Event Reports
"Saylor's Creek, Back When"
Tom Fowler
Tom Fowler
PART ONE
After the 125th Anniversary Reenactments started, but long before the official one for Saylor's Creek, the 18th Va. Infantry, Company B, was itching to set things right. I have a few memories that might jog some old timers' recollections, too-so for the good of the regiment, here goes: Yours Truly drove down in his pickup truck late on a Friday night-only to have another soldier put a dent into his fender, while parking in the unmarked grass. The fact the other soldier could hardly stand up under the weight of his intoxication might just have had a part to play in the tap he delivered upon "Ol Blue", my pickup. I told him to forget it, and still smile when I see the dimple on Blue... and yes, she is still running. After the usual sorting out of the camps, one found his own people and stashed his sleeping gear [read blanket and hat], and sat around telling the truth in such a fashion that even its Mother would not recognize it. We definitely avoided the northern encampment, and hoped to be adequately downwind of it. The night was graced by a little "shine" that a nameless companion had obtained, and I was anxious to see what all the fuss was about. I honestly do not remember the rest of that evening, but there was this foul taste in my mouth…I was cured of that curiosity and possibly of snakebite, too. The morning came all too early.
At first light, we trekked off to the local Hardees, of course, and received the curious looks of the local civilians. My, weren't they dressed oddly. We had barely managed to get a little smoky smell in our clothes, and I thought us a handsome group of recruits gathered around our leader, Captain Oakes, who was almost always smoking a little brown leaf cigar through his substantial handlebar mustache. Yes, we were ready to go back and get our camp in order for the expected Saturday visitors, and get a glimpse of the federal soldiers.
We came back to a military camp-passes were given out, and call signs whispered, and men were routinely put on picket duty. There was no joking about this, and we noticed seriousnessabout the new soldiers pouring in from all over the state. Many caused us to look twice, because of their dark uniforms---naval uniforms-and we noticed that they did not camp in with us. Our officers explained to us that they would not camp with us, because they were navy and marines-and they kept separate because they wanted it that way. They even mounted their own guard. I drew the 11:00-midnight duty, and reported to the Sergeant of the guard. He explained that I would let no one pass without a written pass and the password, and put me at the little footbridge on the creek. I thought this was a little much, but we were going to do it right, and I stood there guarding a plank bridge while the camp behind me was filled with laughter and singing. When I thought this was simply the most boring part of my duties with the Grays, along came a small party of northern officers, talking loudly and carrying a jug. I challenged them, and they were rude. I cocked my bayoneted rifle, an 1862 Springfield, and was ruder, calling for the Sergeant of the guard. I didn't mind if the fracas started right here, I was going to take out at least Yankee staff officer, just for having a foul mouth. The Sergeant interrogated the group, who said they were invited over to our camp, and had absolutely no proof of any such thing. The Sergeant backed me up, and announced they had best get out of Dodge, quick-like. They did, with a gratifying amount of grumbling and cursing the Johnnies. I was beginning to like Saylor's Creek.
PART TWO
Sunday morning, hazy, foggy morning…I had kept an entire company up all night with my snoring, and they looked mean enough to take on all the federal soldiers that ever walked. We were run into line, and saw a lot of strange faces from our state…one young man was a light-skinned black man, and I noticed that everyone was kind and welcoming to him. He had to have rocks of iron to stand with us, and we knew it. There was no question, he one of "ours". Captain Oakes was pacing around, smoking the little cigars, when he called out quietly, here come the marines. And come on they did, with never a glance our way. They had their own commands, which were a far cry from our Hardee tactics [then... later we changed to Gillams]. Then came the sailors, again with their own drill, and no wish to brigade closely with us. I noticed the marines had shorter, large caliber rifled muskets, with sword bayonets... they looked sharp. All in all, we had a field pretty full of assorted southrons, feeling right feisty about this piece of soil, and there were no civilians to interfere... this was not a tactical, as I was given to understand, but was an actual reenactment of the battle. I was told that [then Captain] Hillsman had actually had family living on this place in 1865.
