The Beginning and End of the Sixth Corps March
June 25-July 2, 1863/2008

Several of us had prepared for more than a year for Doug Dobbs’ commemoration of the march of the Sixth Corps from Fairfax, Virginia to Gettysburg.  With Audrey Scanlan, Evan Kikla, Eric Wilson, and others I’d marched more than 175 miles on the W&OD trail in northern Virginia, starting at five miles a trip, then ten, then fifteen, and then twenty, typically carrying muskets (we have a permit) and full packs or blanket rolls.   By the time summer came, I figured my own odds of actually completing the 120 miles in a week had gone from nil to about 37%.

Still, I knew I’d have problems.  Our last W&OD march, on a humid June day that would hit the nineties, proved that no distance in winter equates to a mile in summer.  And nothing quite prepared me or anyone else for the actual start.  We were to meet at Ox Hill battlefield park in Chantilly at 1 a.m. on Thursday, June 26, then march twelve miles to Dranesville Tavern for the first day.

Most of us faced a few challenges in getting rides at 1 a.m., so we gathered earlier, between eight and ten, bedded down in the park, and tried to catch a few z’s before jumping off.  When I arrived, Eric, Bryan Brown, and Nick Bocci were already there, along with an amateur film crew hoping to document the trip.  I think I got a couple of minutes sleep before Audrey showed up at one, followed shortly by Rob Skeel.  From then until three a.m. we waited in the shopping mall across the street from the park for Doug, who showed up with Evan and Evan’s friend Nick.  After a brief stop back at the park by the markers commemorating the deaths of generals Stevens and Kearny, we headed up Monument Drive.   It was 3:20 a.m. on June 26, and none of the nine of us had slept worth a damn.

After a half mile on side streets we reached Route 50, which we followed for about four miles until we got several blocks past Centreville Road, realized our mistake, and doubled back.  We made a few halts along the way, especially as curious policemen lightened the boredom of the wee hours by asking us where we thought we were going.  “Gettysburg,” was not an answer we expected them to take seriously, but Doug did a good job of explaining.  Plus, it’s not actually illegal to walk around Virginia with a musket.  Yet.

Dawn arrived as we tramped the miles up toward the toll road.  On 50 we’d spent a lot of time on asphalt service roads, but more and more we had to stick to sidewalks, which in case you haven’t tried, is hell on feet in brogans.  The only alternative was the grassy side strips, but these hid rough ground that tested the ankles and slowed the pace.  As the sun rose above the horizon the unrelenting scenery of strip malls and office parks grew a mite oppressive and the temperature, which had been refreshingly chilly, began to get a bit warm.  Our stops became longer and the applications of moleskin more frequent.  

A few more hours and we collapsed on the grounds of the old courthouse in Herndon, close by the historic train station and farmer’s market.  I think this was the nicest halt of the day.  We all got a little bit to eat and passed around some fresh fruit from the market.  I’d been hitting my private stash of ginger snaps and dried apricots at most stops, but more to maintain electrolytes than from hunger.  Everybody had a little something they shared and spirits were generally high.

When we turned on Dranesville Road most of us thought, entirely without justification, that the march was nearly done, but we had several miles yet to go.  Doug, Eric, Bryan, and Rob kept up a rapid pace, but the rest of us struggled to keep up.  After another hour or so, even the leads began to falter, Bryan with a sore knee, and Eric and Rob with blisters.  On this stretch, people began to fall out.  Doug’s wife Sal drove our support truck and now began ferrying casualties to Dranesville Tavern.

I checked our route later on the Alexandria Drafting Company map of northern Virginia.  It wasn’t the twelve miles that Mapquest reported, but well over sixteen.  Audrey checked on Google and found it closer to seventeen.  By the time Eric and I got to Dranesville Tavern, a bit ahead of the others still on their feet, it was 11:40 a.m., eight and a half hours after we started.

Blisters, heat, and exhaustion knocked out Evan, both Nicks, and Audrey, but none before they’d got in some fourteen miles, which – as I stressed to all of them – is about twice as long as the average preservation march.  

