South of Shiloh

by Chuck Logan

  “Damn,” the guy said, sitting up and stretching. “You affiliated with a unit up there?”

  “Company A, First Minnesota,” Paul said.

  “No shit,” the guy said with interest. “When’d you leave?”

  “Thursday afternoon. We drove straight through. Just got in. We stopped in Corinth to see the railroad crossing and eat lunch.”

  “Smart move. I just had some hardtack tastes like soggy cardboard.”

  “I have to ask,” Paul said. “You’re in blue and you sound…”

  “Like I’m from around here, huh,” the guy frowned.

  He looked to be just under six foot and rangy lean with slow, amused brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and a four o’clock shadow bristling on his chin and cheeks. Paul noticed that the Southerner’s lazy aspect of voice and manner shook out deceptively, like the loose coils of a braided lariat.

  “This your first trip Down South?” the Southerner asked.

  “I was in Atlanta last year at a convention,” Paul said in his defense.

  “Oh bullshit, Atlanta’s just a big goddamn strip mall. Could be anywhere and probably is.” The guy screwed up his lips and rolled his eyes with mock drama. “What have I done, Lord, to deserve this Yankee pilgrim?”

  Paul laughed out loud, delighted that his first Southerner appeared to have a sense of humor.

  “What’s so damn funny,” the guy glowered.

  Paul held up his hands. “Hey. It’s just that I’m surprised, that’s all.”

  “Hmmm. Well, we get two basic kinds of Yankee pilgrims. The first kind, being the more numerous kind, comes down here highly opinionated. They get off the main roads, hear a Mississippi accent, and the theme music from Deliverance starts playing in their heads. Would that be you?”

  “Not me, I’m here to learn,” Paul protested.

  “You say? Well, maybe I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and provide you some insight into the dread secret of what’s goin’ on,” the guy said. He leaned forward, placed his finger conspiratorially to his lips, and whispered, “Shhh.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “The first thing you gotta know is, I ain’t like the others.”

  Paul nodded, going along with the tongue-in-cheek conversation. “Ah, is that why you’re wearing blue?”

  The guy gazed solemn-faced for several seconds before his lean face split into a grin.

  “You’re putting me on, right?” Paul said.

  “Yep, just fuckin’ with you. But the truth is, the way people talk is the first stumbling block now ain’t it. Like George Bernard Shaw said: the English and the Americans are two peoples separated by a common language. It appears we got the same kinda situation here. Since you brought it up, try an’ look at it from my end. See, you sound sorta like factory work to me. Flat words being stacked up fast, know what I mean?”

  “That’s fair.” Paul had to smile.

  The guy reached between the buttons of his jacket and withdrew a tin case from an inner breast pocket. He opened the case and selected a long, crumbling cigar. “You, ah, care for one of these?”

  Paul made a face. “I’ll pass. You go ahead.”

  The Southerner placed the stogie in his mouth, took a Lucifer wooden match from the case, and popped the tip with his thumbnail. Paul smelled the flare of sulfur from the match, then the stink of burning tobacco. After several puffs the guy removed the cigar and studied it. “Your second smart move, this cigar tastes like month-old camel shit.”

  “So, ah, what are you…?” Paul fumbled.

  “Doing out here in Bumfuck, Egypt, gettin’ rained on, huh?” The Southerner grinned.

  Paul nodded. “Yeah? We were told there’s locals wearing blue to round out the numbers.”

  “Nah,” the Southerner waved his cigar. “My reenactor days are pretty much over. I was heavy into it when it peaked, oh, mor’n ten years ago. You see Gettysburg?”

  “The movie? Sure.”

  “I was in it. Pickett’s Charge. I was a November.”

  “Huh?”

  The Southerner took another puff on the cigar. “The way they set it up they had phase lines. Like, we’re going across the field, say five thousand of us shoulder-to-shoulder in line of battle. You hit a phase line and they call over the PA, ‘everybody born in January take a hit.’ So guys knew when to fall and play dead. I was a November so I made it almost all the way to the stone wall.”

  The stark rattle of drumsticks interrupted their conversation. Paul saw a picture-perfect young drummer boy standing in front of the row of stacked rifles, beating the long roll. Men were rising, slinging coffee from tin cups, stowing the cups, pulling on their leathers.

