Confederates Don't Wear Couture (10 page)

“But I would much rather take a shower. We'll figure it out. I'll ask Corporal Hotpants when he shows up again.”

We continued talking about ghosts, showers, and AXE as we finished displaying the dresses. They hung on two poles at opposite ends of the awning in front of our sleeping tent, and we had a table in between from which to conduct business. Dev went out to double-check, for the millionth time this morning, that the stake for our
CONFEDERATE COUTURE
sign (with a red, white, and blue logo of Dev's own creation) was hammered into the ground in a perfectly perpendicular line, so the sign hung straight.

The camp opened to the public at nine, but the battle didn't start until two, which gave us plenty of time to sell, sell, sell. Practically the minute our tent flaps were open for business, we were swamped. Our regiment may not have had any women in it (well, except for me—sort of), but nearly all of the other ones did. Most had many women, typically the wives and girlfriends of enlisted men, who portrayed their wives and girlfriends in period costume. And it seemed as though they had all descended on our tent.

I hadn't seen Dev spring to life like this since the Skate Canada International Men's Figure Skating Reserve Team came to St. Paul for the International Skating Union Junior Grand Prix. He was a whirlwind of fitting, trimming and pinning patterns, and making sure he had every measurement so the finished product would fit exquisitely. I stood behind the table, collecting checks and making change, watching as Dev's D&G-labeled future crystallized from a dream into reality. If we kept up at the rate we were going, Dev would even be able to afford those miniature Hermès dominoes he'd had his eye on. I couldn't quite fathom the appeal of designer dominoes, but whatever made him happy . . .

“We are now only thirty minutes away from the start of the battle!” a voice boomed out over a PA system. They'd been making periodic announcements all day, mostly counting down the minutes until the battle, and I still had no idea where the voice was coming from. “Make sure you step on down to Colonel Jon's Kitchen for some delicious Indian fry bread before we get goin'! Settle yourself down in a shady spot with a nice, cold glass of homemade root beer, courtesy of Colonel Robert's Homemade Elixirs, and prepare to witness history!”

“Why aren't we by the food sutlers?” Dev complained from down by my ankles, where he was measuring the hemline for the very short wife of an officer in the Fourteenth Ohio. “I heard they have kettle corn.”

“Scoot, scoot!” Something large and magenta was pushing its way toward us. “Yes, I mean scoot, Mabel, and I mean you, too! Did you not hear the man, half an hour! Give these kids a break! They'll still be here after the battle. Y'all can buy all you want then, Mabel, for Pete's sake.”

Tammy Anderson, resplendent in a shiny taffeta dress, elbowed a skinny woman in plaid out of the way until she stood before us, clicking her tongue in exasperation at poor Mabel.

“Tammy!” Dev cried delightedly. He finished his measurements and sprung neatly to his feet. “All set, ma'am. Please pay my associate at the counter.”

He waved her over to me. I rolled my eyes. Associate?

“So how is business?” Tammy asked excitedly.

“Booming!” Dev rubbed his hands together gleefully.

I waited as Mrs. Fourteenth Ohio filled out her shipping information and wrote a check, then placed it with the others in our lockbox.

“Knew it!” Tammy clapped, bouncing up and down on her heels. “Y'all are the talk of Sutlers' Row. Buzz has been building, spreadin' all the way to the outskirts of the Union camp. Ran into a lady all the way from
Maine
who was headed to you!”

“Genius!” Dev shrieked. “I am a genius!”

“I knew you were!” she said, and patted his back.

I thanked Mrs. Fourteenth Ohio for her purchase and sent her on her way, making sure I carefully filed her shipping info with the burgeoning list of orders Dev would have to fill.

“What now? Who's next? Step right up!” Dev addressed the emptying row of tents. “I will sew you a dream! Spin straw into gold! The angels will weep tears of joy at your beauty!”

Dev had indeed gotten coffee from the Union troops this morning, and I think the sudden influx of caffeine into his system may have been too much for him.

“Aw, hon, take a break.” Tammy patted his arm. “Y'all have to, anyway. Everythin' shuts down for the battle, and it's just about that time.”

“
Everything
shuts down?” Dev turned to me, wide-eyed. “The genius wants some kettle corn.”