A brisk, hot wind blew up and continued the rest of the afternoon.  I grabbed some shade, stripped down to my drawers and shirt and let the wind dry me while I hung my other clothes on a tree.   We were in pretty sad shape, with four down and the rest largely blistered.  I was lucky enough to have no problems with my feet except for some aching from the concrete.  I’d cheated and put Spenco cross-training inserts in my bootees, and wore two pairs of socks – modern wicking ones under period wool – so my feet were not too tight, but snug enough to minimize any friction.  Of course, the rest of me felt like crap.

Besides this, the truck was acting up.  Given overall conditions, Doug decided to cancel the next day’s march, which would have been up Route 7.  I’d wondered about this anyway.  Route 7 may have been marginally passable five years ago when Doug last did this, but today it’s all highway with no shoulders that I can see.  Instead of going up 7 we’d drive to Edwards Ferry before crossing over to Maryland.

A very welcome pick-me-up came later that afternoon in the person of Noah Briggs, in top hat and frock with a box of goodies for us to purchase with some fractional currency he’d earlier provided to Doug.   For an hour or so we had the pleasure of his company and the enjoyment of a fine assortment of horehound, licorice, rock candy, and powdered lemonade.  We might have ordered more if we hadn’t just finished dining on bread, cheese, sausage, and fruit, and if half our number hadn’t already left, but it is impossible to express just how welcome the treats were anyway.

We all slept well that night.  There was a threat of a storm so we stashed our ordnance and much of our equipage on the porch of the Tavern, but we bedded down around it without canvas.  The next morning we woke as workmen arrived to replace the flooring on said porch.  We quickly got out of their way but hung around for a couple of hours before taking off to Edward’s Ferry.  Carole Wilkinson had arrived with her daughter the day before, which expanded our support team beyond Doug’s heroic wife Sal, and Mark Maranto showed up during the night as welcome reinforcement for the foot-sloggers.

Friday was a day of rest, though ominously hot and humid.  We drove to Edward’s Ferry and walked about a mile down Goose Creek to the Potomac, stopping several times to view the ruins of the old canal and hear Doug explain where the Sixth Corps had passed.  The film crew got some good footage of us scampering around the ruins and looking out over the water.  With our little side trip over, we drove on to White’s Ferry, crossed over, and dined in the shade at the park there.  From White’s Ferry we drove to the Maryland side of Edward’s Ferry and set up camp, with the owner’s permission, on private land along the road.  Clouds looked threatening so Mark and I raised a dog tent and Eric and Bryan put up a shebang.  When the downpour hit, Rob and Doug squatted under gum blankets next to our dog, then raised a shelter of gum blankets after it passed.  But of course, once we were all under canvas or rubber there was no more rain.

At dawn we woke and packed for the day’s march.  With the humidity that followed the rain, there’d been no chance to dry anything.  The weather was reasonably cool as we set off down a wooded country road, though still quite humid and seeming to grow more so.  We reached Poolesville in the first couple hours, and I think I did pretty well for five miles or so.  But on a long stretch in the full sun I began to drag and by mile six had to put my pack on the truck.  By the next mile I was stopping every few hundred yards to catch my breath and enough sweat was running off me to fill a child’s wading pool every fifteen minutes or so.  By the next mile Mark was carrying my musket, and shortly after that Sal had to drive me a few hundred yards to the next stop.

It’s difficult to express just how thoroughly the heat and humidity kicked my ass.  I couldn’t move another step and I knew it.  I also realized that, despite a year of what I thought was pretty good preparation, there was no way I was going to finish the second half of the day’s seventeen miles, nor any of the twenty-two on the following day, when the weather would only marginally improve.  I’d blown it.

The amount of sweat coming off me was truly amazing.  Not only were my drawers drenched, but the sweat darkened my trowsers and showed no signs of evaporating.  I’d borrowed an Enfield from my friend Bill Wilson so I wouldn’t have to fret over rust on my Springfield but now saw that not only were portions of the stock bleached from sweat, but the blued barrel had rust blossoming all over it.

Mark was done, too, so I hitched a ride with him to Point of Rocks.  I apologized to Doug and the others and turned over my stash of ginger snaps, dried apricots, and, perhaps most importantly, corn starch.  I’d managed just over eight miles on the third day.  I told them I’d try to come back.

My wife picked me up at Mark’s.  It was funny to look back at the curb and see where I’d sat for awhile.  Even hours after leaving the march I left a stain like a kid in wet swim trunks.  Before I got in the car I threw my gum blanket over the seat.

