For two events in the spring of 2005 Columbia Rifles member John “Perfesser” Tobey, after close to thirty years of reenacting as an infantryman, finally fulfilled a fantasy of sorts, and attended two events—the Neshaminy reenactment in southern Pennsylvania and McDowell, Virginia—as a cavalryman…on a horse, and everything. This is his story of his experience as a cavalier, or caballero, or something. — Ed.

Why Did I Do It?
I’ve been portraying an infantryman since my first reenactment in 1975. For me, the reenactor groups have changed, and I’ve dabbled in other time periods, and the color of the uniform has even changed now and then—but my impressions have always been bound to terra firma. It was probably for this reason that that my wife raised her eyebrows when I told her about my intention to try mounted Civil War cavalry. After looking at me for a few seconds she said, “Why would you want to do that? Is this some kind of reenactor mid-life crisis?”
I still chuckle about that one. The circumstances that lead to me joining the “critter soldiers” ranks for a couple events were actually pretty simple.
It all started at the 2004 Columbia Rifles Camp of Instruction, when Tom Craig—who, as most of you know, reenacts both as an infantryman and as a mounted cavalryman—gave a very interesting presentation on Civil War cavalry. While talking with him afterward, he sensed my interest and offered me an opportunity to “saddle up” with him for an event. The “ideal” cavalry gig was being planned for April 2005 (Lee’s Final Retreat), and if I could make or otherwise get my hands on some of the gear necessary to ride, his group would supply the horse. It sounded like the perfect deal—something new and interesting, for little cost.
I didn’t anticipate any problems. I used to ride when I lived on my family’s farm—over twenty years ago, and never with a saddle—and I have a shop and experience making reproduction historical leathers (but little knowledge of horse tack) and had been a Civil War reenactor for a long time (a lá Shank’s Mare).
The future looked bright, and I was going to try something new and different, just to see what it was like, y’know.

The Shop Phase
The rest of 2004 was spent gathering information to make the items necessary to ride. It turned out that Tom’s group had weapons and horses to loan, but a much smaller supply of tack. For this reason, I initially concentrated on making horse gear.
The first item manufactured was called a link strap, because I already owned an original. A simple strap with a bar buckle at one end and a snap hook at the other, they were used to link horses together when the cavalrymen were fighting on foot—they enabled one man to hold four horses. It was easy to construct, save one small detail. According to the experts, all period tack buckles had a distinctive tongue that came to a sharp point like a bird’s beak. I ordered the bar buckles from Jan Berger, and sure enough, they had pointy tongues, unlike some farby buckles I had procured that had spade-shaped tongues resembling human fingertips. These buckles will play a part later in the story.
The next item made was called a headstall, which is basically a small harness put over the horse’s head to hold the bit in the horse’s mouth. I managed to secure an original and, while making a pattern from it, got my first surprise. I had always assumed that horse tack would be relatively crude in construction—after all, it was utilitarian, heavyweight, and relatively short-lived. In reality, the fitting up and stitching was just as fine as a Federal infantry cap pouch! (which are a pain to make). Instead of an afternoon’s work, that headstall took almost two full days to complete.
I got the opportunity to see a complete collection of good reproduction cavalry tack in December 2004 when I hooked up with Charles Heath at the North Collins, N.Y. living history, which he attended as a Confederate cavalryman with a full set of kit, minus the beast. I measured some items that I would never be able to find originals of and, best of all, he loaned me a pair of saddlebags and a saddle blanket that I could use in my caballero adventures. Scratch two more items off the list!
One of Charles’s items that I copied was called a surcingle. This item was basically a long strap made from wide cloth webbing, with leather fittings at both ends consisting of a buckle held on by a chape at one end, and a long billet at the other. It was used as sort of “safety” strap to keep the saddle on the horse; it’s passed around the horse’s belly, and over the seat of the saddle. I don’t normally copy reproductions, but I knew I’d never be able to find an original in time because they’re quite rare. Although the pattern I got from Charles’s repro proved to be okay, I did two things while making my copy that I later regretted. The roller buckle I used needed the proper tongue; using Jan’s bar buckle as a template, I made a pointy one as a replacement for an otherwise farby buckle. I had exhausted my supply of black oil dye for the leather fittings, so I mixed up a batch of alcohol-based “old tyme” dye and, oh, how I hated that stuff later. But I’m getting ahead of myself….
