The Last Cavalier Page 8

  “Trust me. Lee remained deeply admired through all the decades,” she murmured.

  “And Stonewall?”

  She didn’t want to answer that question. And suddenly she didn’t have to. They could hear shots, and a burst of fire. Jason reined in quickly, slipping down from Max. He haunched low, walking to the edge of the slope to look downward.

  Vickie dismounted from Max in his wake. He turned back to her swiftly. “Stay there!”

  She had no intention of doing so. She followed quickly to his side. She had barely reached him before he was shoving her behind him, and then down to the ground. They looked down the slope to the valley together.

  Men in formation were marching toward one another. Yanks to the left, Rebs to the right. They were in nearly perfect, incredible lines, following orders. They marched, halted, loaded their weapons. Some men dropped to their knees while others shot above their heads from the ranks. Watching, Vickie felt the same amazement that she always did to watch such a battle. How had anyone ever gotten men to stare at one another point-blank, so very close, and fire weapons? How had anyone ever gotten them to stand still when others were firing so closely at them?

  “They’re so slow!” Jason murmured suddenly.

  Another volley of fire burst out. Men in the Yankee ranks fell down.

  Where were they? Were they real soldiers out there, fighting for their lives? Or was it the wonderfully accurate reenactment?

  Then she saw them—the crowd lined up by the almost invisible wire fencing at the rear of the action. The viewers were on someone’s cattle-grazing land, lined up at the fences to watch the spectacle.

  She started to rise. His firm grasp was instantly upon her. “Get down!” he commanded her.

  “It’s all right!” she returned quickly. “They aren’t real bullets.”

  “You might have said that before—”

  “Look! Jason, look!” she implored him. Slow perhaps, but other than that, the reenactors looked so real. Seeing them, one could believe that it was really 1862.

  But then there were the tourists at the fence. And there was the refreshment stand, painted bright red, with Coca-Cola emblazoned on it.

  “There, Jason, look,” she repeated softly.

  And he did. He looked beyond the action to the crowd. To the drink stand. And he stared.

  His gaze was completely stunned. If he had, indeed, come from a different world, she could easily understand his amazement. Things had changed. It was summer, and it was hot. Men were in T-shirts and cutoffs, women were in halter tops and shorts. Dozens of cars were parked in the field just behind the trees; someone beeped a horn and Jason winced. He kept staring.

  More rifle fire went off. Men dropped on the Confederate side. The battle continued.

  And Jason kept staring.

  Then he turned away and sank back against the earth. Her eyes met his. He arched a brow to her, shaking his head slightly. “They aren’t wearing any clothes.”

  She smiled. “Honest, they’re dressed quite respectably by today’s standards.”

  “Fashion has…progressed.”

  He was speaking lightly. He was dazed, of course. Then she realized his concern when he spoke with a hollow anguish. “How the hell do I get back? If I don’t, John will die.”

  They hadn’t been watching. Now there was a sudden burst of applause. The reenactment program for the day had ended. The “dead” men were rising. Friends were talking, some people were walking toward their cars and some were walking toward the hills that hid the encampments from view.

  She reached out, slipping her hand into his. “If we can get down there for now, I can get us something to eat. And we can go home. And maybe Gramps will have something to say that will help you somehow.”

  His eyes caught hers. He shook his head, still fighting his amazement.

  “It has to help to have a decent meal!” she encouraged him.

  At last he stood, bringing her with him to her feet. She curled her fingers around his. They started down the slope, Max trailing behind them.

  Vickie had forgotten just how hungry she was until she began to smell food. The scent drove her nearly to distraction, but some warning bell went off in her head before they reached the crowd. She stopped, turning quickly, placing a hand against Jason’s chest.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t just go down there and tell people—you can’t run around telling people that you’re from the real battle.”

  His eyes narrowed sharply at her.

  “They won’t believe you!”

  His jaw set firmly. “It’s the truth.”

  “But you can’t say that it is. Don’t you understand? I know they had asylums in your day—do you want to wind up in one?”

