“Genius!” Dev shrieked. “I am a genius!”
“I knew you were!” she said, and patted his back.
I thanked Mrs. Fourteenth Ohio for her purchase and sent her on her way, making sure I carefully filed her shipping info with the burgeoning list of orders Dev would have to fill.
“What now? Who’s next? Step right up!” Dev addressed the emptying row of tents. “I will sew you a dream! Spin straw into gold! The angels will weep tears of joy at your beauty!”
Dev had indeed gotten coffee from the Union troops this morning, and I think the sudden influx of caffeine into his system may have been too much for him.
“Aw, hon, take a break.” Tammy patted his arm. “Y’all have to, anyway. Everythin’ shuts down for the battle, and it’s just about that time.”
“Everything shuts down?” Dev turned to me, wide-eyed. “The genius wants some kettle corn.”
“Well, I think y’all sure deserve some kettle corn!” Tammy squeezed him tightly.
“Libbeeee,” Dev whined, “will you get me some kettle corn? I’d go myself, only I’m just … so … tired.” He wilted dramatically into Tammy’s arms.
“Why you poor thing.” Tammy felt his forehead to see if he had a fever and clucked sympathetically. “He’s all tuckered out. Here, Libby,” Tammy said, reaching into the small crocheted reticule dangling around her wrist and extracting a bill. “Get him some kettle corn, and some for you, and some for Beau, if y’all don’t mind findin’ him before the battle.”
“I don’t mind.” I took the money and left, marching down the lane toward the food sutlers. “Don’t mind at all,” I muttered again, once they were out of earshot. “Sure, I’ll get you your kettle corn. Don’t mind at all.” I mean, seriously. What was I, his personal assistant? His kettle corn waitress? Ridiculous.
It was funny. Most of the soldiers placed so much emphasis on period authenticity, but the minute the camp was open to the public, it was crawling with tourists dripping in grease from Indian fry bread and cracking open Cokes. I mean, the public couldn’t step onto the battlefield, but they mingled in and out among the tents, talking to the soldiers. Which was, I suppose, the point, but it certainly looked strange. A family in matching Mickey Mouse T-shirts and fanny packs was deep in conversation with a particularly grimy Confederate soldier. Certainly something I never thought I’d see.
Seized with a sudden curiosity, I turned out of Sutlers’ Row and clambered up the hill toward the lone, shiny white tent. It did indeed say “Dixie Acres” in glittery peach script and, strangely enough, was perched just outside the border of the reenactment. I lifted up the tent flap, pushed my way in, and was greeted by a frigid blast of cold air. Was this tent air-conditioned? I didn’t even know that was possible!
“Hi, there!” a male voice boomed, over a Muzak version of “Tara’s Theme.” It was the man in the starched suit who’d been arguing with Cody. He smiled, displaying more white teeth than I thought was possible to fit inside a human mouth. “For chrissakes, Cheyenne, get up!” he hissed through his seemingly endless row of clenched teeth.
A blond woman in a peach sateen Southern belle costume and a Mrs. America sash, whom I hadn’t noticed before, rocketed out of a folding chair in the corner of the room, mulishly clutching a Diet Coke.
“You seem a little young to be looking for some real estate,” the man said, chuckling. “Your daddy around, sugar?”
“No, he’s in Minnesota,” I replied, focusing on the center of the room. Atop a table stood a miniature housing development, chock-full of replicas of plantation homes. A thousand tiny Taras all smooshed together.
“That’s awfully far away. Well, next time you see him, why don’t you give him one of these.” He waited a minute, smiling, before growling, “Cheyenne!”
The Southern belle stepped forward and handed me a brochure. I glanced at the cover and read:
Bring the past into the present … with Dixie Acres! All the glory of the Old South with all the comforts of today.
I shuddered involuntarily—how tacky—before folding it up and sticking it down my dress for perusal at a later time. Luckily, I was able to beat a hasty retreat as the man had started berating the Southern belle for spilling Diet Coke on something. After the strangeness of the tent, it was almost a relief to be back in the stifling heat, and I hurried down the hill to Sutlers’ Row.