The biggest part of the tack project, of course, was the M1859 McClellan saddle. I knew of a leatherworker who was selling a brand-new reproduction saddletree; he had purchased it for a customer years earlier and never finished it. A saddletree is basically the “seat” of the saddle. Made of wood and covered with rawhide, it’s the thing that the rider actually sits on, and serves as sort of a “frame” for the leather parts that are all riveted or screwed to it. The tree looked all right to my uneducated eye, so I bought it.
The first work on the saddle consisted of making the skirts, which are two large flaps of leather that are screwed to the tree and hang down either side of the horse. I didn’t have an original to copy, so I used (choke, choke) a photograph to make the skirts. The top edge of each skirt needed to be tapered (in leatherwork, called “skiving”) to a fine edge where the skirt comes in contact with the underside of the rider’s leg. This was another a big miscalculation of time on my part; it was a tough job because I used very dense, high-quality leather, and it took almost two days to make them. When I was finished, I dyed them with my “old tyme” dye and eyed them proudly—at the time, I thought they looked mighty fine. The brass screws used to attach the skirts were another matter; I took a properly-sized metric screw to the hardware store as a sample, not knowing precisely what the originals looked like, Murphy’s Law says that I should have expected to get the wrong ones, and I did.
At this point, I got an original saddle and my heart sank as I compared it with my mostly-finished reproduction. My repro saddletree was shaped differently, and was much, much larger than the original. The original trees were made in three sizes, and the original specimen that I was eying up was the largest size. In contrast, my repro was almost two full inches longer in the seat than the original!! Consequently, my skirts were also too large. I also discovered the fact that my skirt screws were one size too large. Time was getting short and I didn’t have the time to rectify things. This unhappy rookie cavalryman would be forced to ride a saddle sized for actor Chris Farley, or maybe fatso General Irvin McDowell, with screw heads that looked huge in comparison with an original.
The stirrup straps got buckles that I retrofitted with the pointy tongues and also got the perfidious homemade dye. Little did I know then, but the stirrups and hoods would play a very big role in my debut as a horseman. The tread—the wooden part of the stirrup where the rider’s foot rests—on original stirrups was not very wide and had a shallow leather hood riveted to the front of it. They were made this way to prevent the rider’s foot from slipping through the front and getting caught in the stirrup if the rider was thrown. As a result, the rider could only fit the tip of his foot in the stirrup—little more than his toes, or so it seemed. I never gave it a thought—I copied the original and moved on. When I went to my supplier to get a modern copy of the wooden portion of the stirrup (which are still made, sort of), I showed him what I was making and he asked, “You’re going to put that small hood on this narrow stirrup?”
“Of course,” I answered haughtily, “because that’s what’s on the original.”
“Okay,” says he. “You know what you’re doing.”
It turned out he was a poor judge of my level of knowledge, equestrian skills, or both.
The quarter-straps and girth straps were added without any problem, in conjunction with the girth, they are the means by which the saddletree is held onto the horse. The girth was fairly easy to make, although most originals had cloth girths and my copy was based on my original that was an all-leather version.
The last things I had to do was to nail on the brass fittings, called escutcheon plates, and make the blanket roll straps that are attached to the front and back of the saddle seat. After buckling on the loaner saddlebags, my rig was complete. The only major pieces I lacked were a halter and a nosebag, of which loaners were being provided by the horse owner.
It was about this time—early February 2005—that I learned that the Lee’s Final Retreat event was cancelled. Tom Craig’s invitation still stood for two other events. The first event was Neshaminy—a mainstream event that was going to function as a sort of cavalry “shake down” for McDowell, which was the weekend after Neshaminy. So, my cavalry days were going to be April 29-May 1, and May 6-8, 2005.
With the horse gear out of the way and some time on my hands, I worked on making as much of a cavalryman’s accouterments as possible given the time available: a belt, pistol cartridge box, holster, saber knot, and a carbine sling. I already owned a revolver and I could use my infantry cap pouch; I would borrow a carbine, carbine box, and saber.
