LIBERTY, N.Y. – The tranquility of the weekend of July 29-31, 2005 was probably marred—perhaps indelibly—by the presence of the “Yellow Pelicans” of the 2nd Florida Infantry, Co. C at the annual Civil War reenactment at Walnut Mountain Park, near the town of Liberty in New York State’s Catskill Mountains. While the event is a decidedly “mainstream” affair, the opportunity of having a free hand to improve the site’s earthworks was too strong a temptation. For this reason the Liberty event was selected as the 2005 victim of the 2nd Florida, Co. C’s annual outing—the Fleeing Floridians being, of course, the Columbia Rifles’ Confederate alter-ego.
Tom Craig served as our event point-of-contact and managed the job easily, later writing, “Communication, if you can call it that, with the event hosts required only a few emails and some general ass scratching.”
The company was comprised of about fifteen enlisted men from the CR, the Living History Guild, a Rhode Island mess called Slocum's Avengers (most of whom wound up joining the CR afterward), and others all serving under the capable command of Lt. “Lanky” Pete “I Want Rifle Pits” Smith.
In a vehicle loaded with lumber and tools, I arrived at the event in the company of the Lieutenant on Friday evening at precisely the same time as our 1st Sergeant, the inexplicable Tom Craig. Also arriving at the same time was the mageirocophobic Dane Utter. Registration was short, sweet, and—in the case of the gal behind the registration desk—cute. Sergeant Tom agreed, “Registration was a breeze: none of those fussy inspections, no paperwork to fill out, and a pretty cute chick at the desk to boot!” After checking in, we explored the site and its wonders. The event even boasted one hawker of repro wares of dubious historical accuracy, so there was no “sutler row” for anyone to sham ‘n glam on.
Much of the park is wooded and features extensive walking trails and some steep slopes. Sadly the area used for two of the reenactment “battles” is not much larger than the neighboring and highly visible baseball diamond (complete with chain-link backstop). The presence of several earthen artillery embrasures buttressed by timbers was a nice touch to help offset the backstop but, in such a confined area, not much could really be done. The portion of the site that most interested us, however, was where the last battle on Sunday was to be “fought”—near the rear of the site.
This area featured a small open space at the foot of a moderately sized hill. Curving along the slope of the hill are two lines of earthworks: the first about one-third of the way up, and the second around the military crest. These works and their log revetments were dug a number of years ago—they were present when some CRs visited the site in 1995—and had fallen into decay, with dirt and sod filling in much of their limited depth. A number of large trees had also grown in the space between the lines of works, obscuring the field of fire from the trenches to the field below. As darkness settled in we selected the upper line of works for our attentions the following day and nestled down to sleep.
It was said that Chawls Heef arrived sometime around midnight, although I cannot attest to this because I was busy replicating the sound of head-logs being sawed by poorly maintained chainsaws. Sergeant Tom noted, however, “Sometime before midnight Charles rolled in with a fifteen-minute stand-up routine about the horrors of driving through Pennsylvania.”
Saturday morning dawned and so did the realization in our ranks that, with our usual Florida leadership being absent, we would have no schedule of activities to adhere to. How would we survive not having something happening every five minutes for the entire weekend? (Yes, you know who I’m talkin’ about.) Panic ensued and, for a little while, suicide looked like the best option. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed—Lt. Lanky is really settling into his ossifer role—and we realized we could reenact for a whole weekend without a four-page schedule. Accordingly, we set about doing the labor that attracted us to the event in the first place: earthworks. It was decided that we would deepen the upper trench a few feet before constructing that neat stuff out front that tangles up approaching enemy lines and columns: stuff like fraise, abatis, hooziwhatsits, and other assorted obstructing structures.
In a little while, the boys of the 2nd Florida, Co. C were at work with picks, grub hoes, and mattocks chopping away at the thick layer of sod that nearly filled the upper trench. Unfortunately and as usual, a Sunshine State Quartermaster General goof-up meant that we were very light in the shovel department, and we had somehow managed to bring only one such highly useful “implement of destruction”. So dire was our need for shovels that we were forced to break out Brian Swartz’s non-period trunk-shovel. And yes, we also got all authentic by using canteen halves, plates, and our hands, and found that you sure don’t move much dirt that way. Not with a fifteen man company, at least, and 100 or more yards of fieldworks to dig out.
The work progressed very slowly. Just peeling the sod away proved to be a major undertaking, especially considering the rocky soil, the thickness of the sod, and the generally “doughy” condition of the Floridian work force. A brief experiment using a canteen half as a shovel proved how poorly that item works when trying to shovel through heavy Catskill Mountain soils. We ended up scooping the sod and loose earth out of the works with our bare hands.
Yes, filth was the order of the day. At least our brownish/tannish uniforms didn’t show the dirt that much.
At one end of the works we uncovered a rock of prodigious size that could not be moved for love or money or pie.
