The camp was a little village of white pup tents, small canvas structures weather-beaten by the sun. Most of the tents were only wide enough for each soldier to place a pallet on the floor, but ours was one of the more luxurious ones, like the officers had. It was big enough to fit two narrow cots with a stack of small trunks containing our day-to-day personal items and clothing between them. Tammy had been kind enough to make sure we had quilts, instead of the scratchy woolen army blankets; two lumpy cotton pillows (another luxury); and a tin pitcher and basin for washing up, which were balanced on top of the stack of trunks. When it was time to go into business, Beau had explained, we’d set up a bigger awning in front of our sleeping tent to display our wares.
“Coffee,” Dev moaned, as I slipped back into the tent, sitting up in his cot. “Coffee!” He rubbed his temples.
“Help me get dressed, and we’ll go get some.” I picked up my corset and held it out to him.
“Uh-uh,” he grunted as he got out of bed and stumbled toward me. “Coffee first.” He stumbled straight past me and out of the tent, clad in nothing but his cream-colored union suit.
I held my corset under my armpits in the ready position, waiting impatiently. Dev might have been fine wandering around camp in his long underwear, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to prance around in front of strangers in nineteenth-century lingerie.
Dev returned a few minutes later, clutching a tin cup. He took a sip, then immediately spat it out, spraying me with a fine mist.
“Eeuw, Dev, gross!” I tried to shield myself from getting coffee on my corset.
“What … the hell … is that,” he said tersely.
“I don’t know—coffee?” I brushed little brown drops off my arms. “Oh, gross, gross, gross.”
“That”—he pointed an accusing finger at the cup—“is not coffee.”
“Fine, fine, it’s not coffee.” I hopped closer, putting my back directly in front of him. “Please help me clothe myself, and we’ll figure it out, okay?”
“Okay.” Dev nodded, seemingly galvanized into action. “Okay.” He put the cup down on top of his trunk. “You stay there, Satan’s brew,” he instructed the cup, and hurriedly laced me up. I was happy he was preoccupied, because he didn’t lace me nearly as tight. As if he were in some sort of nineteenth-century speed-dressing competition, within minutes I was corseted, hoop-skirted, petticoated, and standing in a plaid silk taffeta day dress. Dev chucked a cameo brooch at me to pin on my collar at the base of my throat and flung the tent flap open.
“Mornin’, Dev. Libby.” Beau was standing outside the tent in gray wool pants, suspenders, and a soft green checked shirt, balancing two tin cups and a plate. He seemed slightly less tongue-tied than he’d been last night. “I fixed you a plate.”
“Keep that horse’s piss out of my sight,” Dev thundered, “or so help me, I will go General Sherman on all of your asses and raze this sorry excuse for a Starbucks to the ground. Where is the real coffee?!” Dev pushed his way over to the main ring of campfires.
“Sorry about Dev,” I said. I shot Beau an apologetic look and took the plate. “He’s really not fit for human companionship before coffee. And thanks for the plate.” I smiled. I couldn’t believe he’d “fixed me a plate.” Just like all the boys wanted to do for Scarlett O’Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbecue! “That was really sweet.”
“Wasn’t anythin’ special.” He shrugged. “Besides, I promised my mama I’d take good care of y’all.”
He smiled, and I was flooded with warmth that had nothing to do with the Alabama sunshine. Not that it meant anything. I mean, I had a boyfriend. Obviously. Beau was just an infectious smiler. Just friendly, you know. It’s always nice to make new friends. Especially ones who smile like they really mean it, with their whole face, reaching all the way up to the startling green of their eyes …
“So, what’s for breakfast today?” I blushed and looked down at the plate. I had no idea what it was. There was a lump of something fried and yellowish, dusted with a heavy coating of coal black char, next to a little puddle of something sticky.
“Well, today’s special is the same as it is every day,” Beau said with a laugh. “Johnnycakes.”
“Johnnycakes?” I asked. “What are they? And who’s Johnny?”
