Confederates Don't Wear Couture (11 page)

“Well . . .” I turned to Beau. I had no idea what to say in this situation.
Have fun? Good luck? Break a leg?
Nothing seemed right.

“Shoot, do you need your handkerchief back?” He hadn't quite finished the kettle corn.

“No, you keep it,” I said. “For, um, luck.”

Beau nodded, smiled, and ate the last handful of popcorn. Then he tucked the handkerchief into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Kiss for good luck?” He turned his cheek to me. On the cheek, right? There was no harm in that, surely. You kissed elderly relatives there. I reached up on my tiptoes and deposited a swift peck on his cheek. A shadow of stubble scratched against my lips in a manner not altogether unpleasant. “Now I can die a happy man,” he said with a grin.

“No, don't say that!” I gasped. “You're not going to die! I'm sure you'll come back just fine.” It took me a minute to remember that it was all pretend. Out here, with the smoke and the fires and the endless sea of troops, it all just seemed so real.

“Nope, my number's up.” He readjusted the rifle hanging over his back. “Each battle is an exact re-creation of the actual one durin' the Civil War, and we were pretty much slaughtered here. Tannehill was one of the main sources of Confederate iron durin' the war, and the Eighth Iowa Cavalry damn near burned it to the ground. I'm marchin' out to my death, but I'll go with a smile on my face.” Something over my head caught Beau's attention. “My line's formin' up.” He nodded toward the field. “But I go off to fight with a handkerchief in my pocket from the prettiest Yankee playin' Rebel I've ever seen.”

Before I could quite figure out what to say to that, he'd left to join his regiment. All the men had emptied out of the camp to line up, so I ran as quickly as I could back to the civilian side. We were separated from the battle by a thin white rope that ran the length of the designated field, winding its way through a stretch of woods in the state park. Dev, holding a lace parasol, waved me over impatiently.

“Um, hello, took you long enough! Here”—he shoved the parasol in my face. “What did I tell you about protecting your porcelain complexion? Did you have to run all over Alabama without a hat? Kettle corn?” He held out the bag.

“Thanks.” I took a few pieces and munched them nervously. That whole exchange had left me slightly uncomfortable, afraid that I was getting too close to crossing some sort of line. That hadn't been too flirtatious, right? I mean, not really. It was all just pretend. Because I had a completely awesome boyfriend in Boston, and Beau was just a friend whom I had kissed on the cheek before he headed off to die. I mean, that's what friends are for, right?

“Look at this,” Dev said, holding up a schedule in front of my nose. He jabbed a finger somewhere near the bottom.

“‘Chirping Chicken Chase, courtesy of the Greater Tuscaloosa Grange Fair'?” I asked, puzzled. That didn't really seem like Dev's scene.

“No, no, below that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Eight p.m. Ball!”

“Ball?!”

“Ball!” Dev confirmed. “Tammy told me all about it. Don't worry, this one's not super formal—just dancing outside under a big tent on the battlefield. We'll still be the best-dressed ones there though, obvi. But we'll wait till we hit this super-fancy plantation to pull out the big guns—apparently once we're done with North Carolina and start marching back from the sea, there's a big-deal ball on our way back.
Everyone
who's anyone goes. Southerners, Northerners, doesn't matter. There's no blue and gray when it's all glitter and gold. Très swank.”

“We're going all the way to North Carolina?” I asked, surprised.

“We've done 'Bama, baby. There's a whole South to see.” He gestured grandly. “Talked to Tammy about the hygiene sitch, p to the s. Trucker showers.”

“That sounds dirtier than not showering,” I said skeptically.

“No, really, she assured me it's fine. Truck stops have showers. Clean and wholesome. All yours for seven bucks. We'll stop at one the next time we hit the road. Come on, Libs.” He shrugged, eyeing my dubious look. “If Tammy Anderson has no problem taking a trucker shower, I'm sure it's more than good enough for you and me.”

Dev pulled an old-fashioned telescope out of his coat and held it to his eye.

“Did you swipe that from Jack Sparrow?” I quipped. I mean, really, he looked like a Confederate pirate. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to spot the hotties,” he said, squinting toward the Union troops. “I swapped a hat for it. This way, I figure I'll have a tactical advantage. I'll hit that ball one step ahead.”

