me down!" Finally, on the third charge, the man who had been helping me called out, "You're hit!" I let my rifle drop and collapsed face-first onto the battlefield. With sand and black powder in my mouth, I closed my eyes and listened to the battle still raging around my corpse. Cannons roared, shaking the ground. Rifles cracked and horses thundered past. Buglers sounded the call for advance and retreat. Commanders shouted orders. Charging confederates sounded the rebel yell. The wounded moaned and prayed. When it was over, the dead staggered back up and joined their friends, laughing and smiling, shaking hands and slapping each other on the back. Then we marched back, past a legion of applauding tourists. That would have been a nice ending for those poor men back in 1865.

For a look at some drawings I made based on my reenactment photos, click here.