parley like civilized men.”
“Certainly,” said Jesse, adding, “sir,” after a beat or two. “Give me a hand, Roy?”
Roy moved to give the sword back to Earl. Earl looked at him as though they’d never met. “Yes, Private?” he said.
“Your sword, sir,” Roy said, and almost laughed out loud because he’d come close to saying my liege instead of sir.
“Thank you, son,” said Earl.
Roy followed Jesse into his tent. There were rough blankets on one side, an old table on the other. “Got your own tent?” Jesse said.
“No.”
“You can bunk in here.”
“Thanks.” They each took an end of the table, facing each other; their eyes met. Roy lowered his voice. “How did Earl get to be colonel?”
“How do you think?”
“Showed up in his colonel uniform?” Roy said.
Jesse nodded. “They were sold out of general’s.”
They sat at the table, drank coffee perked over a pit fire, drank from tin cups everyone carried on his belt, and planned the battle-Captain Peterschmidt and the big sergeant, Earl, Jesse, and Roy, at Jesse’s invitation. Roy said nothing, just drank his coffee and watched their faces, soon losing track of the conversation. The earthiness of the coffee, its heat, inside him and radiating through the cup, the little buzz it created: coffee was suddenly important, a blessing, and he wondered whether this brew had been made with special beans or water or some Civil War method, because he’d never tasted better. That feeling of almost being at peace came over him again. The men around him all began to look natural in their uniforms, even Earl. The sun shone on his own uniform; it wasn’t at all itchy, even though it looked like it would be, and warmed him like a blanket.
“That it, then?” Earl said, rubbing his hands together; Roy noticed a pale circle on his little finger, usually covered by his pinkie ring, no doubt too farb for the occasion. “Then let’s get it on, like the brothers say,” Earl said.
In the silence that followed, Roy saw the expression change on every face but Earl’s, as though some invisible negative wave had passed over the field. Then everyone rose. There was more saluting. Captain Peterschmidt approached Roy.
“Can I ask you a question, Private?”
“Sure.”
“Did you get that online?”
“Get what?”
“Your uniform. I haven’t seen anything that good at any of the sutlers.”
“No shit,” said Earl. “That there’s the original uniform worn by Roy’s great-great-Roy’s ancestor at this very battle. Roy Singleton Hill-rode with Forrest, the God’s truth, completely documented.” He took a loose bit of Roy’s sleeve and rubbed it between his finger and thumb.
“Is that so?” said Peterschmidt. “Sergeant Vandam’s great-great-grandfather fought here too. First Michigan Light Artillery.”
The drummer boy looked up at his father. A muscle twitched in the sergeant’s arm.
“First Michigan,” Jesse said, putting his finger on the map. “Overrun by Liddell on the morning of the nineteenth, right about here.”
“Overrun is one way of putting it,” Sergeant Vandam said, talking to Jesse but looking at Roy. “He took a bullet in the head.”
“Sorry for your loss,” Earl said.
Roy glanced around to see if anyone else found that a bit weird. No one seemed to. Earl and Peterschmidt shook hands.
“And come out fighting,” Earl said, leaving the brothers out of it this time. “But safety first. I got a job to go to Monday mornin’.”
“What is it you do, again?” Peterschmidt said.
Earl reached inside his jacket, handed Peterschmidt his card.
“My girlfriend drives one of these,” Peterschmidt said.
“Can’t beat it for the money,” Earl said. “Seen the new convertible?”
“They’ve got a convertible?”
“Fact is, Captain, we do a shitload of out-of-state business. In case you’re tempted to drive back over the Mason-Dixon line with the wind in your hair.”
The regiment formed two companies in the woods, Company A led by Jesse, company B led by a lieutenant Roy hadn’t met. Jesse placed Roy beside Gordo at the end of the line, just in front of the second sergeant.
“Any questions?” Jesse said.
“Maybe I should just watch,” Roy said.
“Everyone gets a little nervous the first time.”
But it wasn’t that. “I don’t know any of this stuff-the drilling, the formations, the saluting.”
“Makes you just about perfect,” Jesse said.
“How’s that?”
“Drilling, formations, saluting-that’s all Yankee shit,” Jesse said.
“All’s we know is how to fight,” said the second sergeant, right behind Roy; his breath smelled of mints and tooth decay.
Jesse stepped outside the column. Everyone turned to him. Roy noticed for the first time the lack of uniformity even though they were all in uniform: everyone’s jacket a slightly different tone, no two hats the same.
“Safety check,” Jesse said.
“Listen up,” said the second sergeant.
“Absolutely no live ammunition of any kind on your person or in your weapons,” Jesse said. “Only appropriate period weapons are permitted, with the exception of bayonets. No bayonets of any kind allowed-a thrust with the bare muzzle counts as bayoneting. Those with muzzleloaders are to leave their ramrods in place at all times. Anyone seen ramming will be sent from the field at once. No discharging of arms within thirty feet of an enem-”
Boom.
They all turned toward the sound. “What the hell was that?” said the second sergeant.
“Had to be Earl on number one,” said Jesse.
“But it’s way too early,” the second sergeant said.
“And weren’t the Yankees supposed to fire first?” said Gordo.
A voice drifted down from the branches high above: “The asshole couldn’t wait.” Roy looked up, saw someone descending, a lithe, butternut-clad figure who seemed barely in contact with the tree as he came down, dropping free much too soon but landing lightly on his feet, one hand securing the brass telescope that poked from his pocket. It was Lee, his cheeks and forehead blackened with charcoal. “We’re never going to get there on-”
Boom: farther away this time, had to be the Yankees, and then an answering boom, but not Earl-this one was higher pitched, at least to Roy’s ear. Then another distant boom, then two at once, and more.
“Might just as well bag the whole goddamn event,” said the second sergeant.
“Shut up, Dibrell,” Jesse said, with a harshness that surprised Roy, as though something important was at stake. Dibrell shut up. “In two lines at the double quick,” Jesse said. “March.” He took off toward the sound of the fighting. The rest of them followed, trying to maintain two even lines as they ran through the trees but failing, spreading farther and farther apart.
“This is how we lost,” Dibrell said, panting somewhere behind Roy.
“Shut up, Dibrell,” said Lee, running easily a few yards ahead, not looking back.
Dibrell shut up, even though he outranked Lee; Roy checked the double stripe on Lee’s sleeve to make sure. Dibrell’s panting got a little louder. Roy himself wasn’t panting, not even slightly, was running easily too, kind of strange because he’d stopped running years before on account of the air supply problem. Also strange was the