  He was still staring at her. She clutched his arm. “This is my world!” she hissed to him. “You have to behave in it, or they’ll cart you away. They’ll never believe you.”

  He stared out over her head, trying to take in the twentieth-century world.

  Then his gaze riveted upon hers. “Do you believe me?”

  She hesitated the briefest moment. She believed with her whole heart that he meant what he said. And though it now seemed something of a blur, she could easily enough convince herself that the fighting up on the mountain earlier had been real. It had been a real bullet to nearly graze her cheek.

  “Yes,” she said suddenly, and it was the first time she really admitted it to herself. “I believe you.”

  He blinked. His lips curled into a slow smile. He bowed to her. “Then I am yours to command, Victoria. I shall behave however you bid.”

  Her eyes locked with his. She smiled, too. “For the moment, just keep quiet and I’ll get us some hot dogs.”

  “You folks eat dog?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Sausages! They’re like sausages. Can’t you smell them? Aren’t you starving? Come on!”

  He stared downward once again. Parking hadn’t been allowed very near the soldiers’ camps, but there were cars in the field behind the trucks, past the battle site. Vickie saw that he was dead still, studying them gravely.

  “Cars. Horseless carriages.”

  His eyes shot to hers. “How do they run?”

  “On gas. Fuel. I don’t really understand it myself.”

  “They’re new?”

  “Invented right around the turn of the century,” Vickie said.

  He started walking.

  “You can’t go inspecting cars! I have one at home. I’ll try to explain it to you. Please, please act normally!” Vickie beseeched Jason.

  He sighed and looked down at her. “I’ll try,” he promised. “But don’t you see? Nothing is normal.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “Try.”

  She hurried forward. He lagged behind her. She realized that there were more new sights he was staring at. More than just the cars parked in the field. The power poles rising far down the road. The people all around them. The reenactor Yanks now laughing with the reenactor Rebs.

  “Please be careful,” she warned him again.

  He nodded. She held his arm, more or less leading him through the crowd.

  They reached the stand. There was a girl in front of Vickie who ordered a soda and a hot dog and moved on. Jason watched her with keen interest. Vickie’s stomach growled with hunger, but then she remembered that she didn’t have any money with her, not a cent.

  She backed away suddenly. “What’s the matter?” Jason asked. He was blending in perfectly, she thought. People were staring at him, but they were all smiling, assuming he was part of the show. In turn, he politely inclined his head.

  “I don’t have any money with me,” she said. “We’ll—”

  “I have money,” he said. He stepped around her. “Two of those, please. And two of the drinks.” He reached into a small waistband pocket of his pants where he kept a small fold of bills.

  Confederate bills, Vickie realized.

>   “No!” she cried suddenly. She caught hold of his hands, trying to lower them before the man could see them. “Let’s not have hot dogs.”

  Now everyone was staring at her. The balding hot-dog vendor, the people around her, Jason. “They’re really not very healthy. They’re awful for your cholesterol level.”

  “Your what?” Jason demanded.

  More people were gathering around them. “Vickie, will you let me buy the things?” he said with exasperation. “You ran down here, craving one so deeply.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Besides, this is really highway robbery. They’re two-fifty apiece. Two-fifty in American money. Greenbacks. U.S. money. Federal money.”

  “Highway robbery?” the vendor protested. “Lady, these are good dogs. Mile-long dogs, all-beef, and they’re kosher, as well!”

  “If you don’t want a hot dog,” a little boy behind them said eagerly, “I do.”

  “We don’t,” Vickie said quickly. She caught Jason’s wrist, pulling him from the line. And once they were outside it, she tried to explain in a rushed whisper, “You can’t use Confederate money.”

  “It’s worthless?”

  “Yes. Well, actually, people collect it now, so it might be worth a great deal. But you can’t buy hot dogs with it.”

  “Because we lost,” he said softly, silver-gray eyes level, enigmatic, upon her.

  She nodded.

  “Vickie! There you are!”

