Ellen Crosby: The Riesling Retribution

What I didn’t know was what happened after that. Who buried Beau? Sumner? Sumner and Leland? Did my father even know about the grave? I probably would never know the answers to any of these questions. The Chastains would admit nothing; they would slam the door to the fortress of Chastain Construction, with its phalanx of lawyers and media spinners who would shield them behind an impenetrable wall.

The truth would be the truth they fabricated. End of story.

I was still holding on to the tent stay when Kit Eastman called my name. We had not spoken since that awful day in her office. She walked toward me carrying a green-and-yellow plaid umbrella.

“You all right?” she asked. “What are you doing standing out here in the rain? You look terrible.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sure you are.” She held her umbrella over my head. “Want to talk about it?”

“Some other time.”

We started walking.

“The reenactment’s that way,” she said. “This is the wrong direction.”

“I thought maybe I’d skip it,” I said. “You go on ahead.”

She gave me a curious look. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re not skipping anything.”

She hooked her arm through mine as the rain changed to the steady downpour we’d been expecting all day.

“Shake a leg, will you?” she said. “I don’t want to miss the battle.”

She was the only one who could crack jokes about my infirmity. It was our way of dealing with the accident—the “afterlife,” as I called it, where my world had been turned upside down, but hers remained the same. She’d carried around a weird kind of survivor’s guilt for a long time because she was supposed to be in the car that night, too, until her date fell through. But we’d finally worked through it and it hadn’t destroyed our friendship. The rift of the past few weeks wouldn’t break us apart, either.

“How’ve you been?” she asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“I know it’s been rough for you.” She draped an arm around my shoulder. “We could always share a bottle of wine down at the old Goose Creek Bridge one of these days. Talk about every little thing. Bury the hatchet. Stuff like that.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d especially like to bury the hatchet.”

“About your father,” she said. “I’m sorry, Luce. You know I never meant to hurt you. Never would deliberately hurt you—”

“Leland didn’t kill Beau Kinkaid, Kit. I know that for a fact.”

She stopped walking and turned to face me. “What are you talking about?”

“I know he didn’t do it. But I can’t prove who did.”

“You want to tell me?”

I shook my head. “Not right now.”

I heard B.J.’s voice over the loudspeaker warming up the crowd and announcing that the battle was about to begin.

“Let’s go,” I said. “It’s starting.”

If there was any doubt that the spectators were rooting for the South, the cheering that erupted when the Confederate soldiers came into view made it clear who the good guys were. I saw Frankie and Gina making their way toward us and waved to them.

B.J.’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “As we all know, the Battle of Ball’s Bluff was the result of faulty intelligence and misguided decisions. It began with the Union falsely believing the Confederates had pulled out of Leesburg and an unfortunate decision by a rookie scouting party of Federals who thought a grove of trees in the moonlight was an abandoned Confederate camp.”

The first battlefield skirmish between a small group of Confederates and Union troops reminded me of rival groups of kids on a playground, daring each other to come closer. Then one of the commanders roared, “Fire,” and the shooting began in earnest. At first it seemed orderly as rows of soldiers fired their guns, then knelt to reload while the rank behind them took their turn.

“My God, look at them,” Frankie said. “They’re just walking toward each other with their guns pointed. They have to know the ones in the front row are going to be mowed down.”

“I thought they were arriving in boats.” Frankie waved her hand in front of her face like she was fanning herself. “Can you smell that gunpowder?”

“They came by boat in the real battle, but B.J. said they’re only going to use the canoes in the last event where Senator Baker arrives and gets killed,” I said.

By now the rows of soldiers had disintegrated and the gunfire became a barrage. Smoke clouded the field in a rainy haze like we were watching something out of a dream.

“How can they see anything through that smoke?” Kit said.

“Unfortunately for the Confederates,” B.J. hollered above the din, “the brave boys of the Eighteenth Mississippi charged into an open area where two wings of Federals waited for them in the woods.”

As he spoke, a group of Confederate soldiers wheeled toward a group of Union soldiers. Gunfire erupted from the woods, along with a cannon blast. More smoke filled the battlefield and above the uproar came the primitive, inhuman sound of the rebel yell.

I heard B.J.’s voice over the loudspeaker again, but this time it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

“What’s going on?” Gina asked.

I pointed to the creek. “I think he’s saying Baker just arrived. See the guy in the red sash?”

A group of Union soldiers pulled a canoe up the creek bank as Ray Vitale, playing the role of Edward Baker, climbed out and made his way to the battlefield.

In the distance, I saw the silver flash of his sword as Vitale raised his arm above his head, gesturing for his troops to advance. There was an explosion of shots, followed by another cannon blast. Vitale dropped his sword and clutched his chest as he fell to the ground. Men in gray and blue uniforms ran toward him as the gunfire continued.

“My God,” Frankie said, “it’s so authentic. My heart’s pounding”

Kit shaded her eyes against the rain and squinted at the battlefield. “Something’s going on.”

“Hold your fire!” B.J. shouted. “Hold your fire!”

We heard more shouting and the pop of sporadic gunfire as the dense smoke now enveloped the battlefield like a shroud.

“Is this how it really happened?” Frankie asked. “Everybody running like that?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

B.J. spoke again. This time his voice sounded anguished and urgent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been an incident on the battlefield. We will not be continuing with our planned activities.”

“What happened?” Frankie asked. “What is he talking about?”

“I’m not sure, but I have a feeling someone just shot Ray Vitale,” I said. “With real ammunition.”

B.J.’s announcement sent the crowd, especially families with children, into a panicked exodus toward the parking lot as word spread that someone had been shot.

“This is crazy,” I said. “There were safety checks. How did someone get on the field with real bullets?”

“No one should leave,” Kit said, as people pushed past us. “It’s a crime scene. We’ve got to try to secure the place until the sheriff’s department arrives. That’s the first thing Bobby would do.”

“Forget it. You are not going to be able to keep a crowd this size here against their will,” I said. “Especially since no one knows who the shooter was and whether someone’s still out there with more live ammunition. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. Let’s get out of the way before we get stampeded. Frankie, Gina, come on!”

“I’m calling Bobby.” Kit reached for her cell phone as we pushed closer to the yellow “Do Not Cross” tape that had been strung up to keep spectators off the battlefield. With the crowd surging in the other direction, we now had a front-row view as hundreds of soldiers in blue and gray streamed away from the fighting toward the campgrounds.