“You can’t make me!” Randall shot back. “Uh, I mean, you don’t outrank me, soldier.”
“I think I do, Brevet Corporal,” Beau said, and sighed again.
“Think again, Second Corporal,” Randall retorted.
Beau shot me a look as if to say, See what I mean? And I did. Randall seemed to be an extremely whiny and obnoxious specimen of twelve-year-old boy.
“Does it matter, Randall?”
“I’m telling Captain Cauldwell.” Randall’s nostrils flared. “I’m telling him that you don’t respect rank and … and … I’m telling.”
“Aw, come on, Randall, not again.”
Randall stared Beau down for a minute, then fled in toward the camp.
“Come on, Randall, you don’t need to bother him with this—he’s busy with registration and stuff!” Beau yelled after him. “Aw, hell.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’d better go deal with this before he pisses off the captain.”
Beau chased him off, leaving me and Dev alone with the Boy Scouts.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A boy who looked like he should have had his own Disney Channel original series—complete with a Hannah Montana crossover special—stepped out of line. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Cody. Now, would you say you’re a Civilian Youth?”
“Um …” I looked to Dev for an answer. “Yes?”
“Well, I am the Civilian Youth Coordinator. And darlin’”—he looked me up and down—“I would love to coordinate you.”
“Good Lord,” I said, and stared at him in disbelief. “What are you, thirteen?”
“Fourteen,” he retorted, bristling. “And this Boy Scout is all man.”
Dev snorted. I looked over, and he was red in the face, shaking with silent laughter.
“You got a name, sweet thing?”
“It’s Libby. And you need to, um, take it down a notch, buster,” I added for extra emphasis.
Dev mouthed, “Buster?” and laughed harder.
“Didja know the Scout motto is ‘Do a good turn daily’? I bet I could do you a good turn. Daily.”
Good Lord. I looked to Dev for help, but he was way too amused by the whole thing to step in and offer any assistance.
“Allow me to appoint myself as your personal … very personal … bodyguard.” He winked. “Emphasis on body.”
“Yeah, I got that, thanks.” I grimaced. “But I really don’t think I need a bodyguard.”
“Aw, sure you do, honey.” Cody’s grin widened. “Who all do you think’s gonna protect you from the ghost?”
“Ghost?” Dev spat. “You have got to be kidding me.”
three
“If I had known,” Dev complained, yanking my corset strings, “that you were going to turn out to be some kind of freaky Jennifer Love Hewitt Ghost Whisperer paranormal magnet”—another yank—“I swear to God I would’ve sat next to someone else at lunch in ninth grade.” Yank.
“Ow, stop pulling so hard!” I whimpered. “Stop trying to punish me with my own underwear! It’s not my fault! I didn’t know there would be a ghost! Plus, it was your idea to come here!” I concluded triumphantly.
Dev ignored that remark and yanked so hard I nearly lost my balance.
“Whoopsie!” Cody gleefully poked his head between our tent flaps. “Oh me, oh my, I seem to have the wrong tent!”
“CODY!” I shrieked. “OUT!”
“Oh my goodness, I am just so embarrassed.” He grinned. “So terribly, terribly sorry. What an unfortunate, yet innocent, mistake.”
“That was neither innocent nor a mistake!” I fumed. “Dev, what did I say about tying the tent flaps closed!” I tried to get close enough to kick Cody, but Dev, who was holding on to my corset strings, reined me in. I was completely immobilized. “Get out, get out, GET OUT!”
“No, come on in, tiny pervert.” Dev crooked a finger. “I must needs speak with thee.”
“He can’t come in!” I flailed around, utterly in vain, as Cody sauntered into the tent and took a seat on my cot. “Don’t invite him in—it’s like inviting in a vampire! You’re not supposed to do it! Then you’re doomed!”
“Oh, stop being such a prude,” Dev scolded. “This is silly. You’re wearing more than you would at the beach.”
“Unfortunately,” Cody said lustily.
I glared.
“You pay for the privilege of your presence with information, gremlin,” Dev said, as he tied my excruciatingly tight corset with a neat bow.
“What all do you want to know, Grandpa?” Cody leaned back, clearly enjoying himself.