“Well, I think y'all sure deserve some kettle corn!” Tammy squeezed him tightly.

“Libbeeee,” Dev whined, “will you get me some kettle corn? I'd go myself, only I'm just . . . so . . .
tired.
” He wilted dramatically into Tammy's arms.

“Why you poor thing.” Tammy felt his forehead to see if he had a fever and clucked sympathetically. “He's all tuckered out. Here, Libby,” Tammy said, reaching into the small crocheted reticule dangling around her wrist and extracting a bill. “Get him some kettle corn, and some for you, and some for Beau, if y'all don't mind findin' him before the battle.”

“I don't mind.” I took the money and left, marching down the lane toward the food sutlers. “Don't mind at all,” I muttered again, once they were out of earshot. “Sure, I'll get you your kettle corn. Don't mind at all.” I mean, seriously. What was I, his personal assistant? His kettle corn waitress? Ridiculous.

It was funny. Most of the soldiers placed so much emphasis on period authenticity, but the minute the camp was open to the public, it was crawling with tourists dripping in grease from Indian fry bread and cracking open Cokes. I mean, the public couldn't step onto the battlefield, but they mingled in and out among the tents, talking to the soldiers. Which was, I suppose, the point, but it certainly looked strange. A family in matching Mickey Mouse T-shirts and fanny packs was deep in conversation with a particularly grimy Confederate soldier. Certainly something I never thought I'd see.

Seized with a sudden curiosity, I turned out of Sutlers' Row and clambered up the hill toward the lone, shiny white tent. It did indeed say “Dixie Acres” in glittery peach script and, strangely enough, was perched just outside the border of the reenactment. I lifted up the tent flap, pushed my way in, and was greeted by a frigid blast of cold air. Was this tent
air-conditioned?
I didn't even know that was possible!

“Hi, there!” a male voice boomed, over a Muzak version of “Tara's Theme.” It was the man in the starched suit who'd been arguing with Cody. He smiled, displaying more white teeth than I thought was possible to fit inside a human mouth. “For chrissakes, Cheyenne, get up!” he hissed through his seemingly endless row of clenched teeth.

A blond woman in a peach sateen Southern belle costume and a Mrs. America sash, whom I hadn't noticed before, rocketed out of a folding chair in the corner of the room, mulishly clutching a Diet Coke.

“You seem a little young to be looking for some real estate,” the man said, chuckling. “Your daddy around, sugar?”

“No, he's in Minnesota,” I replied, focusing on the center of the room. Atop a table stood a miniature housing development, chock-full of replicas of plantation homes. A thousand tiny Taras all smooshed together.

“That's awfully far away. Well, next time you see him, why don't you give him one of these.” He waited a minute, smiling, before growling, “Cheyenne!”

The Southern belle stepped forward and handed me a brochure. I glanced at the cover and read:

 

Bring the past into the present . . . with Dixie Acres! All the glory of the Old South with all the comforts of today.

 

I shuddered involuntarily—how tacky—before folding it up and sticking it down my dress for perusal at a later time. Luckily, I was able to beat a hasty retreat as the man had started berating the Southern belle for spilling Diet Coke on something. After the strangeness of the tent, it was almost a relief to be back in the stifling heat, and I hurried down the hill to Sutlers' Row.

Just past Old Doc Bell's Wizard Elixir (I had no idea what was in those green bottles, but I wasn't adventurous enough to find out), I arrived at the little red kettle corn tent and purchased an eighteen-inch bag. Plastic. Hmm . . . I probably shouldn't bring that into the encampment. Popcorn would be okay, though. I mean, even if popcorn didn't become extremely popular until the 1890s, after the invention of the first popcorn machine, a 1,000-year-old popped kernel had been found in southwestern Utah. In the sixteenth century Cortés reported that the Aztecs enjoyed popcorn, seventeenth-century French fur traders said the same of the Iroquois, and popcorn may even have been an hors d'oeuvre at the first Thanksgiving, as Native Americans often brought it as a snack during meetings with early English colonists. So even if it wasn't typical Confederate fare, technically it wasn't historically inaccurate. The plastic bag, not so much.

