Southern Belles, Southern Hospitality, and How Zulu Got His Nickname

*

So, there we were...**

Tired, sweaty, and hungry after the fierce fighting of the second (our first) day of battle. CK and KN2 had wandered off into the forest or something so the troops were at loose ends. Freiheit had been raised from the dead, and had ditched his silly hat, having apparently discovered "his" kepi. (At least he claimed it was his.) As it was getting late and the spectators had all departed, the concession stands (those purveying food and such) were all shut down. Not that we had all that much in the way of dinero cluttering up the pockets of our Big Yank clothing uniforms.

While you can fill up on water, after a while the body is no longer fooled, I mean, it makes you "offload" all that water eventually. And that garden hose left an odd rubbery test in one's mouth after imbibing from it. (I've noticed that these days garden hoses actually come with a warning not to drink from them. Again, I am astounded that I have managed to live this long without the constant intervention of the gubmint and their minions.)

So we began wandering about the campsites of the various units of the faux Army of the Potomac. I mean, we could smell food, we could see people eating food, perhaps someone might spare us a bowl of gruel, perhaps a stale heel of bread, maybe an apple core? Our fellow Yanks shooed us away as we were naught but young'uns dressed in odd blue clothing pretending to be reenactors. So...

We did the unthinkable, we wandered over to where the Army of Northern Virginia was encamped, I rather expected to hear banjos playing and jugs o' white lighting being passed around the campfires of our Southron adversaries. No, nothing of the sort, to my sadness, was to be heard or seen of banjos nor jugs of moonshine.

As we got closer we noticed that while our own army was cooking their provender on charcoal grills and the like, Bobby Lee's boys had actual campfires. They were also laughing and singing while the stolid (boring) blue-bellies all seemed like they were attending church or something. (And yes, I am exaggerating, a bit.)

As we cautiously approached one campfire, the lads sitting about looked up from their grub and gave us the evil eye. 'Twas then that I noticed the two comely lasses in period clothing who were attending to the lads clad in butternut and gray. (I do believe they were actually preparing the food the boys were dining on). Tentatively we sidled on over to the campfire.

"Wuhchoo fellers lookin' fer? 'Tain't no Yankees roun' cheer. We'ums hain't runnin' no dang kiddy-garden he-ah! Y'all git along now. GIT!" One of the grizzled infantrymen in gray said to us. (His accent was a bit hard to interpret, I have reproduced it here phonetically as I remember it. I believe that he was inquiring as to our presence and perhaps looked askance upon our boyish mien.)

As we hesitated, the Southron by the fire, gnawing on a most delicious-looking chicken leg, exhorted us to once again -

"GIT!"

At that moment a raven-haired vision of loveliness moved into the firelight, dark eyes flashing...

"Y'all hush Billy-Bob Joe! These boys doan mean no harm. Jes lookit them all hungry and pathetic lookin'. You blue-bellies c'mon over he-ah, don't pay that heathen by the far no never mind."

Under the gimlet eye of Billy-Bob Joe (no, that wasn't really his name, just sounds really Southern to us cold-blooded Yankees) we followed, entranced, the lovely lady who beckoned us to her lovely side. I mean, the lady (all of 18 or 19 I'm betting) was a vision on that dark night, we would have defected to the Rebs at that very moment had she but asked.

Better yet, she gave us all a piece of fire-roasted chicken. As there were only five of us I recall (Robin, Freiheit, Johnny Mac, Nute, and Your Humble Scribe) who had wandered into the camp of what turned out to be a Virginia regiment, (the rest of our unit having no sense of adventure and, we suspect, a hidden cache of food, had stayed behind) there was enough chicken for the lovely Southern belle to share with us grubby Yanks.

As we wolfed down that chicken, the vision before us beckoned her friend over, a lissome blonde of as great a beauty as the raven-haired goddess who had given us succor in our time of desperate need.

"Cheryl Ann, jes look at these poh Yankee boys, they shore look pathetic and all. But I decla-ah, I jes couldn't resist giving them somethin' to eat."

"Well Mary Lou, they are kinda cute in a young, grubby looking kinda Northern way. But I think Billy-Bob Joe wants more chicken. Are those beans ready yet?"

As we stood and marveled at these two exemplars of Southern womanhood, damned near drooling we were, and it wasn't the chicken, the raven-haired lovely turned to us and said...

"Thank you boys for stoppin' by, now y'all run along now, ya he-ah? Scoot!"

I swear, if those ladies had asked, we would've turned our coats right then and there, started singing "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and bellowing "On to Washington!" But they didn't, so back to our own meager camp we went. For having sated (somewhat) our appetites, we needed sleep, for another day of battle lay before us on the morrow.