Our officer proved a capital fellow and pitched into the work along side the men. Many a knee was dirtied and many a hand blistered as the fieldworks slowly began to resemble something other than a grassy swale for storm water. Unfortunately, the rocky soil got the better of us and we conceded defeat insofar as we settled on something less than the appropriate depth for the trench, and a firing step certainly wasn’t necessary. The final product would shelter a man lying prone, and at several places was excavated enough to shelter a man firing while kneeling. More depth was going to require more digging than we were prepared to do without a backhoe…wait, this wasn’t Recon 2.5…
Lt. Smith’s rifle pits out on the picket line would have to wait.
The Lieutenant and First Sergeant attended the officers’ meeting and discovered that, despite our company’s small number, the 2nd Florida, Co. C comprised almost one-third of the Confederate host. The colonel commanding this immense display of grayclad arms (not to mention New York Confederate manhood) must have ladled a lot of guilt onto the Sunshine State’s military leadership because Lt Lanky eventually agreed to Florida’s participation in not only dress parade, but also the morning tactical/shoot-‘em-up affair. Sergeant Tom related it as, “The colonel begged us to take part in the tactical. Despite our protestations to the contrary, and our warning of the 2nd Florida being less than reliable in combat, he persisted, and Lt Smith gave in to stop the man before he broke down in tears.”
Golly! A shoot-‘em-up! Woo-hoo!
Your humble correspondent chose not to attend the morning’s festivities and remained behind to guard the camp. While the rest of the company looked for the first opportunity to flee, I shoveled sod and reset some head-logs. I brought a couple armloads of scrap flat-stock with me and this served as material to make stakes, flooring, and impromptu fraise-type-thingies.
Meanwhile, the rest of the company attended the morning festivities. Quoth First Sergeant Tom:
“The dress parade and tactical that followed were two acts out of some twisted Twilight Zone-sorta-thing. We had a thirty-man dress parade, followed by an address by Ol' Marse Rob’t hisself! That's right, old Bobby Lee was there to urge us on to fight ‘those people’. Apparently they spent the extra cash and went for the super sized R. E. Lee because this guy was an eminence in himself. During most of the tactical we were held in reserve and managed to fire less than twenty rounds amongst the entire company before fleeing shamelessly through the woods and a minor archeology site.”
After a suitable rest period, our boys resumed their labors on the works. While a small contingent played in the dirt, several hands with axes began chopping trees to construct abatis. We had felled a few smallish trees in front of the works when the event organizer wandered by and suggested that we not clear-cut all the trees from the face of the hill. Although we hadn’t really intended to get that dramatic, clearing the trees from the hill would have gone a long way towards improving the “look” of the works, not to mention giving us something resembling a field of fire that wouldn’t have caused old D.H. Mahan a heart attack. However, the event site is a public park and creating a desolate wasteland in the name of “cool-looking fieldworks” didn’t sit well with the local gentry. Fortunately, there were plenty of second growth trees at the top of the hill, behind our works, that we could chop, hack, and otherwise destroy and defoliate. The locust trees were particularly prized for building abatis because of their thorny branches.
The boys marched out for the afternoon “spectator battle” leaving me as the camp guard again. After digging a bit more I settled down for some restful sentry duty, with my back against a nice shady tree. Thankfully, no one tried to steal our fieldworks, allowing me the opportunity to have a fascinating conversation with an errant mole that scuttled in and out of the piles of spoil thrown in front of the revetment.
Apparently, the Reb high command was starting to catch on to the Yellow Pelicans’ flighty shenanigans because they deployed our boys as skirmishers for the battle, thus robbing them of the best opportunity for a speedy getaway early in the fight. Quoth Chawls:
“We deployed as skirmishers, and got our asses handed to us. We reformed in some shade, re-deployed on the left flank, and got waxed by double canister. Our initial objective appeared to the heavenly libations in the vicinity of the White Star Saloon [saloon portrayal at the event]. No man questioned the order to move forward, but we were slowed tremendously by a small fence. A fenceling, it was. Drat! Foiled again! Once again the image of the 2nd Florida sprinting to the rear—as fast as portly, middle aged men can ‘sprint’—was burned into the minds of spectators and participants alike.”
After a suitable rest period our thoughts turned towards supper, or whatever the hell it is the evening meal was called in the Civil War. Included in our registration fee was the price of a very nice chicken supper, complete with corn on the cob and potato salad, served by a pleasantly configured female of the blonde variety. Seconds were consumed and infantile speculation freely indulged in.
After supper we sauntered back to camp to witness an arcane rite performed by members of the Living History Guild for participants in the previous month’s “Elmira Death March” event: Dane Utter, Kevin O’Beirne (absent), me, and at least one of Charles Heath were admitted into the exclusive “Loyal Order of Teutonic Twig-Eating Mountain Goats”. Because I am forbidden to discuss the Order on pain of having to eat my own kidneys, I shall refrain from further description. Photographic evidence shall have to suffice. And I hate the taste of kidney.
