Russell Moran - The Gray Ship

“The place doesn’t have any kind of alarm system at all, Lieutenant,” said Chief Jackson. “This store would never make it in South Philly.”

They each picked out trousers, a shirt, a coat, boots, and a hat. The clothing didn’t fit well even though the sizes were marked, but judging from the wardrobes in the crowd they should blend in perfectly.

Conroy found a cash box and withdrew the contents, about $75. “Like you said, Chief, these bozos are playing this authenticity bit so hard they even stock antique bills and coins.”

“Smitty, I want you to take Reilly with you and see if you can find your cousin’s apartment building. Let’s hope she and her husband are home. Maybe they can explain this. If they’re not home, walk around the neighborhood and record your observations.”

“Okay, move out. Side arms only. Leave all rifles, grenades, and other equipment here. We’ll rendezvous back here at 2300. Juarez, you’ll stay here to watch our gear.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

They left through the back door.

“Okay SEALs, we’re heading for that saloon over there, the one called Gabbey’s. Order beers only and sip slowly. I want everybody’s nerves and minds sharp. Here’s some cash for each of you. Go in two at a time. I don’t want to look like we’re a group. Giordano will go in with me.”

“Should we talk with southern accents Lieutenant?” asked Tony (Geo) Giordano, a native of Brooklyn.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Geo. Probably half the people we’ll see are from up north, here to enjoy the reenactment. Your Brooklyn accent will do just fine.”

“Fuggeddaboutit,” said Giordano.

Conroy and Giordano entered the saloon. “Just act casual,” said Conroy.

“How else can you act in a gin mill, Lieutenant?”

Just as on the street, everyone in the bar wore period costumes. A guy in the corner wore a straw hat and played old Dixie tunes on an upright piano. As they approached the bar, they noticed one of the customers let go of a great gob of tobacco juice into a spittoon.

Giordano leaned over to Conroy and said, “These fucking people need a life, Lieutenant.”

“I think you have a point, Geo, but I want more specific observations.”

The two men walked up to the bar and ordered their beers. The bartender sported a handle bar mustache, a striped shirt with garters holding up his sleeves, and a white apron. Conroy turned to a man at the bar who wore a bowler hat and well tailored clothes.

“How are you this evening?” said Conroy.

The man responded with a refined southern accent, “I’m doing just fine Sir, enjoying the springtime weather. If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, you sound like you’re a Yankee. Where are you from?”

Conroy sensed that the man was friendly so he figured he’d loosen things up with humor. “I’m from Wisconsin, and I prefer the Milwaukee Brewers.” The man didn’t get the joke, having never heard of the Milwaukee Brewers. “Are you from around here friend?” asked Conroy. The man told him that he was a native Charlestonian, and volunteered that he was the president of the local bank. Great, thought Conroy, a guy with his finger on the pulse of the city. Conroy decided to jump right in.

“Were you awake for that crazy light event last night?” He tried to sound casual about the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

“What light event, sir?”

“Well at about 0300, er, 3 a.m., the darkness suddenly became bright daylight. It lasted for about two minutes.”

The man looked puzzled. He shouted down the bar, asking anyone in earshot if they saw the night turn to daylight in the early morning hours. Nothing but shrugs and confused looks.

Conroy decided to change the subject. “So, it looks like all you folks are ready for the big reenactment.”

“Reenactment? Of what?” asked their banker friend.

“You know, the reenactment of the Battle of Fort Sumter.”

“Sir,” said the banker, “between the daylight at dark and your talk of something being reenacted, you have managed to confuse me. There have been rumors, God knows, that General Beauregard intends to fire on Fort Sumter, but most of it is just irresponsible war talk.”

Back at Morton’s Dry Goods store, Petty Officer Juarez patrolled the shop and noted his findings. He hit the record button.

“This is Petty Officer Emilio Juarez reporting from Morton’s Drygoods store in Charlestown, South Carolina. The time is 2205 on April 10, 2013. Pursuant to orders from Lt. Conroy I’m recording my observations and impressions. Although the light is dim, I can see my surroundings from the gas light outside the store. As we’ve been saying, these reenactors take their job very seriously. This store is decked out to look like something from the Civil War era. I just can’t understand why they didn’t just put out some old stuff for tourists to photograph and keep the regular goods in a corner or another room. The floor creaks like you would expect from old lumber. There isn’t a piece of tile or linoleum in sight. I’m now looking behind the checkout counter. I expect to see a computer or at least a laptop under the counter. None. There is no adding machine, no cash register and no electronic gear of any kind. I can’t find any electric outlets either. Wait, here’s a newspaper.” Juarez took out his flashlight, turned off the recorder, and walked behind a wall so he wouldn’t be seen from the street. The headline read:

The newspaper was dated April 10, 1861. Holy shit, thought Juarez. These reenactors don’t miss a trick. He turned the recorder back on and dictated his findings from the newspaper, minus the “holy shit.”

Petty Officers Smith and Reilly were looking for Smitty’s cousin’s building. Five months ago, thought Smitty, this street was absolutely charming, a typical block in a prosperous city that tried to look antique, but with all the modern amenities. Five months back, every other group of shops had a name that ended in “Mews” or “Commons.”

“There it is,” said Smitty. “I remember her building’s next to that old firehouse. I remember the beautiful carvings.”

After they passed the firehouse Smitty froze. Instead of the upscale condo building that he had visited a few months before, there was now a warehouse. He recalled his cousin telling him that condos often were built in old warehouses, a common tool of an imaginative real estate developer. The facade of the building had the same shape and stonework it did five months ago, but it wasn’t modernized. He recalled polished mahogany paneling around the doorway inlaid into a stainless steel frame. Now it’s just a warehouse with a plain entrance of stone. He remembered that he had a perfect view of the Cooper River Bridge from this very spot. But there is no bridge.

They continued to walk the neighborhood, snapping pictures and dictating their observations. A few of the houses had small yards. Instead of the sounds of urban traffic he heard five months ago, all they heard were cows mooing and chickens clucking. They came upon an area with a fenced-in enclosure of split rail fencing. Inside the enclosure were about a dozen passenger buggies in various states of disrepair.

“I guess this is what a used car lot used to look like 152 years ago,” Reilly said.

Smitty turned on his recorder and described the “used buggy lot.” He added, “I wonder why, for a reenactment, people would set out a bunch of broken down carriages.” They were about to cross a street but had to stop for a large cart drawn by two huge horses that looked like they came from a Budweiser commercial. They crossed the street after the cart had passed. A man sat on a bench smoking a pipe.