  Manning and Dalton came trotting from the assembling mass of blue. “Paul,” Dalton said, “we’ve been detailed to the lead company. We’re going to deploy as skirmishers in front of the battalion tomorrow…” Paul blinked at the urgent chop of Dalton’s words. Things were starting to speed up. “…So we have to bed down with Company A. Remind that sergeant you’re new, so he’ll put you between some old hands.”

  “No sweat,” the Southerner said, standing up, wiping wet leaves from his trousers. “We got us a little dialogue going,” he said with a slow smile. “And I need a spot in line. So I’ll fall in with him. Show him the ropes. We’re about the same height. Should work out.”

  Dalton and Manning paused briefly to peer at the stranger.

  The Southerner grinned, extended his hand. “Name’s Beeman. Deputy Kenny Beeman, Alcorn County Sheriff’s Department.” He reached in his haversack and discreetly produced the top of a police radio. “Y’all are playing; I’m working security. I asked for blue to do the swamp,” Beeman winked, “and stack up pooped-out Yankees.”

  “Paul. Paul Edin,” Paul said. Beeman snuck the radio back in his sack and they shook hands. More formally, Dalton and Manning introduced themselves.

  “Fall in for inspection, full marching order,” bellowed a sergeant near the campfire.

  “It’s just a formation to count noses, inspection, maybe some drill,” Manning said. He hoisted his rifle to shoulder arms and wished Paul good luck, then he and Dalton trotted back toward the other end of the clearing.

  Then it was all happening too fast. Men were shouting, some eyed the grumbling overcast and unrolled the heavy wool greatcoats from the top of their packs and pulled them on. A gust of damp wind blew a cloud of acrid cook-fire smoke in Paul’s face. Coughing, he reached for his overcoat. Beeman stayed his hand. “Best wait on that. Need it tonight though.”

  As the three companies started to form to the long roll of the drum, Paul experienced a mixed rush of acute awareness and extreme awkwardness. Dry-mouthed, clumsy, and sweating, he hoisted his pack and then struggled with the hook that secured the right shoulder strap. Beeman deftly fastened the clip, then handed Paul his rifle and took his own.

  Standing face-to-face, their rifles resting side by side with the butt plates on the ground, Paul observed slyly, “Mine’s longer.”

  “Don’t go gettin’ familiar, we just been introduced,” Beeman said. “But since you brought it up. This here’s a three-band Enfield; English manufacture, far superior to that Yankee piece-of-shit Springfield.”

  Paul grinned, excited and nervous and grateful for Beeman’s company, for the odd musical way he used the language, like he grew up reciting the lyrics to an epic song.

  “Now, let’s see,” Beeman said, fussing with Paul’s gear. He rearranged the strap on his cartridge box, moving it back on his right hip. Like a parent dressing a child for the first day of school, he slid the bayonet scabbard to the left, straightened out Paul’s collar, and pulled the visor of his cap lower over his eyes. Then he stepped back and evaluated. “You look reasonable, I guess, for a mindless fuckin’ Northern robot. You know who your sergeant is?” Beeman asked.

  Paul gestured with the heavy rifle. “The guy there, with the red beard and the lump of chewing tobacco in his cheek.”

  Beeman took a last brave puff o
n his ghastly cigar, made a face, dropped it, and ground it under his heel. “Well, c’mon. You’re in the Yankee army now, Private Edin.”

  No, Paul thought, briefly touching his wool-and-leather-covered chest, where the fate card nestled in his sack coat pocket. Private Mauldon, actually.

  BEEMAN QUIETLY TOOK THE FIRST SERGEANT ASIDE, PRODUCED a badge, and they held a brief conference. Then he joined Paul as the company arranged itself; taller men in the rear rank, shorter in the front. When the pushing and shoving ended, Beeman stood his ground in the jostling and made sure Paul was on his immediate left in the front rank. The sergeant consulted a small leather notebook and barked out roll call. Paul yelled “here” when his name—Edin, not Mauldon—was called. They counted off and Paul was a two. After a cursory inspection in ranks, Red Beard addressed Company C. “Build up the fires and wear your greatcoats tonight. There was frost on the grass this morning. And get some food and some sleep. We won’t post pickets tonight because registration doesn’t officially close till midnight. Reveille will be at four a.m.” Then the company was dismissed.