Just past Old Doc Bell’s Wizard Elixir (I had no idea what was in those green bottles, but I wasn’t adventurous enough to find out), I arrived at the little red kettle corn tent and purchased an eighteen-inch bag. Plastic. Hmm … I probably shouldn’t bring that into the encampment. Popcorn would be okay, though. I mean, even if popcorn didn’t become extremely popular until the 1890s, after the invention of the first popcorn machine, a 1,000-year-old popped kernel had been found in southwestern Utah. In the sixteenth century Cortés reported that the Aztecs enjoyed popcorn, seventeenth-century French fur traders said the same of the Iroquois, and popcorn may even have been an hors d’oeuvre at the first Thanksgiving, as Native Americans often brought it as a snack during meetings with early English colonists. So even if it wasn’t typical Confederate fare, technically it wasn’t historically inaccurate. The plastic bag, not so much.
“I mean, really, they needed me.” Dev and Tammy were still talking in the tent when I returned. “These women are just beyond tragic!”
“Honey, I know, I know.” Tammy shook her head.
Dev was actually right. Not everyone took accuracy as seriously as the Fifteenth Alabama, and many of the women looked like they had purchased Southern belle costumes at Party City or were recycling old prom dresses. Of course, some of them looked absolutely flawless, but there were more than a few who needed Dev’s help.
“These women needed me,” he said, “and at their darkest hour of need, I arrived.”
“Here ya go.” I dropped the popcorn on the table. “Now, can I get you anything else, sir? Coffee? Evian? Massage?”
“Maybe later.” Dev chose to ignore my sarcasm and opened the popcorn. “Delicious.”
“Do you have anything I can put some popcorn in to take to Beau?” I asked.
“Oh, because it’s plastic?” Tammy asked. I nodded. “Aren’t you thoughtful! Just the sweetest thing, isn’t she?”
“Most of the time.” Dev rustled around and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here, put some in this. Not too much!” he cautioned anxiously.
I spread open the handkerchief. “LK?” There was a little pink monogram in one corner.
“I embroidered them for you. There’s a whole stack.” And that was Dev in a nutshell. Just when you thought he was being ridiculous, he’d go and do something amazing like that. I put a handful of kettle corn into the handkerchief and tied it up.
“Twenty minutes to battle!” blared out over the PA system.
“Run, doll!” Tammy shooed me out of the tent. “They muster at fifteen.”
We were all the way on the Confederate end of Sutlers’ Row, so it was only a quick run down the hill to the encampment. Once I was there, however, I had no idea where to go. All of the tents were indistinguishable, and they stretched on seemingly forever. I headed down one row of tents, as all around me Confederate men put on their jackets, exited their tents, and started making their way toward the battlefield.
“Where’s the fire, sweetheart?” one called after me as I raced by, picking up speed the longer I went without seeing any familiar tents. “What’s your rush, doll? We’ve got more’n fifteen minutes!” another called.
Another row of tents—and nothing.
“Who’re you lookin’ for, darlin’?” An old man shrugging on a long officer’s coat called to me as I rounded the edge of one row of tents.
“The Fifteenth Alabama,” I yelled back.
“Two rows down, all the way on the other side. Should be about to muster, though.”
“Thank you!”
I took off in the direction he’d indicated. By the time I spot
ted the top of a head with a familiar auburn tint to it, the camp was abuzz with activity, and the grassy lanes formed by the makeshift tent village were swarming with men.
“Beau!” I called. In the sea of butternut browns and shades of gray, the russet-colored blur stopped and turned. Since I was dressed all in white and about a head shorter than everyone else, I was pretty easy to spot. Beau made his way over to me.
“Libby, what the hell are you doin’ out here?” He grabbed my arm, steadying me, to keep me from being swept away on the Rebel tide. “We’re startin’ to line up. It’s almost time for the battle to begin.”
As if on cue, the fife and drums on the edge of the battlefield burst into a spirited rendition of “Dixie.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I brought you this, I—Here …” I held out the little white bundle.