“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes. “Can you even see—”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice boomed over the field. “Welcome to the Battle of Tannehill! Let the fighting . . . begin!”

Over on the Union side, a bugle call spurred the troops into action. The Confederates collectively let out a bloodcurdling Rebel yell and ran to meet them in the middle.

Funnily enough, the loudspeaker continued to narrate as the battle progressed, like it was some kind of sporting event.

“And here comes the cavalry!” the PA system announced. “The Eighth Iowa sweeps through, cutting off the Confederates on their left flank.”

Sure enough, horses thundered past from both sides, and cannons exploded across the field, every step of the way narrated by the announcer. Once the cavalry swept through, they circled back, waiting behind the lines of men hidden behind embankments or moving slowly forward in long, rigid lines.

“Um, if this is war,” Dev shouted over the cannons, “why is it so effin' boring?”

I hated to admit it, but he was sort of right. Warfare was surprisingly . . . slow. Lines of men would shoot, reload, and advance a few feet, before repeating the whole process. Except for the men on horseback circling the battle, they moved at an almost glacial pace.

Most of the Confederates had hunkered down behind earthen ramifications they'd built earlier, shooting over the tops of the little walls. The only real spot of excitement came when one Confederate decided to desert, and one of his fellow soldiers turned around and shot him in the face.

“Harsh!” Dev said, aghast. “Way harsh.”

“Dev, you know they're firing blanks, right?” I said.

I watched the progression of another soldier as he crawled, wounded, slowly down the length of the entire field, and somehow managed to make it back to his troop.

Dev peered through the telescope. “Oh, I think I found Beau.”

“What? Where?” I clutched his sleeve. “Is he still alive?”

“No, he was killed by a puff of smoke in the land of make-believe. Yes, he's still alive.” Dev pointed toward the embankment closest to us. “But he's still fighting, if that's what you meant.”

I followed his arm, and there was Beau, behind the little earth mound, reloading. Slowly, soldiers fell around him, as the announcer spoke glowingly of the tide turning to Union victory. And then, after just another crack of shots in an endless series, Beau shuddered, slumped, and was still. I screamed and buried my face in Dev's jacket.

“Oh, drama queen, get over yourself,” he said, as he shook me off. “If you want to mourn anything, mourn the fact that we still have another hour to go of watching this snooze-fest.”

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologized, extricating myself. “It just looked so . . . real.”

“Um, real?” Dev pointed at a teenage girl with green nail polish in a ragtag Confederate uniform who had died and then sat up to watch the rest of the battle.

“Okay, maybe not all of it.”

The battle dragged on for a full two hours, and as we were standing there in the hot sun, it felt even longer. Eventually, however, nearly all of the Confederates lay dead, Dev had spotted all of the attractive men, and the announcer was proclaiming it a decisive Union victory.

“Well, that took long enough,” Dev said, as he collapsed his telescope. “Back to business.”

Dev practically dragged me away up to our tent on Sutlers' Row, the Rodeo Drive of the reenactment, where we continued to custom-fit couture for the masses. Except for a quick dinner break when I went to buy us some delicious, if not particularly historically accurate, hot dogs, we were busy right up until the end of the business day, when everyone took off to watch the Chirping Chicken Chase. I was all set to chase the chickens, but Dev insisted we itemize receipts instead. Which was probably a smart idea, but I kind of wanted to see the chickens.

Between finishing the business day, packing up everything, and getting ready for the ball, we were busy until eight o'clock, because Dev's idea of “casual” ball wear involved a greenish-blue shot-silk gown for me and a white suit with matching shot-silk waistcoat for him.

As Dev had predicted, we were the best-dressed ones there. It was really beautiful under the tent. It definitely wasn't fancy, with rough wooden benches at the edges of the muslin tent stretching down the length of the field, but beautiful nonetheless, lanterns twinkling from the crossbeams of the sloping ceiling. A band played merrily in one corner, and in front of them, a dancing master called out the steps. It sounded like a square dance: “Right hand around, left hand around, forward and back, ladies curtsy.” Two long rows of couples stood facing each other, skipping and twirling around in sync.