So much for minutia! With a week to go, I got on the Internet and consumed all the information I could about riding and Civil War cavalry tactics. I was ready to go.
At least I thought I was.

Neshaminy
On the last weekend in April, with brand-new kit packed up, I headed for southern Pennsylvania. I arrived and found the Federal cavalry camp unoccupied except for a few horses and the man who owned them, named John Clark. He pointed out the horse I would be riding for the next couple weekends: a dun gelding named “Chance”. I don’t remember everything he told me during that introduction, but I recall him saying that, although Chance was older, he could move plenty fast when he wanted to (which turned out to be true), and that he had “square wheels.” I asked John to explain this last phrase, figuring that it was some arcane horse-speak. In response and with a very wry smile, he said, “Oh, you’ll find out.”
In retrospect, Chance and I seemed to be the perfect pair because we share some important similarities: both of us are short, stout, and getting a little long in the tooth for a young creature’s game.
Eventually, the rest of the weekend-troopers wandered in or rode into camp: Tom Craig, Bill Boerth, Bill King, Jerry Todd, and Dave Myrick.
The next morning (Saturday), we saddled up for a practice ride. With Tom Craig showing me the ropes, we got Chance into his Tobey-made equipment. To my surprise, everything fit quite well. My first indication that the weekend might not be cakewalk came a few minutes later when I mounted for the first time.
“Funny,” I thought, “I don’t recall that process being so difficult.” Getting on board took quite an effort. Sergeant Tom waved, “Forward,” and off we went. That’s when my troubles really started.
As we left the camp at a walk, some of the pointy buckle tongues began stabbing me through my kersey trousers. The surcingle buckle was gouging a hole in my butt, and the two buckles on the stirrup straps (that I had put on backward) were cutting into my shins. A cavalryman’s shins are particularly vulnerable, which I suppose is one reason that they often wore boots.
When we got out of camp, we broke into a trot. This is where I learned the meaning of “square wheeled horse”. While the other riders were getting bounced a bit, I was sitting on a jackhammer—if I didn’t keep my mouth firmly shut, my teeth clacked together! The buckles redoubled their efforts to pierce my hide and, worse yet, my feet kept slipping out of the stirrups. With my feet out of the stirrups I was unable to use my legs for balance my body atop the beast, nor for shock absorbers, and the jarring became incredible. The carbine was bouncing around on the left, pulling on the sling and trying to yank me off the horse in that direction. I managed to keep up with the others (for a while, at least) by clenching the sides of the horse with my legs and gritting my teeth. After a half-hour or less, my legs began to ache, and my knees felt like someone had driven nails into them. To add insult to injury, my homemade dye was coming off on everything, and my hands and trousers were getting blacker by the minute.
My comrades noticed my plight, and suggested that I dismount and adjust the stirrup straps. I was reluctant to get down, however, because of the trouble I had mounting the first time, and now that my legs were stove in, I was worried about being able to remount at all. Eventually, I had to dismount because the girth had loosened and I feared that the saddle, rider, and horse would all part company. Our group stopped in a grassy field and allowed me to dismount and, sure enough, I almost fell flat on my face when I hit the ground.
I adjusted and tightened the offending straps, and tried to re-mount. The other guys sat on their horses, patiently offering me advice as I tried numerous times to get back on, but to no avail. My legs were too weak to even stand very well, much less walk or mount the horse, and I could not get my foot far enough into the stirrup to get a purchase. Eventually, Tom led me to a picnic table that I used like a loading dock to get back into the saddle. On our return to camp, I was determined to make some changes to my rig.
First, I removed the stirrup straps and turned them around, so no more buckles in the shins. I used the infamous and evil “John Tobey’s Damned Knife” (sorry, Roger) to cut out the front of the stirrup hoods, making it possible to fit my feet further into the stirrups. Strangely enough, that cursed knife did this job with ease; it probably enjoyed mutilating the meticulously reproduced hoods. It turns out that some original saddles show this same modification. How the original riders managed to keep their feet in the shallow stirrups that I copied is a mystery to me. When I looked at the other saddles in the group, most of them had deeper stirrup hoods and some of them had wider stirrups. I also discarded the sweat leathers, as they made adjusting the stirrup straps much more difficult.