He took it, perplexed, and peeled back a corner of the handkerchief. “Popcorn?” A look of disbelief passed over his face. “Popcorn?” he repeated again, dumbstruck. Beau looked up at me and grinned. “You ran all the way the hell out here, practically in the middle of battle, to bring me popcorn?”
“It’s kettle corn,” I replied, somewhat defensively.
Beau threw back his head and laughed. “Kettle corn.” He popped several kernels in his mouth. “Delicious.” He swallowed and tossed in another handful. “I never had anyone bring me a battle snack before. You got a juice box hidden up your shimmy too?”
“Next time,” I promised, grinning.
BOOM! I turned toward the noise. On the Union side of the field, a cloud of smoke arose from a cannon way in the distance.
“Hell, that’ll be fifteen. Artillery’s doin’ a safety check,” Beau said, indicating the spot in the field where the cannon smoke lingered.
Sure enough, the loudspeaker boomed, “Fifteen minutes to battle! Troops, report to your officers and line up for inspection!”
Goodness! It was hard not to get swept up in the spirit of things. My heart was pounding in its corseted prison, what with all the excitement, and men rushing around, and horses pawing at the grass.
“Well …” I turned to Beau. I had no idea what to say in this situation. Have fun? Good luck? Break a leg? Nothing seemed right.
“Shoot, do you need your handkerchief back?” He hadn’t quite finished the kettle corn.
“No, you keep it,” I said. “For, um, luck.”
Beau nodded, smiled, and ate the last handful of popcorn. Then he tucked the handkerchief into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Kiss for good luck?” He turned his cheek to me. On the cheek, right? There was no harm in that, surely. You kissed elderly relatives there. I reached up on my tiptoes and deposited a swift peck on his cheek. A shadow of stubble scratched against my lips in a manner not altogether unpleasant. “Now I can die a happy man,” he said with a grin.
“No, don’t say that!” I gasped. “You’re not going to die! I’m sure you’ll come back just fine.” It took me a minute to remember that it was all pretend. Out here, with the smoke and the fires and the endless sea of troops, it all just seemed so real.
“Nope, my number’s up.” He readjusted the rifle hanging over his back. “Each battle is an exact re-creation of the actual one durin’ the Civil War, and we were pretty much slaughtered here. Tannehill was one of the main sources of Confederate iron durin’ the war, and the Eighth Iowa Cavalry damn near burned it to the ground. I’m marchin’ out to my death, but I’ll go with a smile on my face.” Something over my head caught Beau’s attention. “My line’s formin’ up.” He nodded toward the field. “But I go off to fight with a handkerchief in my pocket from the prettiest Yankee playin’ Rebel I’ve ever seen.”
Before I could quite figure out what to say to that, he’d left to join his regiment. All the men had emptied out of the camp to line up, so I ran as quickly as I could back to the civilian side. We were separated from the battle by a thin white rope that ran the length of the designated field, winding its way through a stretch of woods in the state park. Dev, holding a lace parasol, waved me over impatiently.
“Um, hello, took you long enough! Here”—he shoved the parasol in my face. “What did I tell you about protecting your porcelain complexion? Did you have to run all over Alabama without a hat? Kettle corn?” He held out the bag.
“Thanks.” I took a few pieces and munched them nervously. That whole exchange had left me slightly uncomfortable, afraid that I was getting too close to crossing some sort of line. That hadn’t been too flirtatious, right? I mean, not really. It was all just pretend. Because I had a completely awesome boyfriend in Boston, and Beau was just a friend whom I had kissed on the cheek before he headed off to die. I mean, that’s what friends are for, right?
“Look at this,” Dev said, holding up a schedule in front of my nose. He jabbed a finger somewhere near the bottom.
“‘Chirping Chicken Chase, courtesy of the Greater Tuscaloosa Grange Fair’?” I asked, puzzled. That didn’t really seem like Dev’s scene.
“No, no, below that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Eight p.m. Ball!”
“Ball?!”