“Nobody really knows, certainly not me,” he replied, pushing up the brim of his gray kepi cap to scratch his head. “Some people think it comes from ‘journey cakes,’ because they pack real well to take on journeys. Others say that it comes from ‘Shawnee cakes,’ because the Shawnee tribe in the Tennessee Valley came up with ’em. Maybe a slurred version of ‘janiken,’ which is an Indian word for corn cake. Other people say it comes from ‘Johnny Reb,’ the nickname for Confederate soldiers, because that’s just about all we eat. Except it couldn’t be, because people were callin’ ’em johnnycakes back during the Revolution. It was real big in Rhode Island, ’specially,” he explained. He shook his head. “You think folks’d do their research better.”
My jaw dropped. I had never met anyone who knew as much, maybe more, about American culinary history as I did. I’d never even met anyone who was interested in it before.
“And, anyway,” he finished, “they’re sort of like corn bread.”
“Oh, yum! I love corn bread!” I took a big bite and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Apparently my distress must have shown on my face, because Beau burst out laughing.
“I said it’s sort of like corn bread,” he clarified. “Except johnnycakes is nothin’ but cornmeal, salt, and water. Fried in a skillet over the campfire.”
“Oh,” I said through a thick mouthful of inedible mush. “Yum.”
“Takes some getting used to,” he said, fighting valiantly to keep it together, as I kept on chewing what I was 99 percent sure was kindergarten paste. But no matter how much I chewed, it didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. “Modern Americans are used to sweeter corn bread. With sugar and flour and stuff. That’s why I got you the molasses.” He pointed to the little sticky puddle. “You wouldn’t have had that back in the 1860s, most likely. Rations were real thin on both sides, but for us especially. Nobody hurt harder than the Southern soldiers. If we were lucky enough to get rations, it would’ve been just cornmeal probably. Maybe some salt, maybe flour, maybe salt pork—dependin’ on how things were goin’. But definitely no sugar. If the troops were lucky enough to run across any sugar or molasses, they would’ve just dipped the johnnycakes into it, to make it last longer. Bakin’ with it thins it out too much.”
“Mmm.” I swallowed throatily, then took another bite, this time with the molasses. “That’s much better.”
“Lord, you shoulda seen your face,” he said, chuckling. “Hell, I’m givin’ you the rest of my molasses. You need it more’n I do.”
By this point we’d wandered over to the campfire, where Dev, still in his long underwear, was having a heated discussion with a gaggle of grizzled old men in variations of Confederate uniforms. They were a pretty ragtag bunch. Because the Southern economy was so bad during the war, and the supply lines were so inefficient, soldiers rarely, if ever, received an official Confederate uniform. As the war went on, they were reduced to wearing whatever they could find. Most of the soldiers here were wearing gray pants, albeit in many different shades—some of the pants were more brown than gray, which I remembered learning in a class meant they’d been dyed with butternuts, one of the few things plentifully available in the South. Because of this, “Butternuts” was another nickname for Confederate soldiers. On top, the men wore dirty button-down shirts in all different colors, stripes, and checks. Most of them also had woolen jackets in shades ranging from gray to butternut brown, with the officers’ jackets looking more like standard-issue uniforms; but the men were clearly waiting to put them on until absolutely necessary, because of the heat.
“Don’t yell at me, yell at the damn Yanks!” one of the old men shouted. “There’s no coffee, nor anythin’ else! Damn Union naval bloc
kade means everythin’s in short supply down here. Food, weapons, machinery, medicine, coffee, everything!”
Beau leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Some of the old-timers like to stay in character the whole time. So to them, there is a naval blockade, and that’s why we don’t have coffee. Not that we just chose not to buy it to be more authentic.”
I nodded in understanding and took a bite that was 80 percent molasses, 20 percent johnnycake.
“Before the war,” another one said, starting to wax nostalgic, “a pound of beans would have set you back around twenty cents in fed’ral money. But now it’s runnin’ sixty bucks, Confederate notes. You got sixty bucks hidden in them drawers, boy?”
The rest of the group around the campfire laughed.
