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Take Aim!
The 5th New York’s muskets came alive. We were only using black powder, no musket balls, but since I was a newbie, I couldn’t even be trusted with that. “You might accidentally triple-pack the barrel and blow yourself up,” I was told. Instead, I had to settle for yelling “Bang!” But even with a ferocious “bang!” the Brits kept advancing.
“That’s the problem with the Brits,” said Sean, one of the guys in my unit. “They never want to die.”
“It’s the uniforms,” I suggested. “They don’t want to dirty them.”
“No,” said Jimmy, to my left, “it’s because they drove three hours to get here and no one wants to die too fast.”
“Close up the ranks!” ordered Cronin. “Shoulder firelock! Andy, other shoulder! Fix bayonet! Take aim! Andy, don’t point your musket at Ed’s head!”
We fired off another volley. Boom! Boom! Boom! “Bang!” Boom!
Joe Ryan, our larger-than-life captain, ordered, “CHARGE BAYONET!” Then, rearing back his six-five body, he let loose, “HUZZAH!”
“Huzzah!” we bellowed back. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
The Brits gave us everything they had—muskets, cannons … But if they weren’t dying, neither were we. Nimbly sidestepping volley after volley, we took the day.
Nothing like a bunch of crazed reenactors charging with fixed bayonets and huzzahing their lungs out to get the Brits to fall.
“YOU WON’T BE A VIRGIN AFTER TOMORROW!” said Joe, speaking in capital letters like he always did. It was a few hours after the battle and we were sitting around the tents enjoying some period-appropriate booze. He handed me a box filled with paper cartridges loaded with black powder. “YOU’RE GOING TO FIRE YOUR MUSKET.”
The next day, after forcing them from their redoubts, the 5th New York and the Continental Line army found themselves facing off against King George III’s men and their allies. It was now time to load my Brown Bess musket.
I removed a paper cartridge from the box, bit off the tip, shook a little black powder into the musket’s “pan,” shut the pan, poured the rest down the barrel and shouldered my musket.
“Make ready …” I took the musket off my shoulder and cocked the hammer all the way back. “Take aim …” I stared down the barrel at the Redcoats. “Fire!” I pulled the trigger and the flint smashed into the frizzen, causing a spark and igniting the black powder, which went boom!
Joe grinned. “PRETTY COOL, HUH?!”
Before I could say, “You’re damn right,” an officer ran through our ranks yelling, “Take casualties!” We’d won yesterday, so today it was the Redcoats’ turn. Since there was no actual Battle of Bordentown, we could wage war however we wanted.
“THIS IS IT, BOYS,” said Joe. “WE’RE ALL GOING DOWN. FIX BAYONET!”
The Scottish Highlanders responded by firing off a volley. Troops around us fell. In a single motion, one body hit the ground, rolled over and produced a cell phone with which he began snapping photos.
“CHARGE!” yelled Joe.
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
One by one we went down, until it was my turn. Reenactment, I’d been told, is part theater. So with that in mind, I channeled Sonny Corleone getting it at the tollbooth. The result: My gyrating death throes had the graceful choreography of squirrels throwing a party in my pants. And then I died, denting my canteen in the process.
The Scots charged over us, pushing the rest of our line into the woods. It was what we did to them yesterday, only we suffered the added ignominy of having to look up their kilts.
“By the order of the ghost of King George III,” announced a British officer, “all rise from the dead.”
We stood up to a hearty round of applause. Even the Brits were impressed. “Good dying,” one said.
As militias from both sides laughed and embraced, I recalled what another reenactor, Mitch Lee, told me: “This is not a hobby. This is a lifestyle.”
Huzzah!!
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