Private Proctor is Shot Dead

Jessica Bruce

Saturday, June 14th, 1777;

Manchester, VT

Arrival.

Out came the kit from the silver Toyota, starting with the red waistcoat. Simple enough, and I started buttoning, enclosing the front of my chest. Now, I can’t be easily identified as a woman within the ranks, even though no respectable gentleman was typically never seen without his waistcoat. Next were the half-gaiters. Having never worn them, my Commanding Officer, Captain Enys, suggested that I slip them from behind my shoes and so that the leather strap was snug under the middle of them. Then, he started buttoning up the gaiters on each leg for me.

“Don’t expect me to dress my Privates,” he smiled, and shook a finger at me playfully, in which I grinned in response.

After, the rest of my kit that I was borrowing was displayed: Four red caps, with yellow trim around the front with my Regimental number; 29th, for me to choose which one fit the best, followed by the belly box, shoulder cartridge box, Bess, bayonet with its frog and belt, haversack and last but not least, the Regimental itself in all its glory. The Regimental, its lining was torn a little inside but as a longtime writer, I’m equipped to use my imagination within a blink of an eye and so I thought perhaps it was recently in a previous battle and the uniform got snagged on thorns or perhaps a sharp tree branch, thus the lining tore. Not the case I would imagine but no established storyteller is able to tame their imagination. It can’t be accomplished. My canteen was already slung underneath my arm, but after I selected a cap that fitted me, I put the shoulder cartridge box over my opposite shoulder, and carried the rest of the kit, plus my sleeping bag, blankets and other things that would keep me warm and dry to the Crown’s encampment.

When I reached the 29th’s Row, there were two tents already assembled. One, which was taller and wider than its counterpart next to it, was Captain’s Enys’s quarters. I noticed on top to the front, there was a “yellow peg,” the color of our lace in this encampment, although the 10th Regiment bears the same color. That was my first lesson; I don’t necessarily have to see our flag to find my Row. He pointed to the smaller tent, which served as storage such as a cooler for one example.

“You can just toss your stuff in there until Serjeant Banfield comes. He will help you with your tent.”

Simple enough. On my haunches I crept in side and dropped my kit and other belongings inside. As I crept out, I turned and tied up the tent, concealing all modern items from the public.

There was one other new recruit – Gerry – but I do not recall the name he chose, unlike mine – Private (Alex) Proctor. I selected my name because in the past I grew interested in the Salem Witch Trials and increasingly so with John Proctor, a fiery, ill-tempered man who was declared “infected” and hung on August 19th, 1692. That sat well with me, and I took the surname as my own upon the battlefield. I suppose it’s my way of keeping the memory alive of a terrible pastime, yet I haven’t proved if this Alex Proctor is akin to John Proctor. Still the name is my own, my precious… With his Bess in my left hand, Captain Enys led me near the edge of the forest into the shade to escape the growing humidity in mid morning, about twenty or so yards from the tents to meet Gerry, who I discovered reenacted the Civil War. It meant he was already accustomed to the weight of a Bess and wearing regalia, but I am not. This hobby I embarked on was and still is new to me; it has been a learning curve but fortunately I rather enjoy challenges because without them, a person will never excel.

I watched, and grinned as Gerry begun loading, in which later I learned was called priming. He bit off the top of the cartridge, turned his head to the side and spat it.

“Ohh… You are Civil War,” Captain Enys remarked enthusiastically.

I felt my grin broaden, and I saw Captain Enys smile too.

Since Serjeant Banfield hadn’t arrived yet at about ten or so in the morning, Gerry began to drill me by our Captain’s suggestion. This method would both help him become familiar with practicing as well as helping me to learn, kill two birds with one stone. While I began with the Manuel Exercise, I made an abundance of mistakes but they never halted or persuaded me to discontinue. As I said previously, I enjoy challenges. First and foremost, the weight of the Bess was awkward; it seemed out of place or not well balanced in hand. Even in the shade, I felt the humidity and I could feel myself beginning to perspire but heat and humidity were both elements that I’ve grown used too when biking miles. Had I known early afternoon on the Battlefield, being reminded of how natural elements will shock the body, I would have prepared more thoroughly. The mistakes continued while Gerry and I were in about twenty minutes of the Manuel Exercise and I finally blurted an important detail that at first didn’t occur to me.

“I’m left handed,” I said.

“Ahh…,” Gerry nodded.

“A bit weird having to use my right all the time. I have to look and think.”

“It’s alright but we have to look good on the field. A soldier never thought. It was automatic or he would be dead.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Let’s try again, from the beginning.”

Gerry moved away from standing in front to stand to my left. As I heard him instruct, he moved his hand to the specific areas of the Bess and in return, I copied him. This means I was receiving audio instructions but I had visual examples to further help me follow through. It was difficult and still will be, as I haven’t fully learned this particular drill. However, with continuous repetition, I will master it. Gerry was very patient, a good comrade. In my time, though I’m much younger, it’s been in my experience that not every person is able to handle mistakes. It bothers them that this person isn’t as perfect as they want them to be, so they become irritated. This scenario was not the case when Gerry drilled me.

About eleven, Serjeant Banfield arrived. We worked on the Manuel Exercise some more, learned about marching and other various elements that I cannot remember at the moment. One thing I grasped was when marching; the left foot comes out first. I was delighted by this fact! Being that I’m mainly left handed, it was easier to accept until Gerry stepped up beside me, forming a two-man line… Marching is simple enough but keeping in accordance with the person next to you… One, two. Left, right. Stepping in the exact rhythm of each other’s feet as well as keeping the same pace, that’s entirely different matter all together.

“About face. About right. About left,” Serjeant Banfield said as we turned our bodies in the direction of each command.

I do not remember the length in total I drilled with Gerry as well as with Serjeant Banfield, but I knew the battle demonstration was scheduled for two o’ clock, assuming that it didn’t rain, rendering the gunpowder useless. I think it was about noon when we stopped. After lunch, and filling my gut with water as I made my way over to our fly with Gerry, the Captain and Serjeant, I met another person from the Regiment and his wife. I think his name in the Regiment is Private Wheatley. I flopped on the ground, fully comfortable in the shade, as Wheatley was lying on a blanket to the right of me; his wife was to his right also, followed by Captain Enys, Gerry, and then Serjeant Banfield – counter-clockwise.

One detail that’s worth mentioning while our group delighted – except me because I’m not particularly fond of the liquid – was that Wheatley produced a bottle of wine – and accidentally dribbled some of it on his breeches. Four or five purple splotches settled into the fabric comfortably.

“You dropped some of it,” the Captain mocked and then laughed afterwards teasingly.

Wheatley looked down at his stained breeches. “Yes, I did,” he dead-panned.

A few of us laughed, and others smiled at the comment.

Captain Enys who was sitting in a chair sampled the wine. He flinched. “How old? Three weeks?” He teased again.

We all laughed at that comment to my knowledge.

Then, Captain Enys looked at me and just about motioned for me to sample it too, but remembering, he pulled the tin cup back. “That’s right. You don’t like to drink.”

“Nope,” I smiled. “Afraid not.”

“Well! I don’t think you’ll be able to fit in around here!”

I grinned but did not comment.

*

(The Battle is next. So yes, there's more than meets the eye).