“Fine,” Dev said tensely. “I get it. There’s no coffee. Then what the hell is this?”
From all around the campfire, different men tending pots chimed in with their various coffee substitutes: roasted corn, rye, okra seeds, sweet potatoes, acorns, and peanuts.
“Do any of them,” Dev said, rubbing his temples, “contain caffeine?”
Silence.
“I think Bill’s still got some yaupon leaves left,” one of them eventually piped up. He wore round glasses with thin metal frames and had a bristly brown mustache.
“‘Yaupon’?” Dev asked.
“Y’all can make a tea from the leaves of the yaupon shrub. It’s a kind of holly. Grows all over. It’s got a bit of a kick, but it’s hell to digest. I think there’s a reason its binomial name is Ilex vomitoria,” he concluded sagely.
“He’ll be lucky if that’s the end it comes out!” one of them roared, and the rest of the soldiers chimed in.
Dev picked up a fresh mug of steaming hot acorns and stomped over to join us. I finished my johnnycakes and set the plate down on an unoccupied stump.
“There was only one surefire way that Southern folks got coffee,” Beau suggested.
“Oh?” Dev asked, intrigued.
“Informal truce with the Yanks. During the war, men’d swap tobacco for coffee and run on back before anyone knew they were missin’. Everyone had tobacco.”
“Except me,” Dev muttered. “But I’ve got cash, which is better. When do we next see Yanks?”
“Tomorrow.” Beau took a swig from his own mug and grimaced slightly at the taste. “Tonight, maybe.”
“We’re leaving today? Already?” I asked. “We just set everything up!”
“Life of a soldier, always on the move,” Beau said, grinning. “We’re headin’ south to Tannehill. Besides, we’ve been here all weekend. This wasn’t a battle, just trainin’ camp. Instruction on firearms, that sort of thing. Get all the new guys up to speed so the others don’t call us farby.”
Dev shuddered. I was lost.
“‘Farby’?” I wrinkled my nose, confused.
“Didn’t you research anything?” Dev sighed with mock exasperation. “‘Farb’ is a derogatory term used in the hobby of historical reenacting in reference to participants who exhibit indifference to historical authenticity, either from a material-cultural standpoint or in action. It can also refer to the inauthentic materials used by those reenactors,’” Dev quoted prosaically. “Wikipedia.”
“While normally I don’t condone Wikipedia as a valid source,” Beau drawled, and my heart skipped a beat—finally someone who took checking the validity of their source material seriously!—“in this case, it’s pretty accurate. Farbs are reenactors who don’t care about bein’ authentic, not with their uniforms or accessories, or even the way they act. We take bein’ authentic real serious in this regiment. We don’t even let women in, which a lot of the regiments do. Let women dress up as soldiers an’ fight, I mean,” he clarified, nodding at me. “I don’t have a problem with it, but most of the older crowd think it’s too farby.”
“And being a farb is like social suicide,” Dev added. “Major no-no. There’s no better way to get blacklisted than to be a farby sutler.”
“’S true,” Beau agreed. “It’ll sink your business like Mike DuBose sank the Tide back in 2000.”
Dev and I stared at him blankly.
“The Alabama Crimson Tide?” he tried. “Finished three and eight that season?” Still nothing. “Football?”
“Ahhh,” we said in unison, nodding.
“Yeah, no,” Dev said. “We don’t do that.”
“Anyway,” Beau said, shaking his head, “y’all have nothing to worry about. From what I can see”—he looked me up and down, eyes coming to rest on mine as he smiled warmly—“everything looks amazing.”
I blushed, but before I could formulate a response, a small bear pushed its way between us and started attacking my tin plate.
“Aw, Willie, no!” Beau moaned, and tried to pull him off. On closer inspection, it turned out not to be a bear, but a very large, very happy, cocoa-colored dog. “I hope you were done with your molasses.” He grinned ruefully. “I swear that dog has some kind of radar system that lets him know when anyone in Alabama sets down a plate.”
Dev watched, horrified, as the dog joyously cleaned the plate with a massive pink tongue. “What on earth is that … that … that creature?”