“Punch bowl, punch bowl, punch bowl,” Dev muttered distractedly. “Bingo!”

“Wait a minute.” I grabbed his arm as he started off. “Don't just leave me here—I don't know anyone.”

“Sure you do.”

I turned. Beau was standing behind me.

“You're alive!” I cried, and flung my arms around his middle.

“Hell yeah, I'm alive. I never miss a reel,” he said, and chuckled.

“Speaking of reels, I'm gonna try to reel me in a man in uniform.” Dev pointed toward the punch bowl, where a boy in blue with ridiculously long eyelashes was sipping a glass, looking around the dance floor. “I'll let you two joyously reunite. Toodles.”

He scooted off, sidling through the rows of couples.

“So here you are, back from the dead,” I said, as the band finished a song and the rows of couples clapped.

“Alive and kickin'.” Beau nodded. “An' speakin' of kickin', how 'bout a dance?”

“Oh, I don't know any of these dances,” I hemmed and hawed.

“Libby, there's a man out front callin' out the steps. You don't have to know anythin'. They tell you what to do.”

“Well, true.” That was a good point. But was it okay to dance with him? I mean, I had a boyfriend. Probably Garrett wouldn't mind. It was just a dance. But it's not like Beau was Dev. Beau was single, straight, and had said I was pretty . . .

“Fine, you want to do this the right way?” Beau held out his hand. “Accordin' to
Beadle's Dime Book of Practical Etiquette,
the words ‘Will you honor me with your hand?' are used more nowadays. Nowadays 1860, that is.” The band started tuning up for the next song. “So, Libby, will you honor me with your hand?” He looked down at me, expectantly, and I looked at his hand. “Sounds like a reel.” He cocked his head toward the band. “Real easy. Bad pun intended.” He smiled.

I took his hand. His grin widened, and he led me onto the floor, where we joined the line of couples. Beau was right; it turned out to be not that hard to follow. I mean, the dance master told you exactly what to do. I only went the wrong way, like, twice.

“You're such a good dancer!” I exclaimed, surprised. He really was.

“Well, I've been doin' this forever. Most reenactments have dances,” Beau said. He spun me effortlessly as we changed partners. I mean, I was following along okay, but I certainly wasn't good. Beau, however, steered me safely through the line and almost managed to make me look like I knew what I was doing.

It was more fun than I'd had in a long time. I could have reeled and quadrilled all night long, and time flew by.

“And now,” the dancing master said, interrupting the proceedings after we'd been dancing for some time. “I know much of small-town America is scandalized by these new, modern ‘round dances,' but here in Tuscaloosa, we're a little more forward-thinking.”

Everyone chuckled. Someone yelled out, “Keep that trash for the romping female animals of Yankee land! Our real Southern ladies won't do it!”

“Like hell we won't!” a woman yelled back, causing a raucous outburst of laughter.

“‘Round dances'?” I whispered.

“Waltz, polka. Things like that where the couples dance close together, not all in a line. People were still scandalized by that down here durin' the war, even though it was already old news back in Europe and in the bigger cities up north,” Beau explained.

“The ladies have spoken!” the dancing master shouted out. “Gents, choose your ladies for the waltz.”

Beau held out his hand.

“Oh, um, I don't know how to waltz. And I'm pretty sure the dancing master won't tell us how to do it.”

“You don't know how to waltz?” He furrowed his brow. “How is that possible?”

“There's not a lot of waltzing going on in St. Paul,” I said, shrugging.

“Well, I'll have to teach you before the big ball of the season, up at this old restored plantation in a few weeks.” His hand was still out. “But for now, just try to follow along.”

“I'm really not that coordinated, and I don't know how, and I don't think I can—”

Beau ignored my protests and pulled me into him, so we were standing in a waltz position. It was funny—by modern dancing standards, we weren't close at all, but he felt so uncomfortably near that my heart was starting to pound.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A bloodcurdling shriek ripped through the party, causing the tuning fiddle to break off abruptly. A little drummer boy, probably about ten years old and screaming bloody murder, ran straight into my skirts, hiding his face.