“I mean, really, they needed me.” Dev and Tammy were still talking in the tent when I returned. “These women are just beyond tragic!”

“Honey, I know, I know.” Tammy shook her head.

Dev was actually right. Not everyone took accuracy as seriously as the Fifteenth Alabama, and many of the women looked like they had purchased Southern belle costumes at Party City or were recycling old prom dresses. Of course, some of them looked absolutely flawless, but there were more than a few who needed Dev's help.

“These women needed me,” he said, “and at their darkest hour of need, I arrived.”

“Here ya go.” I dropped the popcorn on the table. “Now, can I get you anything else, sir? Coffee? Evian? Massage?”

“Maybe later.” Dev chose to ignore my sarcasm and opened the popcorn. “Delicious.”

“Do you have anything I can put some popcorn in to take to Beau?” I asked.

“Oh, because it's plastic?” Tammy asked. I nodded. “Aren't you thoughtful! Just the sweetest thing, isn't she?”

“Most of the time.” Dev rustled around and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here, put some in this. Not too much!” he cautioned anxiously.

I spread open the handkerchief. “LK?” There was a little pink monogram in one corner.

“I embroidered them for you. There's a whole stack.” And that was Dev in a nutshell. Just when you thought he was being ridiculous, he'd go and do something amazing like that. I put a handful of kettle corn into the handkerchief and tied it up.

“Twenty minutes to battle!” blared out over the PA system.

“Run, doll!” Tammy shooed me out of the tent. “They muster at fifteen.”

We were all the way on the Confederate end of Sutlers' Row, so it was only a quick run down the hill to the encampment. Once I was there, however, I had no idea where to go. All of the tents were indistinguishable, and they stretched on seemingly forever. I headed down one row of tents, as all around me Confederate men put on their jackets, exited their tents, and started making their way toward the battlefield.

“Where's the fire, sweetheart?” one called after me as I raced by, picking up speed the longer I went without seeing any familiar tents. “What's your rush, doll? We've got more'n fifteen minutes!” another called.

Another row of tents—and nothing.

“Who're you lookin' for, darlin'?” An old man shrugging on a long officer's coat called to me as I rounded the edge of one row of tents.

“The Fifteenth Alabama,” I yelled back.

“Two rows down, all the way on the other side. Should be about to muster, though.”

“Thank you!”

I took off in the direction he'd indicated. By the time I spotted the top of a head with a familiar auburn tint to it, the camp was abuzz with activity, and the grassy lanes formed by the makeshift tent village were swarming with men.

“Beau!” I called. In the sea of butternut browns and shades of gray, the russet-colored blur stopped and turned. Since I was dressed all in white and about a head shorter than everyone else, I was pretty easy to spot. Beau made his way over to me.

“Libby, what the hell are you doin' out here?” He grabbed my arm, steadying me, to keep me from being swept away on the Rebel tide. “We're startin' to line up. It's almost time for the battle to begin.”

As if on cue, the fife and drums on the edge of the battlefield burst into a spirited rendition of “Dixie.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I brought you this, I—Here . . .” I held out the little white bundle.

He took it, perplexed, and peeled back a corner of the handkerchief. “Popcorn?” A look of disbelief passed over his face. “Popcorn?” he repeated again, dumbstruck. Beau looked up at me and grinned. “You ran all the way the hell out here, practically in the middle of battle, to bring me popcorn?”

“It's kettle corn,” I replied, somewhat defensively.

Beau threw back his head and laughed. “Kettle corn.” He popped several kernels in his mouth. “Delicious.” He swallowed and tossed in another handful. “I never had anyone bring me a battle snack before. You got a juice box hidden up your shimmy too?”

“Next time,” I promised, grinning.

BOOM!
I turned toward the noise. On the Union side of the field, a cloud of smoke arose from a cannon way in the distance.

“Hell, that'll be fifteen. Artillery's doin' a safety check,” Beau said, indicating the spot in the field where the cannon smoke lingered.

Sure enough, the loudspeaker boomed, “Fifteen minutes to battle! Troops, report to your officers and line up for inspection!”

Goodness! It was hard not to get swept up in the spirit of things. My heart was pounding in its corseted prison, what with all the excitement, and men rushing around, and horses pawing at the grass.