“That”—Beau folded his arms proudly—“is Willie. He’s a Chessie, mostly. A Chesapeake Bay retriever,” he explained. “But there’s definitely somethin’ else in there.”
“Like grizzly?” Dev said tartly.
Willie finished licking the plate and looked up happily, tongue lolling.
“Hey, boy,” I said, kneeling down, and Willie came galumphing over.
“You’re not going to … touch that beast, are you?” Dev was all disbelief.
“Sure am.” I scratched his ears, and Willie barked happily.
“Aw, he likes you,” Beau said softly.
“I bet he likes pretty much everybody. Don’t you, boy?” He barked again, in the affirmative. “He probably also likes that I have molasses all over my hands.”
“You a dog person, then?” Beau knelt down to join me.
“Oh, definitely. I love dogs.” Willie slobbered happily. “We have two back home. Both much smaller than this guy.” I grinned. “But then again, most dogs are.”
“Corporal Anderson!” someone shouted from off in the distance.
“Duty calls.” Beau straightened and stood. “Let me see what he wants, and I’ll be right back.”
Beau headed off, Willie loping along behind him. I stood too, and came face to face with Dev, whose eyebrows were up to his hairline.
“What?” I asked blankly.
“So now that you’ve cleaned up the whole dog versus cat issue, have you decided on two kids or three?” he said archly.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why, Miss Libby, I do decla-uh, I hate that there Wikipedia, and I love me some obscu-ah nahn-teenth-cent’ry hist’ry.” Dev parodied Beau in a ridiculously over-the-top southern accent. “Let’s git mah-rrried and have lots of bay-bies and raise giant daawwwgs.”
“Oh, shut your face.” I shoved him playfully. “He was not like that. He likes me as a friend. As a person. Just like he likes you.”
“Ah have nev-uh seen such a vision in a corset and hoop skurt. Y’all are as purty as a speckled pup.”
“We’re friends. Just friends. Just because your depraved mind can’t fathom the fact that people who could hypothetically be attracted to each other, even though they aren’t, can be just friends,” I said, trying to keep talking over him.
“Ah’m so gallant and charmin’ and chivalrous and han’som’ in mah uni-fahhhm, and y’all are mah soooul-maaayte.” Dev pretended to swoon.
“And, anyway, I have a boyfriend,” I concluded triumphantly.
“Whom you still haven’t mentioned to Corporal Hotpants.” Dev sipped his coffee demurely. “Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting!” I protested. “I just don’t want to be one of those girls who’s like, ‘Hi, I’m Libby. I have a boyfriend!’ the
minute you meet them! It’s super annoying! You might as well go ahead and print it on a T-shirt or something.”
“I shouldn’t have unleashed you on the world in that corset.” Dev shook his head. “You’re a danger to society. It’s not fair to the hetero sapiens. They can’t help themselves.”
“Seriously, stop,” I chided him. “Nothing would ever happen with Beau. Not in a million years. Garrett is the best boyfriend ever. Even if he hasn’t returned any of my calls. Or texts. And has apparently forgotten I exist.”
Before Dev could form a rebuttal, Corporal Hotpants himself reappeared, accompanied by a middle-aged man in a long gray officer’s jacket.
“So this must be the little lady I’ve heard so much about.” He picked up my hand, bent down, and kissed it, the whiskers of his full-on muttonchops scratching the back of my hand. “Now I understand what all the fuss was about.”
Beau blushed, which brought out the red in his hair. “Uh, L-Libby,” he stammered, “I mean Miss … Miss …”
“Kelting,” I supplied.
“Miss Kelting. This is Captain Cauldwell.” The older man bowed. “Captain Cauldwell, Miss Kelting.”
“It is truly a pleasure.” I think Captain Cauldwell smiled, but it was hard to tell under the bushy mustache. “Good to have a woman around. Gives the boys somethin’ to look at.”
I smiled awkwardly. That was nice, I guess … if a little sexist. Dev coughed. Loudly.
Confederates Don't Wear Couture Page 5