“I’m going to ignore that ageist comment, you prepubescent toe rag,” Dev commented, as he helped me into my hoops. “I want to know about the ghost.”
Last night, before Cody had elaborated on the ghost he’d referred to, Randall had returned and marshaled all the Boy Scouts away. The entire camp, which was much bigger this time, had transformed into a flurry of activity, so we hadn’t had another opportunity to ask anyone about it. It had taken all night for the three hundred and something Confederate soldiers from reenactment units all over the South to set up their tents at one side of the field, and for the Union forces on the other side to do the same. There were more than five hundred reenactors sprawled out over the fields of the Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, and they stretched out into a seemingly endless sea of tiny tents. Beau and some of the other men had set up our tent on Sutlers’ Row, which was on a little hill overlooking the large field where the battle would take place. We were neatly sandwiched into a little lane of other sutlers, all with sleeping tents behind and awnings for selling out front, between a millinery shop and a sock specialist.
“Ahh, that.” Cody exhaled. “Guess your precious Corporal Anderson didn’t tell you he’s cursed, then.”
“Whaa?” I exclaimed, muffled by muslin, as Dev slipped a petticoat over my head.
“You heard me. Cursed. So I’d keep away from that boy’s bad juju, baby doll.”
“I have no intention of going near Corporal Anderson’s juju, bad or otherwise,” I said primly.
Dev snorted as he helped me into my dress—today’s was a sheer white lawn dimity confection with little puff sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, soft and light as a cloud.
“Talk, gremlin,” Dev prompted.
“Righty-o, Gramps. Well, our story takes place right before the war broke out, in the foothills of Mount Sterling.” Cody’s voice had taken on a hushed, mysterious quality, as though it was midnight around a campfire, instead of eight a.m. in a muslin tent. “There lived a girl named Anne Mitchell, a girl so beautiful they called her the ‘belle of Central Kentucky.’ Now me, I prefer blondes”—he winked at me—“but if the brunette thing floats your boat, then—”
“Less editorializing,” I said, grimacing.
“Fine, fine,” he continued. “So, this Anne babe was like Megan Fox hot, and she fell for this guy named John Bell Hood. They were passionately, completely, totally in love. And even when he went off to West Point, they promised themselves to each other. However, as soon as old Hood was out the door, a new guy showed up on the scene—remembered only as ‘Mr. Anderson.’”
Cody raised an eyebrow meaningfully, as did Dev.
“Now, even though Anne was having none of it, still bein’ totally into Hood, her family preferred Anderson,” Cody continued with relish. “Anderson was crazy rich, so her family pressured her into marrying him. Anne managed to send a letter to Hood at West Point, tellin’ him what was happenin’, and no matter what, she’d love him forever. Like even from beyond the grave,” he said, his voice dropping a few octaves. “Hood got the letter”—his voice returned to normal—“immediately left West Point, and rode hell for leather to Kentucky. Somehow they made this secret plan to run away and elope, but one of the Mitchell slaves discovered Anne was missing like a minute after she left and raised the alarm. Anne’s father and brothers caught her real quick and locked her in her room until the day she married And
erson.”
“She married him? Anderson?” I asked, totally caught up in the story.
“That she did.” Cody nodded. “But even after she was married, she refused to leave her room. She was super depressed and still totally bananas for Hood. And then when she found out she was pregnant, she stopped speaking altogether. Until, that is, the day that little Corwin Anderson was born”—Cody’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Dev and I leaned in—“and she spoke her first words in nine months. And with those words she laid a curse ‘upon all who had any part in making me marry Anderson when my heart will always belong to John Bell Hood.’”
“Did anything happen?” Dev whispered.
“Did it? Aw, hell, sure as I’m sittin’ here. Not even an hour after the birth of lil Corwin, the sky began to darken, a strange thunderstorm came to rest over the Mitchell house—an’ before you knew it, the house was struck by a bolt of lightning, killin’ Anne, her brother, and the slave girl who told when Anne had run.”
“Oooh,” Dev murmured.
“So what does this have to do with Beau?” I asked skeptically. “This all happened like 150 years ago. Doesn’t mean Beau’s cursed. He didn’t have any part in forcing Anne to marry his great-great-great-grandfather or whatever.”