The 18th was moved off down across the creek, and up on Hillsman's Hill, in line of battle. We passed our sailors guarding the creek... odd, I thought. Still, to this moment, the only northern soldiers we had seen were the officers trying to barge into our camp. Suddenly, we heard firing from below the hill, along the creek, and we saw a forest of shining barrels and bayonets advancing down the creek bottom. From occasional glimpses, we knew they wore blue. Smoke rolled along the creek bottom, and still the ranks of blue poured in. Several companies of federals lined up on our left, and another several companies lined up directly opposite us. They were at least 300 yards away, but I knew I could hit them with my rifle…about this time, Captain Oakes ambled up close to me, and asked if I were measuring the distance.. "Yes Sir," I can take some out right now. I particularly was marking the person of one bossy Sergeant over there, and I allowed as how he needed shooting, anyway. Ray laughed, but examined my cartridge box anyway. "Just checking... just checking. I know you, Tom". And he did, but that is another story. Captain Hillsman was quite prominent, now, and a courier came galloping in, losing his hat, making us all laugh. He was an earnest young man, and looked like his life depended on delivering the message. We could hear firing begin over on our right. We knew that we were surrounded, and there was no place to go but forward. And so we went, slowly, under orders, and keeping in file-maddening! We wanted to get at them. Leonard Austin and Colt had spotted one unusually tall bluecoat, and they wanted him, in particular. I was determined to help out, if I could-but we never saw him again. We worked our way down to the creek, and I was shocked to see what was for all appearances, dead sailors floating in the water. I will never forget that to the day I die. I will always appreciate the original boys who took their place along the only body of water available,and stood there until overcome. It lit a little more fire in our crew, but we were under strict orders NOT to advance quickly, but stay in line, slowly, slowly, working up the hill towards the sound of the firing. Everyone else was in it but us! But the Grays were disciplined, and stayed in line, forming up by fours for the narrow road uphill, when we were confronted by a line of blue. At last, the order came, "Charge", and as I sprinted forward, the color bearer-for whatever reason under the sun-dropped the flagstaff horizontally, blocking our way. I stopped long enough to catch the flag as we snapped the staff, and handed it back to him, and turned to run uphill, only to see a tall Yankee aim his rifle right at my face from about 15 feet away and pull the trigger. I turned my head, protecting my eyes, only to hear the clear Snap! of the hammer hitting a bare nipple. He was mine, and I was still young enough at the time to crash into him, lifting him bodily off his feet and off the road. Quick as a flash, I had him around the throat with my left hand, and felt that if he had no more sense than to shoot right into my face he needed a good thrashing…"NO, no... I surrender…I quit!", he shouted. I looked at him closely, and he was a mere boy, though quite tall. I remembered the crashing of our weapons when we collided, and I quickly checked out the Springfield, which was still intact, and was shouting to the young man that black powder can blind you when someone screamed behind us. Sure enough, another federal had fired directly into our faces, and one of the Virginians was on the ground, clutching his eyes. "See?!" The kid saw, and melted away, somewhat wiser. Our soldier was able to regain himself, and stumble on-he didn't want to leave the fight.
The rest was anticlimax for us…we were supposed to lose the fight, but we did not. We walked endlessly through the woods, onto a road, and eventually back into camp. For a clerk, I had done more exercise than I was accustomed to and whole lot more, and was ready to bend my knees in a sitting position. In subsequent years, Colt Johnson went back to Saylor's Creek and found some great artifacts of the period, and Hillsman became Colonel, and I got older. Still, after our youth has fled away, and time has brought us all to a humbler place, the men of the 18th , Company B, will have some outstanding memories. We will have respect for our companions in arms, and for the honored dead. And as long as we are alive, we will have a small group of men who love us like brothers, and who stood tall with us when it mattered.
Private Thos. B. Fowler
