Petty Officer Emilio Juarez called out. “Look, here come a bunch of guys on horseback all dressed up like rebel soldiers. And check out the cannons they’re dragging behind them. This is going to be one hell of a reenactment.”
A cavalry unit of about 40 horsemen strode into view and paraded past the building heading toward the dock area. Behind the column were six artillery caissons each drawn by a team of two large work horses. The column passed by the building just beneath them.
Petty Officer Walter Reilly called out. “Look at the barrels on that cart. They’re tied up next to a couple of goats. I can see the word ‘milk’ on them. Where I come from, the county health department would go ape shit over that.”
Chief Jackson said, “I don’t see one black face in that crowd. Will this be a reenactment for white people only?”
“Look again,” said Giordano. A cart with a half dozen black men came into view. They all sat on the floor of the cart in chains. Through his binoculars Chief Jackson could see visible scars on a couple of the men. The temperature was 55 degrees Fahrenheit, but the black men were all shirtless. “I guess those guys volunteered to play the part of slaves,” said Jackson. “These people are assholes.”
“Okay, listen up SEALs,” said Conroy. “I think it’s accurate to say that none of us can figure out what’s going on. Maybe Durbin is right. We’re looking at a bunch of reenactors getting into their roles. But we need to go into that crowd and mingle so we can get some information. I want to know what they thought about the Daylight Event and whether they know something that we don’t. With all of the military bases around here, I’m sure they’ve seen combat fatigues before, but if we just walk into the street in uniform, the conversations will turn to why we’re wearing modern fatigues and not Civil War costumes. We need to blend in.”
“Look at the store next to the theater,” Conroy continued. “It says Morton’s Dry Goods. I’d be surprised if they don’t stock period clothing. The store looks closed, so we’ll have to do some personal shopping. I have cash, so after we rob the place I’ll just leave what we owe.”
Jackson chimed in. “Better not leave any fives or fifties, Lieutenant. If these nut jobs see bills with Lincoln or Grant on them they may totally freak out. Wouldn’t want to ruin their show.”
“Not a bad point, Chief.”
Entering a locked building is a minor challenge for a SEAL. Before breaking the lock they looked for any wires or evidence of an alarm device.
“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:
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