Tishomingo Blues

Battery Robinett. It's now a historical landmark, some of the earthworks still there.'

Dennis said, 'Yeah, Battery Robinett. I believe one of the heroes of the assault was a Colonel Rogers of the Second Texas. Shot seven times charging up the redan.'

Robert turned his head and stared at Dennis before he said, 'You sneaky, aren't you? Every now and then flash your chops at me.' Robert smiled. 'Shows your potential. Tells me I'm right to bring you along. But the way I heard it, was a drummer boy picked up a pistol and shot Colonel Rogers. It's a better story, the big hero getting popped by a kid. You ever imagine what it would be like?'

'What, getting shot?'

'No, being in a battle. Walking across a field toward a line of men shooting at you. Or charge this Battery Robinett, big Parrott guns, twentypounders, firing canister at you.'

'What's canister?'

'I think it's like scrap metal packed together, but I'm not all the way sure. I know I wouldn't want any parts of it. Man, you have to be brave keep walking into that shit. But they did, both sides.' Robert shook his head. 'How, I don't know. I went up to Shiloh? This Park Service person, Ranger Diana, cute girl, took me around in her uniform and Smokey the Bear hat. Showed me the Sunken Road, the famous Hornet's Nest, like a woods. She said they fought in there for hours, the black-powder smoke so thick they shooting their own people by mistake. The trees caught fire and there's wounded in there can't get out. She said you could hear 'em screaming and smell burning flesh. Yeah, Ranger Diana, she was good, put you right there at the scene.'

For maybe a minute the air-conditioning was the only sound in the car.

Robert said, 'Right over there across the tracks was the original Tishomingo Hotel. They used it as a hospital. You can take a walking tour of historical sites, see where General Beauregard stayed, visit a war museum, or we can skip it, get your uniform and something to eat. Beer and wine, but no booze in this county. What else you want to know?'

There was no showroom or retail shop here. Dennis stood before the mirror in Jarnagin's stockroom wearing a Federal infantry shell jacket, the one with sky-blue piping on the stand-up collar and the cuffs, nine buttons down the front, the jacket Robert had ordered for him. The sky-blue trousers were a disappointment-Dennis staring at the almost shapeless cut-but good enough for a couple of days. He tried on a kepi. Yeah…? Then a forage cap, like the kepi but with a higher crown that David Jarnagin told him was worn with the crown falling forward on the leather bill. Dennis put on the kepi again. David Jarnagin said that regulars in the Union Army normally wore the forage cap. Dennis said, 'If I have a choice… ' and went with the kepi, seeing himself in the mirror 140 years ago. He liked the look and tried the kepi a bit closer on his eyes. Yeah. The shoes were something else, plain black ankle-high brogans with blunt toes, four holes for the shoelaces; they were called bootees. David Jarnagin told Dennis they'd soften with shoe oil; but don't put them close to a fire, the soles would dry up and crack. Dennis picked out a belt, a bugle infantry insignia for the cap, sky-blue corporal chevrons to add some color. He looked at the Civil War underwear, flannel longjohns, told himself he could always cut the legs off, looked at Robert, Robert shrugged, and Dennis said he'd skip the official underwear. He didn't think David Jarnagin cared one way or the other; he put Dennis' uniform in a box and said, 'Thanks for your business,' as Robert wrote the check.

Outside, Dennis asked him how much it cost.

'Don't worry your head about it.'

'I know the shell jacket was one-twenty, the shoes around a hundred.'

'You get a present from somebody, you ask how much they spent on you?'

'This isn't a present. How much?'

'Little under four bills.'

They were in the Jaguar now going back to Tunica by way of Memphis, into the sun, both wearing their shades.

'You understand,' Robert said, 'reenactors are serious people. I mean whether they all the way hardcore or not. They go to the trouble to get to the place, put their uniform on, sleep in a tent on the ground, cook their food over a fire, they're serious people do that. They have no patience with farbs wearing Speedo skivvies under their wool pants. You know what I'm saying?'

'They're serious.'

'They are ser-i-ous.'

'Not just about reenacting.'

'About everything.'

'Like you and Jerry. And Anne.'

'Going as a quadroon hooker-shit, huh?' Robert grinning. 'She walk down that row of tents you see the heads come popping out.'

'And she's serious.'

'Me and Jerry and Anne-hey, and you-we all part of this agenda.'

Dennis said, 'I'm not gonna ask what it is, so fuck you.'

Robert glanced over. 'You don't like me playing with your head. But you're cool, you can handle it.' He said, 'Listen, what I was saying about these people… I went to two different reenactments up in Michigan. One near Flint, a small one, only a couple hundred people dressed up, one cannon. And the other reenactment near Jackson, home of America 's biggest walled lockup, five thousand inmates in there messing with each other. This Jackson reenactment had a couple of thousand counting people dressed as civilians, women and children, General Grant, Robert E. Lee, the cavalry, lot of cannons, people selling Civil War memorabilia, kielbasa and grilled Italian sausage, and all the people I spoke to, man, were serious.'

'So you were serious, too,' Dennis said.

'Yes, I was.'

'They didn't know you were only acting serious.'

'No. I was. I found myself being serious with them and it was a strange experience.'

'Being in the real world for a change.'

Robert said, 'Yeaaah,' in a dreamy tone of voice. 'That's what it's like, huh?'

Dennis fell asleep. He missed going through Memphis, opened his eyes to see they were in the country going south, blues coming out of the speakers.

'Robert Johnson,' Dennis said.

'You passed the test. Eric Clapton will speak to you.'

They went by a US 61 road sign and Dennis said, 'Do we come to 49?'

'Other side of Tunica, down by Clarksdale, the most famous crossroads in the history of blues. Shit, in the history of music.'

'Where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil.'

'You remember-that's good.'

'But I don't know what it means.'

'Like Faust, man. Sell your soul you get anything you want. They say Robert Johnson made that kind of deal. He didn't say it, they did. But now Tom Johnson 's a different story. This was when Robert Johnson was still a child. Tom Johnson tells people he sold his own soul at the crossroads. I say maybe, maybe not. The man drank poison, canned heat, that Sterno. What kind of deal is that? Now Robert Johnson-one day Son House tells him he ain't gonna make it, ain't good enough. Robert goes to the crossroads-the way the story is told-meets Satan in the form of this giant black dude. Satan takes Robert's guitar and messes with it, hands it back, and from then on nobody can believe the way he plays. They say to him, `How you do that?' Robert won't tell. See, but if he didn't sell his soul, why did he write `Hell Hound on My Trail'? Why did he write `Me and the Devil Blues'? Everybody's saying he musta gone to the crossroads and made the deal, 'cause listen to him, his wailin' chords, man, crawling up your spine. No doubt about it, was the devil gave him his mojo.'

'Like a charm?'

'Mojo-yeah, like a charm, an amulet, something you use to get what you want, or be what you want. Something that's magic for you. You keep it in your mojo bag.'

Dennis said, 'It sounds like gris-gris.' 'How you know about gris-gris?' ' New Orleans.'

'Yeah, I forgot. Voodoo City.'

'You have a mojo?'