Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“It’ll be faster if I drive you,” I said.

“No one’s going to drive us on the day. I’d like to get an idea of the terrain,” Vitale said. “We’ll walk.”

“Be my guest,” I said, and caught Tyler’s eye. “Whatever suits you.”

Vitale exhaled a cloud of smoke and Tyler coughed.

“Confederate bug spray,” Vitale said. “Better get used to it, son. The whole camp’ll be smoking cigars all weekend to keep down the mosquitoes.”

“Except the ladies,” B.J. said. “They use lavender.”

“Lavender doesn’t work for beans,” Vitale said.

By the time they climbed into the Mule fifteen minutes later, I had to turn the headlights on. All that was left of the sun was a bright line of light illuminating the undulating curves of the Blue Ridge. A few stars glittered in the blue-black sky, but everything else—bushes, trees, rocks—was now absorbed into the velvety dusk of a warm summer evening. A few tree frogs sang, accompanied by the usual serenade of the cicadas.

“Pity we’re not really going to take full advantage of that creek,” Vitale said from the backseat as I drove down the south service road. “I hope this doesn’t turn out to be a farby event, B.J. If we were doing it hard-core, you can bet a lot of soldiers would get wet.”

“What’s farby?” I asked.

B.J. swallowed and I could see his Adam’s apple bob. “It’s reenactor jargon. Stands for “far be it from me,” and it refers to reenactors who do or wear something that isn’t correct or isn’t period. “Far be it from me to criticize that inauthentic whatever—jacket, trousers, shoes, even eyeglasses—since they didn’t wear that in the early 1860s.’”

“It’s amateur.” Vitale’s voice rose like it was a punishable crime. “I personally don’t participate in farby events.”

“This one’s going to be unique, Ray, and you know it,” B.J. said over his shoulder. “It’s never been done as a water-based reenactment around here before. We’ll attract hundreds of spectators.”

“What are you going to do about the creek?” I asked. “Are you going to have Union soldiers swimming downstream after the battle?”

“Too dangerous, plus it’s hell on everyone’s uniform and equipment,” B.J. said. “Though we will be demonstrating the Union panic as their soldiers retreated down the bluffs to the river.”

“And we will be using boats,” Vitale said. “Three canoes.”

“Why only three?” I asked.

“That, Miss Montgomery, is historically accurate,” Vitale said. “Two eight-man wooden skiffs and a sixteen-man metal lifeboat.”

“That’s why so many died or drowned,” B.J. said. “It’s why the Union lost Ball’s Bluff. Not enough boats.”

My headlights caught Ray Vitale’s car in their wash as I turned into the winery parking lot, illuminating a pair of bumper stickers: “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers” and “Gun control is using two hands.”

No mistaking the man’s politics.

After everyone climbed out of the Mule, Ray Vitale shook hands with B.J. and Tyler, then bowed to me.

“I’ll be back in a week to finalize those battle plans, B.J.,” he said.

“That’d be fine.”

Vitale saluted B.J. “The Union forever.”

“The South shall rise again.”

“They don’t call it the “Lost Cause’ for nothing. Be seeing you.”

After he drove off, I said, “Do you always say things like that to each other?”

“Aw, there’s plenty of back-and-forth that goes on. Besides, the Union guys are jealous of us.”

“Why?”

He looked surprised at the question. “Because everyone wants to be a Confederate, that’s why. We’re gentlemen. The whole ‘romance of the South’ thing. Who wants to play the role of a Yankee? That’s why there’s always more of us at these events.”

“Seriously?”

B.J. nodded. “Thanks for being a good sport. I know Ray’s a little tough to take.”

“Far be it from me to criticize.”

B.J. grinned and then turned solemn. “When we were out there talking alone, he told me a few things. Both his wife and daughter were alcoholics. Wife died awhile back and he doesn’t know where his daughter is.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Then a couple of years ago he nearly lost his business and almost had to declare bankruptcy. Says he trusted someone he shouldn’t have. He’s still dealing with it.” He shook his head. “That’s why he probably seemed bitter.”

“At least now I know why.”

B.J. pulled his key ring out of his pocket. It looked like he had enough keys on it to open every store in a major shopping mall. “Need a ride home, Tyler?”

“I’ve got my car. Thanks, anyway.”

“I guess I’ll get going, then. Emma will have dinner waiting. I’ll be in touch to go over the logistics, once we sort out the tactical matters,” he said. “I almost forgot. The Virginia Fiddlers are coming.”

“The who?”

“You don’t know the Fiddlers?” He searched the ring and plucked out what was presumably his car key. “Lordy, child. They’re probably the best Civil War camp string band around. Made a couple of CDs. Been in a movie or two. They’re famous. They’ll be a huge draw for the spectators, plus they’ll be playing for the camp dance Saturday night.”

“You have a dance?”

He smiled. “Highlight of the weekend for all the women and the young people. Right, Tyler?”

Tyler reddened. “Yes, sir.”

“You ought to plan to stop by, Lucie. Bring that winemaker of yours. I’m afraid we’ve got our rules about not participating unless you’re dressed in period clothes, but seeing as you’re hosting us we’d love to have you come along and see what it’s all about,” B.J. said.

Now it was my turn to blush. The last place in the world I could imagine bringing Quinn was an old-fashioned dance where a Civil War string band provided the music.

“Sure. Yes. Thanks.”

B.J. studied me. “I mean it. You bring him now, hear? By the way, I know you didn’t want to talk about this in front of Ray, but I ran into Junie St. Pierre over at the hospital this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“Sounds like they’re going great guns trying to identify those remains. Must have been a huge surprise for you to find that unmarked grave out there after all these years. Some unknown person buried on your land.”

“Like Ball’s Bluff,” Tyler said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“The cemetery at Ball’s Bluff. Twenty-five graves. No one knows who’s buried in twenty-four of them.”

“That was different, son,” B.J. said. “People knew the bodies were there. They just didn’t get to them for a while.”

He saw me staring. “You don’t know the story, Lucie?”

I shook my head, glad to divert the conversation from the body on my land. “Nope.”

“It took some time before the Union bodies were buried after the battle. The original graves were shallow, so eventually rain and the other elements exposed them again. It was only a matter of time before the animals who used the place as a grazing field found the remains. Chewing on bones and the like.”

Like Bruja had done. “How gruesome,” I said.

“If you’ve never been to Ball’s Bluff, you ought to see it before the reenactment,” Tyler said.

“I know I should. I’m embarrassed I haven’t ever visited it.”

“You and lots of other folks,” B.J. said. “Plenty of people living around here don’t know anything about the battle or have any idea the cemetery’s right there at the edge of the Potomac. It’s a pretty little park now. Real peaceful.”

“Come on, B.J., it’s haunted,” Tyler said. “It’s not peaceful at all.”