freeways that coursed down the length of Illinois. At dawn, they rolled down the windows to the shock of soft spring air. Whooping, they crossed the Mississippi near Cairo and entered THE SOUTH.
“‘I do not know what lies before me,’” Manning dramatically intoned, mimicking Martin Sheen playing Robert E. Lee in the movie Gettysburg , “‘it could be the ENTIRE FEDERAL ARMY…’”
Then, briefly, they discussed some pages Manning had downloaded about Mississippi cypress swamps. “Okay, we got poisonous water moccasins and copperheads native to the swamp we have to march through. Plus there’s bears and Florida panthers, whatever they are.”
“And Rebs,” added Dalton.
They rode I-57 down a corner of Missouri that skirted the river, and then merged with I-55. After Arkansas streaked by in the rain, the open road plunged into a maze of interchanges and bridges when they turned east, crossed the big river again, and sped into storm-blurred Memphis. Intent on navigation, Paul studied the road map.
“Get this,” he said, “Minnesota and Mississippi are front to back in the atlas.”
They found the exit sign for Mississippi State 72, veered south and east, left Tennessee, and emerged into a foggy rural landscape. Mississippi. Warm and wet and green.
An hour later they arrived at the Corinth city limits and turned off the highway to search for the historic downtown. Dalton pushed the 4Runner between old brick warehouses and hit the brakes. Wow—check it out, right there—a Rebel battle flag rippling in the rain, lashed to the wheel of a cannon chained on a lowboy behind a pickup.
“That’s a Napoleon, Paul,” Dalton said. “A twelve-pounder gun Howitzer, model 1857. Smoothbore bronze tube. Range two thousand yards…”
“Not exactly your shotgun in the old gun rack,” Manning quipped.
They stopped briefly to see the famous railroad crossing the Battle of Shiloh had been fought to defend, and to eat a rushed takeout lunch. Then the rain moderated and, squinting in the drizzle, they headed north out of Corinth. Following their event map, they drove into the Tennessee border country, where, finally, they found the Union encampment.
They parked next to vehicles with license plates from Illinois and Ohio in a field where men wandered in various stages of uniform dress. In the distance, a wall of dense hardwood forest was freckled with green buds.
“Christ,” Paul said, grinning, “it looks like a cross between Woodstock and a powwow for middle-aged white guys.”
Quickly, they changed into their uniforms.
“Lose the corps badge,” Manning told Paul, “we’ll be playing an Ohio regiment. Western war.”
Paul removed the silver First Minnesota cloverleaf Second Corps badge from his coat, then took off his glasses and tucked them into the glove compartment. Gingerly, he fitted the tiny nineteenth-century wire frames to his face; his peripheral vision fell away as he squinted experimentally through the narrow lenses. The road leading into the parking area was obscure in drizzle, already a memory. So this was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. Good-bye, twenty-first century.
And he couldn’t help wondering: Had I lived a hundred forty years ago, would I have been a different man?
After buckling on their leathers, they hoisted full packs, shouldered their rifles, and slogged toward a broad tent pitched at the edge of the trees. Several banquet tables set up on a plank floor were manned by vendors in period dress, who displayed clothing and accoutrements: Daley, Fall Creek, and the local sutler, C & D Jarnagin.
Paul sat at a picnic table and filled out a liability waiver, grinning when he read BLACK POWDER IS DANGEROUS in bold print, and then they lined up at the table marked with a registration sign, where Paul signed in on an old-fashioned ledger. The man behind the desk checked Paul’s registration, thumbed through a file, and then handed him a folded three-by-four-inch manila card
“‘I do not know what lies before me,’” Manning dramatically intoned, mimicking Martin Sheen playing Robert E. Lee in the movie Gettysburg , “‘it could be the ENTIRE FEDERAL ARMY…’”
Then, briefly, they discussed some pages Manning had downloaded about Mississippi cypress swamps. “Okay, we got poisonous water moccasins and copperheads native to the swamp we have to march through. Plus there’s bears and Florida panthers, whatever they are.”
“And Rebs,” added Dalton.
They rode I-57 down a corner of Missouri that skirted the river, and then merged with I-55. After Arkansas streaked by in the rain, the open road plunged into a maze of interchanges and bridges when they turned east, crossed the big river again, and sped into storm-blurred Memphis. Intent on navigation, Paul studied the road map.
“Get this,” he said, “Minnesota and Mississippi are front to back in the atlas.”
They found the exit sign for Mississippi State 72, veered south and east, left Tennessee, and emerged into a foggy rural landscape. Mississippi. Warm and wet and green.
An hour later they arrived at the Corinth city limits and turned off the highway to search for the historic downtown. Dalton pushed the 4Runner between old brick warehouses and hit the brakes. Wow—check it out, right there—a Rebel battle flag rippling in the rain, lashed to the wheel of a cannon chained on a lowboy behind a pickup.
“That’s a Napoleon, Paul,” Dalton said. “A twelve-pounder gun Howitzer, model 1857. Smoothbore bronze tube. Range two thousand yards…”
“Not exactly your shotgun in the old gun rack,” Manning quipped.
They stopped briefly to see the famous railroad crossing the Battle of Shiloh had been fought to defend, and to eat a rushed takeout lunch. Then the rain moderated and, squinting in the drizzle, they headed north out of Corinth. Following their event map, they drove into the Tennessee border country, where, finally, they found the Union encampment.
They parked next to vehicles with license plates from Illinois and Ohio in a field where men wandered in various stages of uniform dress. In the distance, a wall of dense hardwood forest was freckled with green buds.
“Christ,” Paul said, grinning, “it looks like a cross between Woodstock and a powwow for middle-aged white guys.”
Quickly, they changed into their uniforms.
“Lose the corps badge,” Manning told Paul, “we’ll be playing an Ohio regiment. Western war.”
Paul removed the silver First Minnesota cloverleaf Second Corps badge from his coat, then took off his glasses and tucked them into the glove compartment. Gingerly, he fitted the tiny nineteenth-century wire frames to his face; his peripheral vision fell away as he squinted experimentally through the narrow lenses. The road leading into the parking area was obscure in drizzle, already a memory. So this was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. Good-bye, twenty-first century.
And he couldn’t help wondering: Had I lived a hundred forty years ago, would I have been a different man?
After buckling on their leathers, they hoisted full packs, shouldered their rifles, and slogged toward a broad tent pitched at the edge of the trees. Several banquet tables set up on a plank floor were manned by vendors in period dress, who displayed clothing and accoutrements: Daley, Fall Creek, and the local sutler, C & D Jarnagin.
Paul sat at a picnic table and filled out a liability waiver, grinning when he read BLACK POWDER IS DANGEROUS in bold print, and then they lined up at the table marked with a registration sign, where Paul signed in on an old-fashioned ledger. The man behind the desk checked Paul’s registration, thumbed through a file, and then handed him a folded three-by-four-inch manila card
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