  She whirled around. Steve, clad in his Yankee blue, was hurrying toward them. She felt Jason stiffen at her side.

  “He’s a friend! And the war is over!” she hissed to Jason. “Steve!” she greeted her friend. “I didn’t know that you were taking part in this skirmishing.”

  “Well, it must be because you didn’t ask,” he told her. He flung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug.

  She was startled to feel a firm hand on her arm. Jason’s. Drawing her back against him. And he was staring at Steve with a silver fire in his eyes.

  “Hello,” Steve said curiously to him.

  “Steve, this is Jason.”

  “Colonel Tarkenton,” Jason said.

  Vickie gritted her teeth. “Jason, this is a very good friend of mine, Steve Hanson. He and my late husband went to school together.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Steve said, looking over Jason with obvious curiosity. It was all she needed at the moment. Steve taking on a big-brother attitude. Jason behaving as if…

  As if she was his woman. Well, just what impression had she given him?

  “Where do you hail from—Colonel Tarkenton?” Steve asked politely.

  “Virginia, but pretty far southwest from here. A little place past Staunton.”

  “Nice country over there, too.”

  “Beautiful. Thanks.”

  “You didn’t go to GWU, too, did you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “To school?”

  “Oh. I attended West Point. That was before the current difficulty, of course.”

  “The current difficulty?” Steve said blankly.

  “The war, sir, the war!”

  “Always in character!” Vickie murmured. “That’s what makes these things so wonderful. You’re just all so very…involved.”

  “Oh, right—the current difficulty,” Steve said, and then he laughed.

  Maybe they were thawing a little.

  And maybe Steve had some money to lend her.

  “Steve! Can I borrow ten dollars?” she asked quickly.

  Jason stiffened as if he had been slapped, but Vickie ignored him. She was too hungry to go through the whole money conversation again, and certainly couldn’t argue with Jason over it in front of Steve.

  “Ten dollars? Sure,” Steve said, laughing. He reached into an inside pocket of the Federal-issue jacket he was wearing and produced his wallet. He pulled out a bill, but Jason’s hand fell on his before he could pass it to her.

  “She can’t take that, sir,” he said firmly.

  “Yes, she can!” Vickie insisted. She could already taste a delicious, cholesterol-filled hot dog this very moment.

  “It’s just ten dollars—” Steve began.

  “Nevertheless, she can’t just take it.”

  “But she can—” Vickie began insistently, yet she never got the chance to finish. She found herself drawn somewhat behind Jason Tarkenton and he was producing his Confederate notes, out of the Bank of Virginia. “We can’t spend these,” Jason said. “But I understand they’re worth something. Can we trade?”

  Steve stared from the bills to Jason’s face incredulously. Very tentatively, he took one. Then he shook his head, staring at Jason again. “These are real.”

  “Well, of course they’re real, sir! I’m certainly no counterfeiter.”

  Vickie kicked him. “What?” Steve said, frowning.

  “Boys, boys, you do take this all so seriously!” Vickie piped up quickly. Jason cast her one of his warning silver-gray stares. But Steve smiled a little bit sheepishly.

  “Yeah, sometimes we do.” He studied the note he had taken from Jason with fascination. Then he handed it back. “I’m not a collector in this field, but this is definitely worth more than ten dollars. I can’t take it from you.”

  “Then we can’t take your ten, sir,” Jason said with a ring of steel to his voice.

  We! Where did this “we” come in? She could gladly take the darned ten dollars. She was just about ready to kill for a hot dog!

  “Steve! Please take the bill for ten,” she begged.

  “But he can’t be serious,” Steve said.

  “But he is! Please?” she implored him.

  Steve finally shrugged. “I hate to think I’ve taken advantage of anyone—”

  “You’re not.” She slipped the ten from Steve’s fingers. Jason pressed his Confederate bill back into Steve’s hand.

  She was grateful to see that there was no line now at the hot-dog truck. “Two, please! And two Cokes.”

  The hot-dog vendor remembered her. “I wouldn’t want to rip you off, lady,” he said pointedly.