  Beeman selected a campsite in the lee of a limestone outcropping a little ways from the Ohio men who composed the bulk of the company. He motioned to Paul to follow him over to the horses tethered on a rope line along the trees. Paul stood aside as Beeman and the blue-dressed Tennessee troopers recounted war stories from their deployment during Katrina.

  “…Still can’t believe those lame-ass Chicago cops coming into New Orleans and sayin’, ‘We’ve come to take back your city.’…”

  “But those deputies from Maricopa County, Arizona, man, they was some fierce boys…”

  Then Beeman bummed some hay, which they carried back to their campsite and spread on the wet ground. Paul learned how to poncho-camp, laying his rubberized gum blanket on the bed of hay, spreading their blankets, and covering them with Beeman’s poncho. Paul followed Beeman’s example, folding his rifle under a flap of the poncho to protect it from the weather.

  As Beeman started arranging stones in a fire circle, he sent Paul into the damp thickets to collect deadfall. Returning with a drag load of kindling, Paul discovered Beeman still struggling with a mound of smoldering twigs. Paul retrieved his haversack and removed a stash of lint he’d squirreled away from the clothes dryer at home for just such a contingency. Moving Beeman aside, he used the tinder to jump-start a fire and broke off small branches to feed it. He stacked wood around the struggling flame to dry out.

  “Canoe camping in the Boundary Waters; tends to get wet up on the Canadian border,” Paul explained.

  Beeman grunted as he warmed his hands over the building flames and grudgingly admitted that “One thing Yankees are good at is starting fires.”

  Paul peered into the chilly twilight, tapped his teeth together. “Don’t look like my pards are coming back. And they have the food. All I have is jerky and hardtack in my haver.”

  “No biggie, I always bring a little extra.” Beeman shrugged as he produced a blackened skillet from his pack along with potatoes, onions, a slab of salt pork, and several evil-looking peppers. He pulled an antique jackknife from his pocket, opened it, and sliced the bacon. When it was sizzling over the fire, he carved up the vegetables and tossed them in. As the meal cooked, he showed Paul how to fold coffee beans in a bandanna, put them on a rock, and grind them with his rifle butt plate.

  A cold drizzle filtered down and sharpened a nip in the twilight. Huddled now in his greatcoat, Paul licked his fingers, grateful for the kind of greasy meal he’d never eat at home. Then they set their tin cups in the embers of the fire to heat water. When it boiled, they added spoonfuls of the crushed beans, some brown sugar, and brewed camp coffee.

  “Usually don’t drink this stuff at night,” Paul said, straining the coffee grounds through his teeth.

  “This ain’t a usual night,” Beeman said.

  After they finished their coffee, they buttoned their greatcoats, crawled under their blankets, and draped the other rubber ground cloth on top. With their packs for pillows, they peered up into the cloud cover that ebbed and glowed with distant lightning. Beeman said, “Suppose to quit raining tomorrow morning. They say.” Then he propped on one elbow and asked, “So what’s your wife think of you comin’ down here and playing soldier?”

  Paul chuckled. “Jenny’s a teacher. In Minnesota they have a zero tolerance for violence in the fifth grade. She makes me keep my musket in the garage. What about yours?”

  “Hell, we did the reenactor thing as a family. Margie had the bonnet and hoop skirt, made outfits for the kids…”

  Curled next to their campfire, they compared background notes: kids’ names, their jobs, activities. Paul learned that Beeman had served in the Gulf War after college, had returned home, and wound up in law enforcement.

  Then they agreed that, with a four a.m. wake-up, they should get some sleep. Carefully, Paul removed his flimsy spectacles, folded them into their antique case, and tucked them in the inner pocket of his sack coat. After a moment’s hesitation, he withdrew the fate card.

  “You get one of these?” he asked.

  “Nah. No fate card for the hired help. Nice touch, though. Means the organizers went the extra mile. You gonna open it? Most guys have,” Beeman said.

  “I’ll wait,” Paul said, experiencing a stab of thrill as he tucked the card back into his breast pocket. Then he peered nearsighted into the murky woods, making out a blur of fires and the shapes of men hunched to the warmth. Inhaling, he smelled a chilly broth of wet wool, tobacco, damp hay, and wood smoke. Then he shoved up on his elbows and strained his ears into the night. Was that the wind playing tricks? Or was it music?