Although I continually had trouble getting on the damned animal, I was able to survive the rest of the event.
The sham battle was interesting because it was my first time in “action” with the cavalry. We rode out and watched while the opposing forces arrived on the field and the artillery thundered away, and it turns out, not surprisingly, that a horse is an excellent vantage point for watching a battle.
We finally rode out to engage the Rebel horsey-boys. We exchanged pistol and carbine fire, drew sabers, and rode in to engage in what is often called “The Dance of the Saber Faeries.” Tom’s description of this activity at the 2004 Columbia Rifles Camp of Instruction was pretty accurate: in most cases, an opposing cavalryman will ride past you to lightly “clink” his sword against yours. One Rebel, however, appeared to have stock in the sword factory because he hit my sword hard enough to jar my arm. Although this style of fencing undoubtedly looked more authentic, it was rough on the equipment. Borrowed equipment, I might add.
At any rate, when the event ended on Sunday, a very sore rookie cavalryman packed his gear into his truck and headed home. When I hobbled into my home, my wife Kathleen looked on with genuine alarm, because it appeared as if my back had given out again, as it had two years earlier. In fact, my back was probably the only part of me that didn’t hurt. At that point, the thought of doing it all again the following weekend was not a pleasant one!

McDowell
The aches and pains subsided over the next few days and, the next weekend, I loaded up again and took off southward for McDowell, Virginia. The rest of the cav boys and my noble steed Square Wheels Chance were already there when I arrived.
For McDowell, the prescribed uniform was the “mounted service jacket”; for those unfamiliar with this garment, suffice it to say that it’s sort of a natty shell jacket with a high collar, lots of yellow trim, and tiny brass buttons. Donning a borrowed jacket, I really felt “cavalry-ish.”
Of course, this feeling vanished when I tried to get on the damned horse. I had the same problem as at Neshaminy: while the others waited patiently, I hopped, slid, fumed, and cursed trying to get into the saddle.
In the space of ten seconds, all my problems in this regard were overcome. Dave Myrick happened to watch what I was doing and said, “Stand closer to the horse when you try to mount.” Presto! I was in the saddle in the next bound. I never had trouble mounting again.
Unlike Neshaminy, where we had to carry water to the horses in buckets, at McDowell we watered the horses in the creek. The other guys had warned me about another of Chance’s peccadilloes and, because I had learned to listen to their advice very carefully, this piece of information was particularly worrisome. It seemed that Chance enjoyed doing a submarine impression; when led to a body of water, he was known to roll in it, rider and all. The creek was cold, and I didn’t want to call attention to my inexperience by riding into camp soaking wet.
Sure enough, the usually-calm gelding really perked up when we rode down to water—his ears pricked up, his head came up, and he skittered down the steep bank to the water like a frisky colt. Despite my strenuous verbal objections and heaving on the reins, he took one step into the water, then another. Chance’s owner was on my left, and warned me again, “Don’t let him go too far, or he’ll take you for a swim!” Jeesh! Couldn’t he see me, straining like a clipper-ship sailor in a hurricane? All that was missing were waves of cold water, and I was sure these were soon to come as well.
As it turned out, Chance just wanted his drink to come from deeper water—perhaps the other horses had muddied the water closer to the bank—and his palate revolted against dirt-flavored refreshment. Whatever the reason, he had no intention of playing seahorse and, although he consistently worried me with his enthusiasm at the water’s edge, I remained high and dry for the entire weekend.
This event also taught me something about another piece of cavalry gear called the nosebag. Basically, it’s a bag-like device made of leather and canvas into which the horse’s grain ration is poured, and strapped over his snout. In this way not a particle of grain is wasted, as it would be if grain were poured on the ground. It does have some drawbacks, however. If the bag is left on too long, for example, the horse will sometimes blow a softball-sized booger into it. Cavalry life is certainly not for the squeamish! It’s also amusing to watch the horses’ expressions when strapped into nosebags. At first, they are intent on consuming the grain, tossing their heads or pushing the bags against the ground to reposition the kernels closer to their mouths, or just munching away with their eyes closed. After the grain is gone, they seem to realize how ridiculous they look with a bag strapped to their face, and look around for their caretakers with funny expressions, as if to say, “Okay, bub. It ain’t funny anymore. Get this thing off me!”
