Ellen Crosby: The Riesling Retribution

“Call 911 and have them get word to that cruiser by the gate,” I said to Kit. “He may just think people are leaving because it’s over. Plus tell the dispatcher to send an ambulance. Maybe even the medevac helicopter. There’s enough room for it to land on the field. I’m going to get to B.J.’s sound system and see if we’ve got any doctors here. Or anyone with medical training.”

“What about Gina and me?” Frankie asked.

“Try to get to the south gate and ask that deputy what you can do to help.”

“Someone’s probably called 911 already from out on the battlefield,” Kit said.

“I wouldn’t bet on it. They didn’t have cell phones in the 1860s. They only way these men could send a message is by smoke signal,” I said.

By now we’d abandoned Kit’s umbrella since it was slowing us down. I could hear her shouting into her cell phone.

“The dispatcher told me they’re sending backup,” Kit said as we made our way to the open-air tent where B.J. had been broadcasting only a few moments ago. “They can’t send the helicopter. Too much rain and wind. They’ve got an ambulance coming.”

B.J.’s microphone was still live, but the tent was empty. He’d probably gone to be with Ray Vitale.

I picked up the mike. “If there are any doctors or anyone with EMT experience here this afternoon, could you please come immediately to the tent with the sound system?”

Kit climbed up on a folding chair and scanned the crowd. “No one’s heading this way,” she said. “Ask ’em again.”

I made two more announcements and then my phone rang. Frankie’s number flashed on the display.

“The parking lot’s insane,” she said. “Once people found out they can’t leave by the gate because the cruiser’s blocking the exit, anyone with four-wheel drive is getting out any way they can. Someone dismantled part of the split-rail fence on the property line.”

“You can’t stop them,” I said. “We’ll deal with the damage later. If you run into a doctor, can you please beg him or her to consider returning? I don’t know how long it’s going to take the ambulance to get here.”

“I’ll try. The officer here told us to take names and license numbers,” she said. “And ask if anyone saw anything. People have been taking pictures. Maybe someone caught something with their camera.”

“Good luck,” I said, and disconnected.

“Thank God,” Kit said. “Here comes Marty.”

Dr. Martin Gamble, dressed in running clothes and a hooded rain jacket, sprinted toward us.

“Hey, ladies.” Marty stepped into the shelter of the tent and took off his hood. “Tina was here with the kids when it happened. She called my cell. Lucky I was nearby. Sorry it took so long to get here, but I came on foot. I’m training for the Marine Corps Marathon.”

Marty worked at the Catoctin Free Clinic in Leesburg. We hadn’t seen each other much in the past year since I’d inadvertently discovered he’d been carrying on an affair while I was trying to help one of his colleagues who was also a friend of mine. The revelation, which had stayed a private matter between us, had nevertheless made things awkward when we ran into each other.

“You really are hard-core to be running in a downpour,” Kit said.

His smile was thin as he stared at me. “Takes my mind off things I’d rather forget. Let’s get going. Where’s the victim?”

“On the other side of the creek. We can either hike to the bridge and come all the way back to the battlefield. Or”—I pointed to Goose Creek—“it’d be faster to cross the creek right here.”

“You want to swim across?” Kit sounded incredulous.

“She’s talking about taking one of the canoes,” Marty said. “Aren’t you?”

“If someone will get one of them over to our side first.”

“Are you serious?” Kit asked.

“It’s not the Potomac. They did it at Ball’s Bluff.”

“Piece of cake,” Marty said. “Let’s do it.”

The three canoes, turned over to keep from filling with rain, had been pulled well up onto land on the opposite bank of Goose Creek. Marty, Kit, and I yelled and waved until a teenager in a Union uniform saw us.

“We’ve got a doctor here,” I shouted. “Can you get us over there?”

He cupped his hands around his mouth. “I don’t know. The current’s pretty strong.”

“Please,” I said, “the ambulance won’t be here for a while. Please try.”

The wind had picked up, bending tree limbs and sending leaves sailing through the air like tiny parachutes. All three of us were now soaked through our rain gear, our clothes sticking to us like they’d been glued on. The soldier gestured for someone to help him launch the canoe and a boy in a Confederate uniform joined him.

“Come on, come on,” Marty muttered next to me. “You guys can do it.”

The boys flipped one of the canoes and pushed it into the creek. The Union soldier climbed in and picked up a paddle.

“Damn,” Marty said. “The rain and the current are pushing him downstream.”

“At least he’s making his way across,” Kit said. “We can catch him when he gets in range. Let’s go.”

The canoe bobbed closer.

“Throw us your line,” Marty called. “We’ll pull you in.”

As the boy fumbled for the bowline, the canoe caught a current that buffeted him, shooting the craft farther downstream. Marty waded into the water as the boy tossed the rope and missed. The second time it struck Marty’s shoulder. He grabbed it and began pulling.

“Ladies first,” he said. “I’ll steady it for you.”

Kit climbed in and the canoe rocked crazily.

“Sit down,” he told her, “or you’ll capsize us.”

I went next, using my cane to steady me and moved crablike until I could sit on the seat in front of Kit’s. Marty knelt in the stern, taking a paddle the Union soldier handed him. Rain and creek water that had sloshed over the gunwale filled the hull with about an inch of water. It seeped through the seams of my work boots until my feet felt like two blocks of ice. Kit’s white-blond hair was plastered to her head. I glanced back at her as I brushed my own dripping hair off my face. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be praying.

The battlefield was still shrouded in mist and smoke as rain ricocheted off the water like more gunfire. The Confederate teenager, who had waited for us on the opposite bank, now waded into the water and pulled us to shore. Marty jumped out as we reached the creek bank and sprinted over to the knot of men tending Ray Vitale.

“Lucie!”

I looked up as B.J. strode toward Kit and me. By now the battlefield was nearly empty.

“I watched you two with Marty and that canoe,” he said. “Good thinking. We really needed a doctor. An EMT from the Eighteenth Mississippi did what he could, but Ray’s in bad shape.”

“They can’t send a helicopter,” I said. “An ambulance is coming. Where was he shot?”

“Looks like somewhere in the abdomen,” he said. “He’s unconscious and he’s lost a lot of blood. The EMT’s got his hand inside his gut.”

I swallowed. “You think he’ll make it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Whoever shot him knew where to aim.”

After the ambulance had come and gone, Kit and I walked back to the Confederate camp, where the Black Widow’s tent had been turned into a field office for the sheriff’s department. For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening deputies took names and questioned all the reenactors, who were told to produce their rifles and ammunition boxes. Kit and I sat at a table under a nearby dining tent, wrapped in blankets the Widow had lent us.

At dusk the rain let up. Someone found dry firewood and started a campfire. We moved our chairs next to it, trying to dry out and warm up. As it grew dark, a few modern amenities appeared, including battery-powered lanterns and thermoses of coffee. Several whiskey flasks, which I’d thought were strictly forbidden, also showed up. Kit borrowed paper and a pencil from the Widow and began making notes by lantern light. Around us, people struck tents and packed up supplies. Gradually the campground emptied out.