Back at home I had a nice supper and slept for twelve hours straight.  The next day I saw that my blouse and trowsers were still damp.  I remembered Bill Rodman saying once that he’d had a jacket that accumulated so much salt that it wouldn’t dry, reflected that I’d not washed either garment ever (at least five campaign seasons), and decided to go ahead and do it now.  I put the blouse in a large bowl of water and found my hands quickly lost from sight.  Out of curiosity I counted the number of times I had to change the water before it became reasonably clear.  Twelve.  The trowsers took a few less, but even my braces took a few.  I broke down the Enfield and spent three or four hours getting it back into reasonable shape, then went through the rest of my gear.  The sweat was so pervasive that even the little ID card I’d slipped into the tool pouch in my cartridge box had wilted.

I rested Monday, too, and reflected on my failure.  The only consolation I had was that when I left, besides Doug, the survivors were Eric, Bryan, and Rob, who were all good 21st century analogs to Civil War soldiers.  They were all in their mid-twenties and worked outdoors.  Rob did landscaping, Bryan did tree work, and Eric oversaw loading and shipping operations for a FedEx crew.  I was completely out of their league.

Still.  Doug called that afternoon to see how I was doing.  Audrey and Evan had both rejoined them, as had Joey Bordonaro and Art Stone.  “Iron Joe” is the only man to have completed the march the last time and was now in it for the rest.  The truck was in good shape after a fresh drink of transmission fluid.  Alas, Rob had had to drop out when his blisters got so bad as to threaten to cripple him for his day job.  

I wanted to go back, but Tuesday was a rest day and I knew I couldn’t do the Tuesday night to Wednesday afternoon 37-mile marathon.  It wasn’t just the doubt I now had about my ability to go any distance, but a desire not to burden the group with my straggling, or the need to cart my dead ass home.  Still.

I drove up to Gettysburg Wednesday morning then headed south on Baltimore Pike till I saw the familiar truck.  The boys were resting under a tree, having already marched more than 25 miles since ten the previous evening.  They were all in good shape, but looked tired enough that I figured I finally had a chance to keep up.  I drove back to Gettysburg, parked at Little Round Top, and got a ride back to the column with Sal and Evan.  Evan and I got out, kitted up, and started out after the others.  Against my better judgment I wore my full pack, but it seemed the least I could do, what with only seven and a half miles to go.  Shouldering my Springfield, I took the Pike in stride, Evan carrying Old Glory beside me, the banner of the Sixth Corps marking Doug’s position a couple hundred yards up the road.  The temperature was in the low eighties with low humidity, the countryside was beautiful and it seemed at times that every other driver honked and waved at the flag.  

An hour down the road the column had closed up and Audrey fell back in with us, Nick Bocci having rejoined the group earlier.  And so we were eight:  Doug, Eric, Bryan, Joe, Nick, Evan, Audrey, and I, tramping the miles down the Pike with increasing elation, tinged with disbelief – were the fellows in the lead actually going to finish 37 miles in a day?  Was this march ever actually going to end?

We took a break at Rock Creek, just north of 15 and refreshed ourselves with water, watermelon, and the remnants of our rations.  After about an hour we took arms, reformed the column, and set off.  The pace was a little slower than seven days before – Bryan’s knee had frozen up again and Eric’s blisters were burning, so they both limped like old veterans, which, when you think about it, they actually were.  On up the Pike we went, thence to a series of country lanes leading us the last couple of miles in the footsteps of the Sixth Corps en route to the battlefield, a hundred and forty-five years earlier, nearly to the hour.  Doug described that day, and our steps quickened as we realized we were nearly there.  

The Park Service has cut down many of the trees on the battlefield in order to restore it to its appearance in July, 1863.  This leaves a clear field in front of Little Round Top and a breeze came over that field as we crested the rise, unfurling the flags and filling our sails for the final yards.   We came into line in front of the Sixth Corps monument and stood at attention as Doug described what the Corps did next.  He thanked us, we gave him three cheers, and then we broke ranks.  

Eric, Bryan, and Evan, went on to the GAC reenactment.  Doug and Sal went home for some well-earned rest.  I drove Audrey back to her car, then went home myself, actually feeling refreshed by the days work.

Maybe my marching days aren’t done after all.