Nick Gosling spends one unforgettable weekend at Civil War camp

I’m a greenhorn and yet already on the field of battle. A musket shot thunders across the field opposite Company A of the 12th New Hampshire regiment and a puff of smoke gives us a target to fire upon. “Form a skirmish line,” orders the colonel from my far left. The four men I had marched and drilled with in New Durham, New Hampshire, split apart, charging forward through the thick grass to play our parts in the American Civil War.
To my right is Private Roger Nason, a computer manager for Liberty Mutual in Portsmouth, whose great, great, great grandfather posthumously earned a Medal of Honor at the Battle of Gettysburg. To my left stands Private Paul Burke, who doubles as the camp chaplain on Sundays, a fourth-generation Irish American and a transporter at Frisbie Memorial Hospital in Rochester. To my distant left is Corporal Lance Robicheau, an electrician from Rochester with a gruff, down-to-business attitude that disappears around the campfire when he transforms into the company jokester. As we kneel to load our muskets, the words he spoke earlier echo in my head.

“There’s a lot of talk of fighting for slavery and fighting for the Union. In the ranks tomorrow look at the guy on the left, the guy on the right, and the guy behind you because those are the guys you’re fighting for.”

On Sept. 30, 2005, I was enlisted in Company A of the 12th New Hampshire regiment to fight for the Union. The procedure took place at a recruitment camp in New Durham with the company’s hospital steward, Dan Meehan.

“Have you ever had fits?”

“Uhh, no?’ I replied.

“Are you in the habit of drinking?” Meehan asked. “Or have you ever had the horrors?”

“Not daily, no. And yeah I’ve had some nightmares.” He put no to both.

“Are you subject to the piles?”

“What? Oh, never mind. Not on a regular basis, no.”

I signed an Oath of Allegiance and was officially a private.

I was to spend the next 24 hours living, eating, drilling, marching and participating with the men of the Charles W. Canney Camp #5, part of the Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War. Based in Rochester and established four years ago by camp commander Dan Meehan, it’s one of five such camps in the state. Made up of local history buffs, many with ancestors and relatives who fought in the American Civil War, their goal is to preserve the memory of Civil War veterans through talks and demonstrations at schools and organizations, memorial raisings, and research of Civil War veterans and history.
In 2004 Canney Camp was awarded the Abraham Lincoln Award, which is given to the “most outstanding camp in the nation” by the commander-in-chief of the national Sons of Union Veterans association. It’s the only camp on the East Coast to have won this award.

Canney Camp #5 organized the New Durham Civil War encampment three years ago as a fundraiser for a Civil War Veterans monument in town. An encampment is different from a reenactment, which re-creates an event from the war, although the men of Canney Camp also have a charter for Company A of the 12th New Hampshire regiment of the Sons of Veterans Reserve, a reenactment organization.
After signing my allegiance and life to the United States Army and receiving the $200 enlistment bounty, it was time to dress in the uniform I would be wearing for the next 24 hours: a sack coat of navy blue wool; sky blue wool suspender pants which hung an inch above my shoes; wool socks; a homespun plaid shirt (a rarity and convenience among the men, he adds); and a blue woolen cap. Because of a lack of authentic size 11 shoes, I wore a pair of black Skechers I brought from home. Meehan handed me my leathers (a black leather belt with a cap box and bayonet in a sling), a cartridge box with blanks, a canteen, a haversack with plate, fork, spoon, and knife inside, a slightly rusty tin cup, and an 1853 Enfield Rifled Musket. I was dispensed to Corporal Robicheau.

The corporal showed me to my shelter, a white canvas tarp made into an A frame about five feet long and four feet wide and open at each end. The tent had belonged to a bounty jumper who tried to escape with the $200 hiring enticement the previous day. The man now resided in a pine box thanks to Private Nason’s fine shooting skills, I was warned.

All that protected my body from the damp grass was some hay strewn on the bottom of the tent and an authentic rubberized ground cloth (one of the first Goodyear inventions) over the hay. I made a silent prayer that it wouldn’t rain. The only cover I had was a wool blanket, barely long enough to protect my body. After showing me how to hang my leathers and gear on the wooden pole that supported the tent (cartridge box on the inside to protect it from dew and rain) it was time to gauge my skills at manual of arms and marching.

“Shoulder arms,” Robicheau barked, showing me the motions at the same time. I fumbled to bring the Enfield up to a position where it lay against my right shoulder, holding the trigger guard with my right hand. “Post arms,” Robicheau dropped his musket diagonally across his chest, catching the upper portion of the barrel in his left hand, his right hand remaining on the trigger guard, in a quick fluid motion. I juggled mine, almost missing the barrel as it dropped to my left hand. “We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Robicheau announced to Meehan and Nason, who sat by the fire.