We were joined at this event by two other experienced cavalrymen, Lester Schumacher and John Nolan. Both of these individuals proved to be exceptionally knowledgeable about many facets of the Civil War’s mounted service.
Lester, however, unintentionally provided an example of how cavalrymen must always be watchful of their mounts and tack. While riding up Sittlington’s Hill we heard Lester (who was at the end of the column) say that his saddle was slipping. I looked around just in time to see Lester’s saddle fall off the side of his animal, depositing Lester on the ground. Fortunately, he was unhurt and his horse was nonplussed. Tom Craig rode back from the front of the column, looked at the scene, and laconically commented, “Now that, gentlemen, is what we call catastrophic tack failure.”
McDowell’s battle reenactments were pretty boring for the cavalry. We didn’t have to face opposing cavalry, and the Federal field commander seemed uncertain about what to do with us. Still, it was a memorable event for me because, as related earlier, horseback is an excellent vantage point from which to watch an event, and I was getting used to the ways of the horse soldier. This time the event ended too soon!

General Observations
Over my years in the hobby I have heard a variety of things about the mounted service; since trying it myself, I have learned that some of them are true, and others false. For instance,
1. The Cavalry Portrayal is More Complicated Than the Infantry Portrayal: True. It seems like horse soldiers have at least twice the gear to worry about. Rather than one manual of arms, cavalrymen have three: one for each of their weapons, carbine, pistol, and saber. In addition to their inanimate gear, they also must deal with the horses, which are complex mechanisms in their own right. It’s a lot to think about.
2. “Authentic” Cavalry Reenactors Are Less Concerned With Authenticity Than Infantry: False. The mounted impressionists I have met so far are concerned with authenticity, but labor under several difficulties that are not applicable to the infantry. First, there are an extremely limited number of sources for many items of their kit; in some cases, accurate reproductions are entirely unavailable. Because of their relatively small numbers, there is also an insufficient amount of research and experimentation going on relative to methods. The interest is there, but not the resources. Perhaps that will change someday.
3. Being Mounted is Less Physically Strenuous Than Being on Foot: False. I used to plod along at reenactments, watching the “critter soldiers” riding around and thinking how much better I would feel if I were mounted. Perhaps this is the viewpoint of a non-rider, but mounted reenacting is just as hard on your body as taking Shank’s Mare. Different parts of the body are affected, that’s all. Riding is easy on the feet, but it’s hell on the legs!
4. Mounted Reenacting Can be Hazardous: Probably True. I was fortunate in two respects. First, I had a little experience around horses because I grew up on a farm. Second, the fellows who I rode with for these events were safety-minded. They mounted me on a horse that I could handle, and took time to demonstrate the safest and most efficient means of doing practically everything. On the other hand, there were times when I felt how “close to the edge” one feels while mounted. For instance, at one point during the sham battle at Neshaminy, we drew sabers and galloped on a trail across a field and into the woods. Being on a fast-moving horse is a real rush—the feeling is similar to being on a ten-foot tall motorcycle with someone else in control of the accelerator. The combination of speed and a sense for the power of the animal is exhilarating, and I laughed loudly in spite of myself. In a few seconds, however, the trail took us into the woods—still at the gallop—sword in hand, ducking branches, and hoping that Chance would stay on his feet. Needless to say, I stopped laughing and hung on for dear life. Another factor is the fact that horses can be unpredictable. On a mountain trail at McDowell, the horse in front of me decided that Chance was too close and lashed out with a hind leg, missing my knee by a few feet. In fact, about a month or two after McDowell, one of the experienced troopers actually had a hole kicked in his shin by a cranky equine. Tom told me that the best thing I could do was stay alert, which is truly good advice.
So that’s the confessions of a Columbia caballero. After this, I decided to try to finish up editing this book, see…

John Tobey is a member of the Columbia Rifles from Elmira, New York