  “Please! Give me a hot dog!”

  The vendor shook his head, muttering to himself. He delivered her the two hot dogs and sodas. She paid him, juggled everything to bring the food and drinks back to Jason.

  To her dismay, she saw that another friend had joined Steve. And the three of them had gotten into a discussion over the battle that had been fought here today.

  “Hell, Steve, he’s right. This battle was a Confederate victory. History may call it something of a stalemate, but think about it. The Yanks had two-thirds more men. They were well supplied. The Rebs were trying to reach their supply line, and they were outnumbered two to one. It should have been all over except that Stonewall did rally more troops in,” Steve’s friend was saying.

  And Jason was just staring at the man, trying to comprehend how the fellow in the Yankee blue could be on his side in the argument.

  “They lost nearly equal numbers—” Steve began stubbornly.

  “They routed the Yanks,” his friend said.

  “They were better horsemen,” Jason said suddenly.

  Everyone stopped and stared at him. He smiled ruefully. “We—” He caught Vickie’s eyes. “They, I mean, were simply much better horsemen. Southerners were raised to hunt, to ride, to race. In a situation like this, they were able to ride a few circles around the Yanks.”

  “See? Exactly my point!” Steve’s friend said excitedly. “Oh, the Yanks did have some good fellows. Custer did damned well at Gettysburg—”

  “Who?” Jason inquired.

  “George Armstrong Custer. He—”

  “That cutup?” Jason said incredulously.

  “What?”

  Vickie slammed down on Jason’s foot. He shook his head, frowning at her. “Custer really was a wretched student. That’s in the records—I imagine. Sorry, go on.”

  “Custer sure held up Stuart at Getty
sburg. But then again, it was the first real bad time that Lee had to work without Stonewall—”

  “Without Stonewall?” Jason said.

  “Sure. He was dead before Gettysburg, you know. And as to Custer, well he met his unhappy end in 1877, right? Took a lot of men with him, but it seems lots of folks—all Yanks by that time—thought that he acted such a brazen fool he all but deserved it himself.”

  Jason stared at him blankly.

  “The Battle of the Little Bighorn,” Vickie said briefly, smiling. But Jason wasn’t thinking about Custer. He was still assimilating the fact that Stonewall Jackson had been killed.

  Vickie thrust a hot dog and drink into Jason’s hand and slipped a finally free hand around his arm. “We’ve got to go,” she said, searching her mind for a reason. She found one. A real one. “I—er—I’ve been gone a lot longer than I intended. Gramps is going to be very worried. Come on, Jason. We’ve got to see him!”

  He followed her lead, but she could see that his face had turned somewhat pale.

  “Hey, nice horse, Tarkenton!” Steve called after him. “You’ve really done it all right!”

  Vickie waved cheerily. She urged Jason along. “This way. I know where I am now. My home is right over the next rise.”

  The hot dogs she had wanted so badly were still in their hands, untouched. She had at least managed to steer him away from the crowd. But even as they started up the rise, he pulled back.

  “Stonewall?” he demanded.

  She hesitated. “He was killed by one of his own pickets. Well, mortally wounded.” She hesitated, biting into her lower lip.

  He sank to the ground, sitting, staring back at the milling people. “It’s a game. It’s nothing more than a game to them. All those people gave so much! Fought and bled and died, and it’s nothing more than a game to them!”

  She stared down at him, seeing for a moment the bewilderment on his features, and then the anger.

  And then she felt a little anger of her own taking root.

  “No! No, it’s much, much more than a game! Don’t you see that? It’s history. It’s remembering, it’s keeping the heartache and the pain alive. It’s a way of honoring all that happened then. You shouldn’t be angry. You should be grateful. No man who fought died in vain. Not Yanks, not Rebels. You tested our nation. You broke it apart. You fought and died, and in the end, over time, you made it whole, you made it strong. What happened probably had to happen so that we could meet the twentieth century with the strength needed to survive, to arise a world power. There’s so much that you don’t know. How can you fairly judge us?”