“Loaded” Corporal Robicheau and I yell to Privates Nason and Burke who kneel 10 feet in front of us, their guns aimed at the distant trees. They fire off a volley and the corporal and I charge ahead of them, dropping to the ground. I cock the hammer, sweat dripping off my brow, sighting down the barrel at a copse of pines. A shot echoes from the trees, followed by a puff of smoke. My heart pounds. “Loaded” the men behind us yell. We fire, filling the air with white smoke, the smell of gunpowder everywhere. Nason and Burke rush forward.

I reach into my cartridge box, pull out a blank and rip the paper off the top with my teeth, pouring the contents of gunpowder down the barrel of the Enfield. Then cocking the hammer back to safety I grab a cap from the box on my belt and place it into position. “Loaded” I yell.

After 30 minutes of practice drills and marching, it was time for dinner, an Irish stew that Meehan had prepared and heated on the fire and some homemade bread from his house. We drank water and swigs of whiskey to stave off the dropping temperature.

Meehan became a Civil War junkie after researching his family’s genealogy 10 years ago. “I flunked history twice in high school,” he tells people when they ask about his hobby. His research turned up three family members who had been active in the Civil War, one from Massachusetts and two from Maine. So Meehan contacted a local reenactment group, the Fifth Regiment New Hampshire Volunteers, and spent a weekend with them at an encampment to learn what is was like living as a soldier in the Civil War. He’s been hooked ever since.

With dinner over, including a blueberry pie (from Auntie Hannaford’s, Meehan jokes), each man had his own technique for cleaning his utensils. I copied Meehan by tossing my plate, food side down, into the fire to sterilize it and wiping my silverware in the grass like Robicheau. I later asked if the men ever got sick during these reenactments or encampments, and Robicheau recalled an 18-hour drive back from a reenactment with dysentery.

Around the campfire stories were swapped about New Hampshire soldiers and reenactments past. Meehan recalled the Marcey Brothers of Portsmouth, both shipbuilders. One of the brothers moved south and built a ship for the Confederate army while the other brother stayed in the area and built a Union ship. During the war the Confederates captured the Union ship while the Union captured the Confederate ship.

And the story of Thaddeaus Lowe of Jefferson, who invented the idea of using hot air-balloons to spy on the Confederate side during battles, an idea President Lincoln instantly deployed to assist the Union. Or the story of two privates from the 2nd New Hampshire regiment, who, during a fierce fight, turned aside to talk to one another about owed debts. After the exchange of currency and thanks, they continued fighting, side by side.

The men remembered some of their previous reenactments with the Fifth New Hampshire Regiment Volunteers, a group of reenactors from throughout New England, based in Amherst. They remembered the Burkittsville reenactment and the Gettysburg Anniversary reenactments every five years with 20,000 men from around the world, including international reenactors from Australia, Great Britain, France and other European countries. Several of the men also participate in other reenactments, including events for the Revolutionary War, World War I and World War II.

By midmorning on Saturday several more soldiers would arrive and we’d be sharing these stories with 35 eighth graders from Henry Wilson Memorial School in Farmington, on a field trip with their history teacher, as well as about a hundred other visitors, here to learn about the life of a soldier and the medical techniques that a field hospital used, and to watch the drills and skirmishes.

But on Friday night was quiet, dark and cold beyond our campfire. At midnight, according to Private Nason’s pocket watch, we turned in, none of us expecting to sleep much. Nason and I retreated to our private tents, while the Corporal went to his larger, enclosed officers’ tent and Hospital Steward Meehan slept on a cot in his medical tent. With only the wool blanket to cover me, I quickly learned how miserable the soldiers in the Civil War had it. I slept two hours at the most that night in fitful stages, waking every half-hour. I found I slept better by the fire, fed during the night by any soldiers who couldn’t sleep or needed warmth. I lay on the grass, covered by the blanket, never wishing for morning more in my life. I watched as fingers of light crept over the trees in the distance, heralding light and warmth.

I dozed just before six and woke again with the sun fully risen. Coffee was brewing and Meehan was preparing a breakfast of eggs and bacon. I downed several cups of black coffee, bare of sugar or milk. As we sat around the campfire, I asked the three men why they did this every year and why they went to other encampments and reenactments. “We’re deranged,” answered Meehan jokingly. Robicheau offered another explanation. “It’s one thing to read about it in your nice comfy chair but if you’re out doing it, it puts a tangible feeling to it.” To these history junkies, nothing could be better than the feeling of time travel mixed with the excitement of camping. Plus being able to live the way their ancestors did, the men agreed. “I look forward to this all year,” says Private Nason. “Starting next Monday I’ll look forward to next year’s event.”