“You might think that,” Cody said, raising a hand for silence. “But, in fact, the curse has dogged the Anderson family, plaguing them with strange and violent deaths as the years have passed.”
“Didn’t Tammy say her husband, Mr. Anderson, had passed away?” Dev asked, quietly, fearfully.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Yep, just kept gettin’ weirder as time went on,” Cody continued. “Anne’s grandson English Anderson killed his brother with a brick, gave his father a heart attack, and was eventually stoned to death.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped.
“Then after Judson Anderson committed suicide in the forties, the Andersons who remained alive left Kentucky to try to escape the curse—and, well, they ended up in Alabama.” Cody raised his eyebrow again.
“Did it work?” I asked.
“Didn’t seem to, as Anne Mitchell’s ghost now stalks the last male descendant of the man who done her wrong—one Corporal Beauregard Anderson,” Cody concluded with ghoulish relish.
“Eep!” Dev said.
“I don’t believe it,” I stated flatly. “There isn’t a ghost stalking Beau, out for vengeance. That’s ridiculous.”
“Wait and see,” Cody replied, and shrugged.
“Ridiculous,” I said again, placing my hands on my hips. “We don’t have time for any of this nonsense.” I was trying to be business-like, but taking charge in lawn dimity is hard. “The camp opens to the public at nine o’clock, and we”—I looked meaningfully at Dev—“have a lot of work to do. And you,” I said, glaring at Cody, “probably have Civilian Youths to harass somewhere.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cody jumped up, snapped to attention, and saluted. “Now, some folks may not like a take-charge woman, but, darlin’, you could boss me around all day.”
“Move!” I barked, and he did, Dev trailing somewhat sheepishly behind.
“Matter of fact, I have a most important job,” Cody announced proudly as we exited the tent. He picked up a stack of thick plastic sheets that he must have left outside the tent before beginning his whole peeping Tom routine. “Signage!” He held one up. It said CIVIL WAR above a bright red arrow.
“Nice sign.” Dev arched an eyebrow.
“Aw, man, don’t hate the playah, hate the game,” Cody said, and shoved all the signs under his arm. “I’ve gotta go pound these babies into the ground. Latah, hatahs.” Cody used his free hand to salute with two fingers before trudging up the hill that marked the edge of the camp. Sometime this morning, an unidentified pristine white tent had sprung up just past its borders. It was far too shiny to be plain muslin, and there was a sign hammered into the ground in front of it. Squinting, I could just make out “Dixie Acres.” Or at least that’s what I thought I saw.
“That can’t be good,” Dev said, once Cody reached the top of the hill and stopped in front of the new tent. A guy in a crisply pressed modern suit emerged from the tent and began arguing with Cody, who was gesticulating wildly with one of his signs.
“I know,” I said, and started pulling sample dresses out of our trunks, hastily hanging them on the rack at the front of the tent. “What do you think they’re fighting about?”
“No, not that.” Dev folded his arms contemplatively, drumming his fingers on his elbows. “I meant the undead hottie stalking Corporal Hotpants.”
“Okay, one, a little help here?” I struggled under the surprisingly heavy weight of yards of muslin. Dev ambled over and started helped me hang things. “Two, stop calling him Corporal Hotpants. You know his name. And, three, you’re being ridiculous. There’s no undead hotties, or undead notties, for that matter. There’s no undead anything. Ghosts don’t exist.”
“Um, yes, they do.” Dev vigorously shook a wrinkle out of an emerald-green taffeta number. “I saw one last summer.”
“That wasn’t a ghost!” I said exasperatedly. “That was an asshole with a white suit! You know it wasn’t a ghost. We caught him.”
“It was still scary,” Dev replied stubbornly. “I’m officially mad at you.”
“What? Me? Why?”
“OMG, what was that show on the Disney Channel? With the girl who, like, lived on a tour bus and was always running into ghosts?” Dev tapped his foot, thinking.
“I don’t know! Why are you mad at me?”
“That’s So Weird!” he shouted.
“What’s so weird?” I wrinkled my nose.
“Um, no, hello, blond moment, the show. It was called So Weird. And you’re just like that girl. A weird scary ghost magnet. This is totally your fault.”
