“That's not why you were fighting. Leave me out of this.”
“It's none of my business.” Ned took a step back to leave. “But please keep a lid on it out there.”
The two kitties ducked their heads, scampering back to Fair and Harry.
“What'd you make of that?” Mrs. Murphy felt something was unexpressed, something beyond anger.
“Unevolved.” Pewter scooted in under the tent bottom, nearly emerging between Harry's feet. “Humans are unevolved.”
“Where have you two been?” Harry pointed a finger.
“Eavesdropping.”
“I'm taking you to the truck. I'll leave the windows cracked, but you all aren't going to get into that crowd. I can't believe you snuck under the seat of the truck to begin with, little devils.”
That fast and without consulting each other, the cats tore out of there.
“Mrs. Murphy! Pewter!” Harry ran after them and Fair started after her but the bugle called him to formation.
“Should we stay just in view or dump her?” Pewter asked.
“Let's just stay in sight and run her to exhaustion.” Mrs. Murphy laughed, turning to see Harry, mad as a wet hen, tearing after them, Tucker right at the human's heels.
15
Sarah Vane-Tempest rustled with each step, her long pastel skirts swaying. H. Vane and company had departed to join their regiment, already marching toward the old racetrack on the west side of the oak tree. From there they would wheel out of sight, marching southeast until the land flattened out. They'd be at the edge of beautiful hayfields.
Her parasol provided some relief from the warming sun. She twirled it in irritation.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter raced by her. She barely noticed them but she did notice Blair Bainbridge, long legs eating up territory as he hurried to fall in with his regiment. He waved as he dashed by.
Harry, panting, slowed down by Sarah. The cats slowed, too, walking the rest of the way but keeping well ahead of Harry.
Miranda Hogendobber joined Harry and Sarah. She'd been in the hunter barn, which was on the way to the oak tree from the main house. She'd brought Fair some hotcakes, a recipe from her grandmother, who remembered the time of Virginia's sorrows. Since Mrs. Hogendobber's great-grandfather had ridden with the cavalry, she gravitated toward the barn.
“The more I think about those two the madder I get.” Sarah's parasol whirled savagely.
“Making me dizzy,” Mrs. Hogendobber remarked. She meant the twirling parasol.
“What I should have done is crown them with it.” Sarah stopped twirling. “They're like two little boys fighting over a fire truck.”
“Exactly which fire truck?” Harry got to the point.
“The zoning variance.” Sarah closed her parasol. “H. Vane is still livid over Archie squashing his request for a variance to open the quarry. His revenge is to push for the reservoir.”
“But Archie appears to support the reservoir, although, God knows, he has obstructed everything. I told Fair after that commission meeting that Archie is saying one thing but doing another. Who knows what he's really going to do about the reservoir when the chips are down?” Harry hated politics, especially in her own backyard.
“‘Appears' is the operative word. Behind the scenes he's doing everything he can to retard progress. My husband knows all of this, of course.” She sighed. “Henry adores political intrigue.”
“So what side is Sir H. on?” Harry bluntly asked.
“His own.” Sarah laughed, spirits a bit restored.
“Well—” Miranda fanned herself with a program advertising whalebone corsets and hoop skirts as well as bayonets and haversacks. “I hope they mend their fences.”
“Ego! Neither one will make a peace offering.” Sarah tapped her foot with the closed parasol. “How did women wear these things?” She pushed her crinolines forward, and the entire bell of the skirt flowed with them. “The heat doesn't help.” A warm front had moved in and the weather was sticky.
“If you were dropped out of a plane you'd be safe.” Tucker snickered.
Sarah glanced down at the dog, a frown on her pretty mouth; it was as if she knew what the corgi was saying to her. “Damn! I forgot H.'s extra canteen. He'll be furious.”
“What's in the canteen?”
“Glenlivet.” She raised an eyebrow. “He's cheating. I really do think this authenticity thing has gone too far. Do you know they even have rules about how to die?”
“You're kidding!” Harry laughed.
“If you're shot you have to fall down with your head to the side so you can breathe, with your firearm in your hand a bit away from your body. There are other rules but that's the only one I remember. And they decide who will be injured, who will die, and who will survive. That's if it's a general reenactment. If it's a true battle reenactment, like Sharpsburg, the men take on the identities of real soldiers. They have to fall in the exact spots where the real soldiers were hit.”
“Strange,” Miranda muttered.
“Rules for dying?” Harry stooped over to pick up Pewter, who had slowed.
“The obsession with violence. The obsession with that war, especially. No good ever came of it.” Miranda shook her head.
Harry disagreed with her. “The slaves were freed.”
“Yes,” Miranda said, “free to starve. The Yankees were hypocrites. Still are.”
Sarah, raised in Connecticut, smiled tightly. “I'm going back to get my lord and master's canteen. I'll see you at the battle.” She turned and ran as fast as pantaloons, a hoop skirt, and yards of material would allow. Her bonnet, tied under her neck, flapped behind her.
Harry and Miranda reached the beautiful oak tree. Fair had given them tickets for seats on a small reviewing stand. They took their places.
“Follow me!” Mrs. Murphy joyfully commanded as she scampered to the base of the tree, sank her razor-sharp claws in the yielding bark, and climbed high.
Pewter, a good climber, was on her tail.
Tucker, irritated, watched the two giggling felines. She couldn't see anything because everywhere she turned there were humans.
Harry shaded her eyes, glancing up at the cats, who sat on a high, wide branch, their tails swishing to and fro in excitement. She nudged Miranda.
“Best seats in the house.” Miranda laughed.
Tucker returned to Harry, sitting in front of her. “I can't see a thing,” the peeved dog complained.
“Hush, honey.” Harry patted Tucker's silky head.
A low drumroll hushed everyone. A line of Union cannons ran parallel to Route 653. The Confederate cannons, fourteen-pounders, sat at a right angle to the Union artillery. The backs of the artillerymen were visible to the crowd. As both sides began firing, a wealth of smoke belched from the mouths of the guns.
In the far distance Harry heard another drum. Goose bumps covered her arms.
Miranda, too, became silent.
“Do you think if Jefferson Davis had challenged Abe Lincoln to hand-to-hand combat they could have avoided this?” Pewter wondered.
“No.”
Pewter didn't pursue her line of questioning; she was too focused on all she could see from her high perch. The tight squares of opposing regiments fast-stepped into place. On the left the officer in charge of his square raised his saber.
Ahead of the squares both sides sent out skirmishers. For this particular reenactment, the organizers had choreographed hand-to-hand combat among the skirmishers. As they grappled, fought, and threw one another on the ground the cannons fired now with more precision, the harmless shot soaring high over everyone's heads.
Harry coughed. “Stuff scratches.”