NEW BUSINESS, OLD WAR
Civil War buffs have created a market of historic proportions.
By Jerry Useem
Fortune
Small Business,
December 1999/January 2000
ONE REGULATION-ISSUE canteen: $50. One tin of hardtack: $6. One 1861-model
Springfield rifle: $900. The chance to dress up like Stonewall Jackson and
smear fake blood all over your beard: priceless.
It's getting on a century and a half since the North and the South
laid down arms, but the business of provisioning Civil War soldiers is booming
as never before. "This here is the McLellan," says Doug Kidd, wiping
the dust off a $795 reproduction saddle he sells.
Kidd is what is known as a sutler, after the merchants who
followed the Civil War armies. Part businessman, part performance artist, the
Arkansas native has driven all night to the broken hills of northern Georgia to
profit from one of America's fastest-growing--and most expensive--hobbies.
Roughly 8,000 uniformed men have encamped here to reenact the 1863 battle of
Chickamauga, in which a retreating Confederate army wheeled and nearly smashed
its Federal pursuers. And while the reenactors are clad in either Union Blue or
Confederate Gray, each side has plenty of U.S. greenbacks to keep its period
look up to date. Or rather, not up to date.
It's hard to estimate how much these weekend warriors spend every
year, but to judge from the 75 tented businesses on "sutler's row" at
Chickamauga (there are an estimated 400 nationwide), 1999 looks like their best
year since 1865.
In their stores today: corncob pipe, $4; cartridge box, $48;
Federal-issue trousers, $86. Those inclined to self-promotion can get
sergeants' chevrons for $12, and field doctors can find bleeding bowls for $18.
Or you and your messmates could buy a bronze Napoleon cannon from Steen Cannons
of Kentucky: $28,800 for barrel and carriage (cannonballs not included).
Like many others, saddlemaker Kidd stumbled into the sutler's
trade by accident. Back in 1981, when he was a full-time mechanic, Kidd crafted
his own cavalry gear so he could join a re-enactment on horseback. But his
fellow reenactors quickly bought the stuff off him. Today his Border States
Leatherworks sells about 600 saddles a year, and Kidd is part of the vagabond
industry moving from one muddy or dust-choked encampment to another. "This
is all I do," says Wendell Decker, who hauls his glass-plate camera to
40-plus reenactments a year and will take your likeness for $30.
But this business isn't for the historically obtuse. As Kidd will
tell you, a well outfitted Confederate is not the guy parading in plumes and
finery. He's what's known as a farb--an etymologically obscure term that means
"phony." [It is not obscure. Click here.
– Jonah] The authentic Confederate is the guy wearing a motley collection
of gray-and butternut clothes, his feet clad in ill-fitting brogans or even
rags. He's the one who has starved himself for the past few weeks to achieve
that emaciated look of the hungry Rebel. He is a "hard-core."
Because hard-cores will pay top dollar, sutlers vie to win their
respect. Take Mechanical Baking Co. of Pekin, Ill., which specializes in the
biscuit-like staple known as hardtack. Fax from touting a moist or savory
product, the bakers promise one that must be "broken up with a rock or
rifle butt, placed in the cheek pocket, and softened with saliva enough to be
chewed." Likewise, cavalry outfitter F. Burgess and Co. would never stitch
saddles with cotton thread--the 1862 Ordnance Manual clearly calls for linen
cord coated with rosin.
One purist is Philip Cavanaugh, proprietor of Haversack Depot, who
has been part of the reenactment movement since the centennial celebrations in
1961. "He's extreme. He's real," says one awestruck reenactment
veteran. Cavanaugh researches original items at the Quartermaster Museum in
Fort Lee, Va., counting things such as stitches per square inch. He hand-sews
23 button-holes on each of his $75 tents and has the calluses to prove it. (His
vintage Willcox and Gibbs lock-stitch machine, acquired on eBay, can't produce
the same pattern.)
Not all suffers are so scrupulous. Some are considered modern-day
Rhett Butlers--profiteers with little interest in the war itself. "As far
as I'm concerned, he's a robber baron," says one Yankee hothead of a
particular merchant. To separate the authentic from the farby, some hard-core
regiments appoint "inspectors general" to review each recruit's
equipage, drumming out all who fail to pass muster. There's even a quarterly
journal called The Watchdog, which rates the gear. A good review can mean mega
sales.
I try to track down its editor-in-chief, Bill Christen, at The
Watchdog's tent, but he's not around and apparently won't be anytime soon.
"He's going to be killed sometime today," associate editor Lynn Kalil
tells me. Kalil is wearing a cotton dress with an indigo-dyed pattern (printed
from the original rollers, of course) and lowers her voice when discussing
specific merchants. "Some suffers have no documentation. They just make it
up," she says, adding sotto voce: "There are many of them here."
She declines to name names, but a recent Watchdog skewers one bootee maker for
having nine nails in the heel instead of 32 and another for having "Made
in U.S.A." on a putatively Confederate shoe.
One hot area, according to Kalil: civilian wear for baby-boomers
who are getting too old to pass for Civil War soldiers. (Their real age
averaged 25.) Unwilling to live entirely in the present, some are coming to
reenactments as cooks, preachers, and yes, suffers. Women's apparel is another
growth business. But here too, the farbs invade. Victorian women pulled back
their hair into severe-looking buns because loose hair meant loose morals. Yet
most of the hoop-skirted women promenading here have flowing locks.
"There's not one in ten who gets it right," complains Cavanaugh as a
cotillion of Scarlett O'Haras glides past.
Because many sutlers also suit up as soldiers, make-believe can
sometimes intrude on making money. Doug Kidd has 15 men under his command here
at Chickamauga, including one who is also his employee. Speaking of which, the
battle is about to get under way. "Gotta get my troops!" says Kidd,
skedaddling from his shop. Joining the horde of spectators, 10,000 strong and
blindingly Caucasian, I find that the Confederates, once again, seem to be
winning. "Go Rebels!" a spectator shouts. A long blue line of Yankees
kneel and pour forth a volley. Confederate cavalry countercharge up a hill. The
carnage is ... nonexistent. (Hey, nobody drove all the way here just to fall
over and play dead right away.) But finally casualties do kick in, complete
with fake blood and Oscar-worthy contortions.
Back on sutler's row at day's end, I'm thirsty for some authentic
root beer but low on cash. Maybe that Confederate bill my uncle gave me would
be legal tender here? No, I'm told. There are some things Confederate money can
buy. For everything else, there are U.S. dollars.
