Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“Dad?” the boy said. “Where’s the peanut butt-” He saw Roy and his eyes brightened. “You got a prisoner already?”

“Not yet,” the man said. He gave Roy a look longer than Roy thought polite, as though committing some object to memory. “The battle don’t start till three.”

The other camp lay in a clearing in the woods, about half a mile beyond the Yankee tents. Roy encountered no pickets or sentries on the way, and no one was up when he arrived. He sat between two rows of tents on his leather chest, his face to the sun, or where the sun would be if not blocked by the trees. Once or twice it found a little gap between the branches and Roy felt the added warmth on his skin. He was almost at peace there for a moment. But only a moment: there were other things he should be doing. Roy didn’t have the will to even list them in his head. The taste of Old Grand-Dad was still in his mouth.

Roy grew aware of snoring close by. A bird called, then another. This one made a different sound, harsher and more drawn out, not the kind of thing he usually noticed, if ever. He didn’t know birdcalls, or the names of trees, wouldn’t even have been sure of his orientation if the sun hadn’t still been rising.

A low sound, almost inaudible, came from the tent directly behind him; a woman’s sound. Then a man spoke, just a whisper, but it was so quiet in the clearing that Roy heard him. “Just this once,” Gordo said.

“Not that,” Brenda whispered back.

“But I might be dead by nightfall.”

Brenda laughed, soft and muffled. Roy was already up and moving away when he heard her make another sound, not pleasure, but not quite pain either.

The flap of a tent bigger than the rest opened and Earl came out in full uniform, except for his sword and plumed hat, going at his ear with a toothpick. He laid eyes on Roy and beamed. “Am I still dreamin’?” he said. “Or is the battle good as won without me making a single command decision?” He tossed the toothpick away, patted Roy on the back. “That the uniform?”

“Yes.”

“Up and down my spine, the chills,” Earl said. “Way it fits you. Welcome to the regiment, Roy. And there’s no need to call me sir when it’s just us two having a private jaw like this.” He called, “Hey, Lieutenant.”

Jesse came out of the next tent, in his gray pants with the stripes down the leg, but still shirtless, a silver Star of David nestled in the hairs of his chest.

“Here’s ol’ Roy,” Earl said. “Goin’ to be our day, for sure.”

“We knew that already,” Jesse said, shaking hands with Roy, “this being Saturday.”

“You duplicate the original results?” Roy said, remembering from his first visit to the regiment that Chickamauga was a qualified Southern victory.

“What would the point of that be, in the end?” Earl said. “This is just Lieutenant Moses funnin’ on his superior officer.” He smiled at Jesse as though he were having fun, except for his eyes, which got smaller.

Jesse ignored him. “South wins on Saturday, North on Sunday,” he told Roy.

“In the reenactment world,” Earl said.

“Or living history world, as some prefer,” said Jesse.

They looked past Roy at each other, the expressions on their faces reminding him of things he’d seen at work. He didn’t get that: they all earned the same money, which was zero. His mind was sinking back into Globax, set to go over things again and again, when a bird, dark and quick, shot up from the woods and caught his attention. Then came a light, brisk sound like the clattering of dry sticks, a sound that grew in volume, became drumming, and a little troop of men in blue came out of the woods, falling in step behind the drummer boy. The biggest one-the drummer boy’s bearded father-carried the flag. Roy went still. They all did. The Yankees-Roy didn’t know how else to think of them at that moment-looked so real.

“Fuckers are already up,” Earl said, “and I haven’t even had my goddamn breakfast.” He raised the tent flap, paused with his eyes on Jesse. “That neck ornament, Lieutenant,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Maybe on the farb side?” He turned to Roy. “ Farb being our word for anachronisms.”

“Believe it or not,” Jesse said, “this ornament actually predates the war.”

Earl frowned, appeared to be about to reply, but the Yankees were already nearing the outskirts of the camp. He ducked into his tent.

“By about two thousand years,” Jesse said. Silence from the tent.

The Yankees halted in front of Roy and Jesse, the drummer boy ending with a little flourish, his father towering over him with the flag, the sun cresting the trees at that moment and glowing on his yellow stripes. Then came a command that Roy didn’t catch; the soldiers went through a routine that ended with them all standing still, guns at their sides. An officer with thick muttonchop sideburns-had to be an officer, Roy thought, because he wore a holster on his belt and gold bars on his shoulders-stepped forward and saluted. Jesse saluted back, not as crisply. Roy stood beside him, feeling a little silly.

“Captain Peterschmidt of the Fifteenth New Jersey presents Colonel Finnegan’s compliments and requests an audience with your commander,” said the officer.

Jesse turned to the tent. Everyone followed his gaze. The canvas bulged at the side for a moment, something metal fell and rolled around on the ground inside, and Earl came out, plumed hat now in place but struggling with his sword. Captain Peterschmidt saluted again. Earl muttered something, gave up on the sword, thrust it at Roy, who almost dropped it, and saluted back, not even as crisply as Jesse, a motion that reminded Roy of President Reagan bidding good-bye as he got on a helicopter. Captain Peterschmidt presented Colonel Finnegan’s compliments again.

“Where’s Finnegan?” Earl said.

“The colonel sends his regrets,” said Peterschmidt.

Pause. “You’re a captain,” Earl said.

“Correct, sir,” said Peterschmidt.

“Normally,” Earl said, “a colonel talks to a colonel.”

“Unfortunately Colonel Finnegan couldn’t make the trip, due to a last-minute closing.”

“Closing?” Earl said.

“On a condo in North Bergen.”

Earl looked wary, as though suspecting a Yankee trick.

“They had to move it up,” Peterschmidt said. “The buyer was going to lose his rate lock.”

Earl understood at once. “Fucking banks.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peterschmidt.

“And don’t get me started on Alan Greenspan,” Earl said. Was it Roy’s imagination, or did Earl pronounce the s in his name as sh? Jesse’s face was expressionless. “Do you know how much money the son of a bitch cost me personally last year?” Earl said.

“Captain Peterschmidt is here to discuss the battle,” Jesse said, and Roy knew he’d heard it too.

Earl turned to him. “Then maybe you could bring us out a table and some coffee so’s we can have our little parley like civilized men.”

“Certainly,” said Jesse, adding, “sir,” after a beat or two. “Give me a hand, Roy?”

Roy moved to give the sword back to Earl. Earl looked at him as though they’d never met. “Yes, Private?” he said.

“Your sword, sir,” Roy said, and almost laughed out loud because he’d come close to saying my liege instead of sir.

“Thank you, son,” said Earl.

Roy followed Jesse into his tent. There were rough blankets on one side, an old table on the other. “Got your own tent?” Jesse said.

“No.”

“You can bunk in here.”

“Thanks.” They each took an end of the table, facing each other; their eyes met. Roy lowered his voice. “How did Earl get to be colonel?”

“How do you think?”