“Ball!” Dev confirmed. “Tammy told me all about it. Don’t worry, this one’s not super formal—just dancing outside under a big tent on the battlefield. We’ll still be the best-dressed ones there though, obvi. But we’ll wait till we hit this super-fancy plantation to pull out the big guns—apparently once we’re done with North Carolina and start marching back from the sea, there’s a big-deal ball on our way back. Everyone who’s anyone goes. Southerners, Northerners, doesn’t matter. There’s no blue and gray when it’s all glitter and gold. Très swank.”
“We’re going all the way to North Carolina?” I asked, surprised.
“We’ve done ’Bama, baby. There’s a whole South to see.” He gestured grandly. “Talked to Tammy about the hygiene sitch, p to the s. Trucker showers.”
“That sounds dirtier than not showering,” I said skeptically.
“No, really, she assured me it’s fine. Truck stops have showers. Clean and wholesome. All yours for seven bucks. We’ll stop at one the next time we hit the road. Come on, Libs.” He shrugged, eyeing my dubious look. “If Tammy Anderson has no problem taking a trucker shower, I’m sure it’s more than good enough for you and me.”
Dev pulled an old-fashioned telescope out of his coat and held it to his eye.
“Did you swipe that from Jack Sparrow?” I quipped. I mean, really, he looked like a Confederate pirate. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Trying to spot the hotties,” he said, squinting toward the Union troops. “I swapped a hat for it. This way, I figure I’ll have a tactical advantage. I’ll hit that ball one step ahead.”
“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes. “Can you even see—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice boomed over the field. “Welcome to the Battle of Tannehill! Let the fighting … begin!”
Over on the Union side, a bugle call spurred the troops into action. The Confederates collectively let out a bloodcurdling Rebel yell and ran to meet them in the middle.
Funnily enough, the loudspeaker continued to narrate as the battle progressed, like it was some kind of sporting event.
“And here comes the cavalry!” the PA system announced. “The Eighth Iowa sweeps through, cutting off the Confederates on their left flank.”
Sure enough, horses thundered past from both sides, and cannons exploded across the field, every step of the way narrated by the announcer. Once the cavalry swept through, they circled back, waiting behind the lines of men hidden behind embankments or moving slowly forward in long, rigid lines.
“Um, if this is war,” Dev shouted over the cannons, “why is it so effin’ boring?”
I hated to admit it, but he was sort of right. Warfare was surprisingly … slow. Lines of men would shoot, reload, and advance a few feet, before repeating the whole process. Except for the men on horseback circling the battle, they moved at an almost glacial pace.
> Most of the Confederates had hunkered down behind earthen ramifications they’d built earlier, shooting over the tops of the little walls. The only real spot of excitement came when one Confederate decided to desert, and one of his fellow soldiers turned around and shot him in the face.
“Harsh!” Dev said, aghast. “Way harsh.”
“Dev, you know they’re firing blanks, right?” I said.
I watched the progression of another soldier as he crawled, wounded, slowly down the length of the entire field, and somehow managed to make it back to his troop.
Dev peered through the telescope. “Oh, I think I found Beau.”
“What? Where?” I clutched his sleeve. “Is he still alive?”
“No, he was killed by a puff of smoke in the land of make-believe. Yes, he’s still alive.” Dev pointed toward the embankment closest to us. “But he’s still fighting, if that’s what you meant.”
I followed his arm, and there was Beau, behind the little earth mound, reloading. Slowly, soldiers fell around him, as the announcer spoke glowingly of the tide turning to Union victory. And then, after just another crack of shots in an endless series, Beau shuddered, slumped, and was still. I screamed and buried my face in Dev’s jacket.
“Oh, drama queen, get over yourself,” he said, as he shook me off. “If you want to mourn anything, mourn the fact that we still have another hour to go of watching this snooze-fest.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I apologized, extricating myself. “It just looked so … real.”
“Um, real?” Dev pointed at a teenage girl with green nail polish in a ragtag Confederate uniform who had died and then sat up to watch the rest of the battle.
“Okay, maybe not all of it.”
The battle dragged on for a full two hours, and as we were standing there in the hot sun, it felt even longer. Eventually, however, nearly all of the Confederates lay dead, Dev had spotted all of the attractive men, and the announcer was proclaiming it a decisive Union victory.
Confederates Don't Wear Couture Page 8