“It is not my fault, and I am not a ghost magnet! You’re the one who brought us here! Who picked the Fifteenth Alabama? Not me!”
“It was totally your energy that drew me to it,” he insisted.
“If you want to focus on something not good, focus on this,” I suggested. “Where on earth are we supposed to shower? It’s been a couple days. That is way too long. And I haven’t even seen a hint of a shower.”
“Many reenactors go for months at a time without showering,” Dev said grimly. “Authenticity.”
“I sincerely hope we are not those reenactors.” Months without showering? No way. There were limits to my authenticity. Very defined limits.
“I smuggled in enough AXE to mask the scent of a decomposing body,” Dev said with a set jaw. “Or a very dirty historical reenactor. Just in case.”
“Oh, God,” I said, blanching.
“But I would much rather take a shower. We’ll figure it out. I’ll ask Corporal Hotpants when he shows up again.”
We continued talking about ghosts, showers, and AXE as we finished displaying the dresses. They hung on two poles at opposite ends of the awning in front of our sleeping tent, and we had a table in between from which to conduct business. Dev went out to double-check, for the millionth time this morning, that the stake for our CONFEDERATE COUTURE sign (with a red, white, and blue logo of Dev’s own creation) was hammered into the ground in a perfectly perpendicular line, so the sign hung straight.
The camp opened to the public at nine, but the battle didn’t start until two, which gave us plenty of time to sell, sell, sell. Practically the minute our tent flaps were open for business, we were swamped. Our regiment may not have had any women in it (well, except for me—sort of), but nearly all of the other ones did. Most had many women, typically the wives and girlfriends of enlisted men, who portrayed their wives and girlfriends in period costume. And it seemed as though they had all descended on our tent.
I hadn’t seen Dev spring to life like this since the Skate Canada International Men’s Figure Skating Reserve Team came to St. Paul for the International Skating Union Junior Grand Prix. He was a whirlwind of fitt
ing, trimming and pinning patterns, and making sure he had every measurement so the finished product would fit exquisitely. I stood behind the table, collecting checks and making change, watching as Dev’s D&G-labeled future crystallized from a dream into reality. If we kept up at the rate we were going, Dev would even be able to afford those miniature Hermès dominoes he’d had his eye on. I couldn’t quite fathom the appeal of designer dominoes, but whatever made him happy …
“We are now only thirty minutes away from the start of the battle!” a voice boomed out over a PA system. They’d been making periodic announcements all day, mostly counting down the minutes until the battle, and I still had no idea where the voice was coming from. “Make sure you step on down to Colonel Jon’s Kitchen for some delicious Indian fry bread before we get goin’! Settle yourself down in a shady spot with a nice, cold glass of homemade root beer, courtesy of Colonel Robert’s Homemade Elixirs, and prepare to witness history!”
“Why aren’t we by the food sutlers?” Dev complained from down by my ankles, where he was measuring the hemline for the very short wife of an officer in the Fourteenth Ohio. “I heard they have kettle corn.”
“Scoot, scoot!” Something large and magenta was pushing its way toward us. “Yes, I mean scoot, Mabel, and I mean you, too! Did you not hear the man, half an hour! Give these kids a break! They’ll still be here after the battle. Y’all can buy all you want then, Mabel, for Pete’s sake.”
Tammy Anderson, resplendent in a shiny taffeta dress, elbowed a skinny woman in plaid out of the way until she stood before us, clicking her tongue in exasperation at poor Mabel.
“Tammy!” Dev cried delightedly. He finished his measurements and sprung neatly to his feet. “All set, ma’am. Please pay my associate at the counter.”
He waved her over to me. I rolled my eyes. Associate?
“So how is business?” Tammy asked excitedly.
“Booming!” Dev rubbed his hands together gleefully.
I waited as Mrs. Fourteenth Ohio filled out her shipping information and wrote a check, then placed it with the others in our lockbox.
“Knew it!” Tammy clapped, bouncing up and down on her heels. “Y’all are the talk of Sutlers’ Row. Buzz has been building, spreadin’ all the way to the outskirts of the Union camp. Ran into a lady all the way from Maine who was headed to you!”
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