  “You hear that?” Paul asked.

  “Yep. Confederate psychological warfare. They sent their band forward to tramp around in the woods and serenade us. Their main body ain’t gotta hike six, seven miles tomorrow.”

  “I thought it was five?” Paul said.

  “Yankee disinformation,” Beeman retorted. “You think you’re gonna walk a straight line through a fuckin’ swamp?”

  “So is the band in the swamp?” Paul asked.

  “Hell no. They’re probably sitting in a pickup truck,” Beeman said. “Suckin’ down Rebel Yell and harassing us, trying to keep us up all night.”

  Paul snuggled back down under his blanket and edged closer to Beeman for warmth. He imagined Jenny and Molly, finishing supper, doing the dishes. And here he was, curled next to a stranger in a strange dark land.

  Paul found himself listening to a discussion at the nearest campfire, where two men were having a heated exchange about the lax dress code in the three companies; some men were in period-specific dark blue shell jackets, pants, and Hardee hats. Most of the others, like Paul, wore the common uniform: four-button sacks, sky blue trousers, and forage caps.

  When the conversation persisted and rose in volume, Beeman threw off his blanket, sat up, and barked a gruff drawl in the direction of the fireside debate: “Gay bars and authentic reenactors—gotta be the only time men dress up for other men. I swear, some of you guys are fussy as stamp collectors who wear the fuckin’ stamps…”

  The talk at the campfire sputtered out abruptly, followed by a chorus of snickers that tittered off into silence. Then, faintly at first, coming in on a fold of mist, Paul heard the music building into an eerie, almost medieval mix of fifes and drums and banjos getting louder, getting closer.

  Playing “Dixie.”

  12

  OKAY. IT WAS ON SCHEDULE. HE’D SEALED HIS PACT with Dwayne. He’d cleaned his rifle and then left it with Darl. Marcy had driven separately and had stormed off, so he didn’t have to deal with any more of her goddamn nay-saying.

  Dumb bitch, better watch herself. Not the time to flirt with incurring Dwayne’s wrath.

  “Or mine,” Mitch muttered as he drove west on 72 through squalls of rain.

  He arrived in West Memphis and checked into a Holiday Inn next to Highway 55. Over a late lunch at th
e Peabody Hotel he received a cashier’s check for $33,000 from a representative of Heritage Group of Nashville, the final contribution for the monument. He returned to the motel and tucked the check in the side pouch of his travel bag. Then he called and confirmed his Saturday supper date with the manager of the Memphis stone company that was finishing up work on the dedication plaque. After a hot shower he went outside to have a smoke and watched the trucks roar past on 55. He counted fifty-two trucks go by in less than a minute: going by as fast as his thoughts.

  He went back inside, ordered War of the Worlds from the TV menu, and lay on the bed, watching the alien tripods squash and zap mankind until germs saved the world. Then he ate supper in the Perkins that adjoined the motel and paid with a credit card so there’d be a record. Back in his room, he set the alarm for 3:30 a.m. and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  At five thirty in the morning, Mitch was nursing his Ford at five miles an hour inside a bale of cotton. With his low beams blunted, he crept down a soggy, narrow fire trail at the edge of the Kirby property. Then his headlights lit up Darl standing next to his truck. Mitch backed off the trail, got out, and they shared a fast cup of thermos coffee.

  “I talked to Billie Watts Thursday night. Had to calm him down. He’s got a tendency to get nervous,” Mitch said.

  “Don’t worry about Billie,” Darl said. “I’ll shut off his coke retainer he gets too antsy. That don’t work we’ll put Dwayne in his life…”

  “That’d do it,” Mitch agreed.

  “I been thinking about what you said, how LaSalle Ector’s out at the Kirby House,” Darl said. “People might could talk about that.”

  “Talk how?” Mitch remembered the guy; quiet, clean-cut, big, and scary serious. Ector was an Easom High School success story after a rough start in the Combs Court projects.

  “You know,” Darl said offhand, “how Robert Kirby got himself killed in that ambush saving a nigger’s life. And nobody remembers Robert dating anybody. You think him and old LaSalle had a knocking-boots kind of thing?”