Later in the evening the company ambled down to the afternoon’s “battleground” and visited the now famous “White Star Saloon”. This is an excellent portrayal of a travelling period saloon, staffed by some very knowledgeable civilian impressionists. There our innocent lads were introduced to a host of vices such as drinking period alcoholic cocktails and engaging in card playing and other 1860s games of chance. As the whole display was something that a virtuous man should not abide, I walked back to camp and settled in for the night. Rumour has it one of our newer members became caught up in the liquid atmosphere and took the opportunity to “bark at ants”. While he shall remain nameless in this article, all who were there know his identity…
Sunday dawned with nary a bugle call—and we were damn glad for it, too. After a scant breakfast, our intrepid trench rats resumed their labours while the Lieutenant and First Sergeant walked down the hill to the scheduled daily officers’ meeting. Apparently, the entire Confederate officer corps was still felling a katzenjammer because, other than Lt. Lanky and First Sergeant Tom, no one else showed up. We were later made to understand that the meeting was pushed back an hour to allow for more time for head-clearing after a rough Saturday night. Thoroughly disgusted, the 2nd Florida, Co. C opted out of dress parade and any other flummery in favour of finishing our fieldworks.
Joe Bordonaro (1st Pennsylvania Reserves/1st Maine Cavalry) arrived and joined our ranks. More small locust trees were felled and placed in front of the line…er, in front of our line; see, we were building the abatis between our line of works and the lower line. To hell with it. No one will ever excavate out the eroded lower trench anyway.
In the interest of safety we did not sharpen the branches of our abatis or point them towards the Vile Yankees’ probable direction of attack, and the thorns on the locust tree branches were thought to be a sufficient deterrent for the crew we were to confront. Later events proved the wisdom of this concession.
We noted with some interest that it takes a heck of a lot of trees to make even a hundred yards of half-assed abatis, and proper abatis would no doubt consume a much larger quantity of wood. Add to this all the wood used for head logs, revetments, flooring for artillery, and other fieldworks needs, and we quickly caught on that a few lines of fieldworks could consume a small forest.
To the abounding joy of Lt. Lanky, two rifle pits were excavated well out in front of the lower line of trenches. Caleb Horton—“seized with some sort of mania” as Sergeant Tom later put it—labored mightily to place fraise in any perceived gap in our abatis.
By some strange, atmospheric effect, we were treated to an hours-long recital from the public address system of one of the summer camps near the event site. While it might be unfair to judge a person based solely upon the sound of their voice, all present expressed sympathy with whatever male would marry that hectoring, nasal-voiced announcer.
As the time for the Sunday rendezvous with destiny (i.e., the “battle”) approached, the Confederate artillery rolled into the field. Rather than use the artillery emplacements already built on the top of the hill, the MO-ron Boom-Boom Boys decided to place their guns in front of the first line of fieldworks—damn near in line with our rifle pits. Maybe this bit of military idiocy was so that they’d be easy to capture and haul off, and so that the spectators could see all that nice, bright red tape trim.
As the time for the “rendezvous with destiny” neared, Lt. Lanky ordered the company to fall in for roll call. It was about this time that a rotund fellow with modern glasses and a K-mart General’s uniform came by to “inspect” us and deliver some inane/insane words of encouragement. This bespangled goober calmly walked back in forth behind our line for the whole “battle” as if silently watching the unfolding of his moronic master plan.
The ball opened. Oh no!
The Federal infantry advanced through the woods on the far side of the meadow, brushing back the Confederate skirmishers as they came. Meanwhile the artillery folks of the two sides blazed away at each other from the astounding distance of approximately fifty yards. Not surprisingly, their dueling barrages inflicted few “casualties”.
We crouched expectantly in our works, confident we could repel any attack the Bluebellies would hurl at us.
Chawls observed, “Our abatis was not as high as it would have been in 1864, but it was mostly thorny locust, and it stopped the Yankee horde. Well, both companies of Federals by the time of the afternoon battle. I have to say some Reb eyes were poppin' when they came around the corner and laid eyes on the refurbished works for the first time.”
The Federal infantry then advanced into the field in preparation for an assault on our stout works. At this point the rest of the Confederate force worked its way up behind us and occupied our imposing line. After a timorous advance the Federals must have been touched by the Valkyries because they launched a banzai/death charge thing against our abatis. Most fell before reaching the barrier but a few made spectacular “deaths” and fell on top of our abatis. I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t sharpen the branches properly because it’d likely have speared a Yank or two. The thorns on the locust tree branches must have caused serious discomfort to any who fell on them. Then one of the Confederate yahoos launched himself down the hill and sprang fully upon the lone “Yank who would not die” in a bit a unscripted hand to hand nonsense.
Finally the “casualties” arose and brushed themselves off. The Floridians gathered for a group photo and numerous goodbyes before heading for their homes. Only the memory and a piquant odor of ass-sap remained to mark that once, the Yellow Pelicans had “fought” and fled here.
The dirt, however, was monument to the fact that the “Floridians” had worked and sweated on the spot. With those works in place, no Yank will ever again dare attack Walnut Mountain if he knows what’s good for him.
“Run away! Run away!”

“Sparky” Henion is a member of the Columbia Rifles from western New York State. He is a well-known lover of pie.