Though some of those boys above look to be about the right age that we were in '66, we were not nearly so nattily attired.
(Source)

Dawn of the third day of battle (our second) dawned. The plan was for some skirmishing on our left flank, followed by the grand finale, a recreation of Pickett's Charge, on a vastly smaller scale, of course. We fell in, came to attention and paid no attention as Lardwell Jackass***, er, KN2 harangued as to what he expected of us on this fine, though terribly hot, day.

In mid-harangue, CK stumbled into our presence, all bleary-eyed and reeking of something, we weren't sure what, and told KN2 to "shut yer pie hole" and drew his sword. (Yeah, I actually remember him having a sword. No doubt of the wrong make but we thought it was cool. I mean a sword is a sword, am I right?) With a bellowed "Le-eft... HACE!, for'ard... HARCH!" the Ninth Vermont went forth to war.

Now I don't remember much about Pickett's Charge other than that we had been moved to the center of the line and told that the hour of destiny was at hand. Or words to that effect. I believe a Vermont regiment had given valuable service at the center of the Union line when Pickett's Charge broke apart under Union shot and shell. My brother Ye Olde Vermonter, an avid reenactor, could verify that, and he just might as he does comment from time to time over on the Book of Face. When he has a mind to.

Like I said, of the ultimate moment of our reenacted Battle of Gettysburg I have but little memory. I think we were ordered to lie down while the two Confederate cannon present on the field "bombarded" our position, which had indeed happened prior to the real Pickett's Charge, but the Rebs had a lot more than two cannon on the Third of July back in 1863. Still and all, we thought it was pretty cool.

I remember us standing our ground, firing off a lot of black powder while the Johnnies hooted and hollered and eventually, grudgingly yielded the field to the manly HUZZAHS of the Union soldiery.

My best memory of that day was the skirmishing out on our left flank. It's when and where Johnny Mac got his nickname, what we'd probably call his callsign these days. (At least here at The Chant we'd call it that, us having our aviation orientation.)

We were ordered forward to drive off some annoying skirmishers clad in homespun who were popping off at us with their desultory musketry. Johnny Mac was our standard bearer that day, yes, yes, boys and girls we had a standard, Old Glory it was. (Probably with 50 stars knowing the keen eye for historicity of CK and KN2, should've had 34 to be historically correct.)

As we marched forth, banner held aloft by Johnny Mac, we were suddenly assailed by a howling mob of Southerners keening their piercing battle cry and looking for all the world like they wanted to wipe us off the face of the map. I daresay it was that selfsame Virginia regiment whose chicken we had partaken of the evening prior.

We were hesitant and looked to be shortly taking to our heels, when one of the Rebs yelled out...

"Seize that flag boys, death to the Union!"

At that point Johnny Mac entered legend, he became damned near mythological in an Achilles fighting Hector kind of way, I still get all misty-eyed about it, 'lo these many years later.

With a frightening howl, Johnny Mac went full berserker on the Rebs. Swinging that banner he smote the Rebs to either side of him, the gray-backs began to falter as he struck them down. Until one Confederate officer stepped forward to try and calm our Johnny Mac, and was almost run through for his trouble by the spear point shaped tip of the flag pole. As Johnny screeched like the very banshees of his ancestors' fair green isle across the sea.

Someone, it might have been Robin, it might have been Nute, bellowed out...

"RALLY ON THE FLAG BOYS! RALLY ON THE ZULU!"

Thus a legend was born, thus a minor bit of history (at least in my old circles) was made. It was glorious, it was breathtaking, and it almost got us frog-marched off the field in ignominy by the reenactment organizers.

But cooler heads prevailed, the Virginians, to their immortal credit, claimed that it was all part of a plan we had concocted the night before, over fire-roasted chicken I might add, and that they were sure sorry that they'd forgotten to notify the organizers. Probably a staff mix-up back at headquarters or something.

Thus mollified, the organizers allowed us to take our place on the field for Pickett's Charge later in the day. But we might want to leave the flag back on the bus, m'kay?

Which we did.

Some few years later, fondly recalling Southern hospitality and graciousness, not to mention the loveliness of Southern ladies, we, as a unit, well, most of us anyway (not CK and KN2, they having been cashiered, so to speak) decided to change sides.

Which is how the Ninth Vermont Infantry morphed into the 10th Mississippi Volunteer Infantry, said outfit you might remember from this post. But that story is for another day. Maybe tomorrow if the mood strikes me, and I think it will.

Patience, me lads and lassies.






*The source of the middle photo, the left and right illustrations are both public domain.
** Modified SJC
*** I see all a bear! (Snort, chuckle.)