Man of War by Charlie Schroeder

Author:Charlie Schroeder [Schroeder, Charlie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781101585719
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-05-24T04:00:00+00:00

I rarely slept more than a couple hours the first night of any reenactment, because of jet lag, my inability to acclimate to hard ground and the general giddiness that came with the new experience. So when I emerged from my tent on that humid Saturday morning having caught only a few winks, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. The park’s broad lawn had been transformed into a miniature village of pup tents, and campsites buzzed with family activity. Young “colonial” and “British” kids—from babies to young adults—ate breakfast with their parents, tossed around period leather lacrosse balls and dealt old, unmarked cards at picnic tables. All this was a bit strange. So far the reenactments I’d been to had been chances for mostly guys to go off and do guy things. Sure, I saw a smattering of women here and there, but by and large I’d started to think of reenacting as a guys-by-the-fire-beating-their-fists-against-their-chests sort of weekend getaway. I certainly didn’t expect to see what looked like a massive family reunion. The ages even ran the gamut. While I waited in line to use a Porta-Potty, an elderly Revolutionary gentleman whizzed by in an electric wheelchair. Behind me a woman coddled a baby outfitted in a lace cap.

I hurried back to my tent and slipped into my garb: white knee breeches, a plain white cotton shirt that hung down to my knees (’twas the fashion), black tricorn, a pair of thigh-high yellow leggings that conjured up images of Malvolio from Twelfth Night and a farby pair of old black J.Crew shoes. As Jane said when I showed them to her, “They have a top seam and laces but they’ll pass for the weekend.”

I greeted her in my new outfit, eager to find out which unit I’d fall in with, but to my dismay she just looked at me with a shrug and said, “None.”

“Heh?” I replied.

“I’m so sorry, but our insurance won’t cover it.”

At all the other battle reenactments I’d participated in I had to pay an entrance fee that went toward an insurance policy, so I couldn’t understand why Vincennes would be any different. It was the first time I’d been told I couldn’t fight, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d flown nearly two thousand miles to St. Louis, rented a car and driven three hours to George Rogers Clarkland but I couldn’t stand in a line and hold a musket? There were four military demonstrations planned for the two-day event. I couldn’t participate in one of them? Even as a target? Apparently not. Isn’t it funny how some reenactment groups think it’s a liability to let a complete stranger handle a dangerous weapon?

As Saturday’s events got under way, I felt a little aimless and lonely, like Michael Stipe in the “Everybody Hurts” video, so I walked around the park—picture a much smaller Washington, DC, mall—and poked my head in different encampments. Under one canvas dining fly, I spotted a

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