Muletrain to Maggody (30 page)

Millicent clucked, then said, “All right, Darla Jean. I’m going to let you take the car and go over to Petrol’s house to see if he’s there. If you even drive by the Dairee Dee-Lishus, you’re gonna find yourself grounded till you turn twenty-one—and this time your pa’ll nail your bedroom window shut. You’d better come straight back here, you understand? I don’t want to smell cherry limeade on your breath, either.”

“Yes, Ma.” Darla Jean took the keys and went out to the car. She didn’t have much faith that she’d find Petrol sitting on his porch or hunkered in a back room, but it couldn’t hurt to have a look. And go straight home and offer to fix supper, and feed the damn dogs without being asked, and maybe even sit in the living room afterward and pretend to listen to her parents jabbering at her.

Petrol’s house was out past the Pot O’ Gold, set way back from the road and almost invisible behind the bristly weeds and brush that’d taken over the yard and rutted driveway. She parked as close as she could and walked the rest of the way. The house was in better shape than Robin’s shack, but not by much. She’d decided earlier that the porch wasn’t safe, so she went around to the back and opened the door, intending to call out Petrol’s name a couple of times and then leave.

As she stepped into what had been a kitchen, she heard a shriek from another room. It was followed by a progression of moans and groans, each getting louder. A woman’s voice, scratchy and shrill, hollered, “Lordy, lordy, lordy! Don’t stop now, you old goat! Hallelujah, Jesus! I’m a-comin’ through those Pearly Gates!”

Darla Jean felt her face turning hotter than the steering wheel when the car had been sitting in the sun on a blistering August day. She stumbled back, nearly falling over her own feet, and somehow made it down the drive. She figured she’d found Petrol, and Dahlia’s granny, too, but she sure hadn’t been about to go one inch farther into the house to make sure. Not when they were doing what they were doing—and at their age. It was nauseating, a whole lot worse than when she’d walked into her folks’ bedroom and saw them doing it.

After sitting in the car and thinking, she decided all she could do was go home and tell her ma that Petrol hadn’t been there, then find a minute to sneak upstairs and call Arly. With luck, she’d get the machine and be able to leave a real short message, ’cause she sure as hell wasn’t about to go into detail about all that disgusting moaning and groaning and shrieking. All that had been missing was squeaky bedsprings.

No way, not ever, not even to Heather.

At four o’clock, the Confederates began to show up in the parking lot in front of the SuperSaver. Some of them wore tattered uniforms and had unkempt greasy hair, as obsessed with their need for authenticity as Jeb Stewart, who was chawin’ on tobacco and watching me through hooded eyes. Others were plumper and pinker, or in the case of the biker, close to popping the buttons off his coat. A quick count determined that only Private Henry Largesse (aka Simon) was absent.

Jack took over and described the scene he wanted to shoot early in the morning when there might be lingering fog in the valley. “Have your mules saddled by six, please. Since you’ll be arriving, you’ll need to wear your backpacks and—”

“Haversacks.” Jeb spat on the asphalt for emphasis.

“Ah yes, haversacks. Have your bedrolls, canteens, and whatever other gear you brought. We’ll go down to the far edge of the pasture on the other side of the creek, and then I’ll film you riding toward me, with the mountains as the backdrop. With some careful camera angles, I can keep the road out of it, since the dirt won’t be put down until Saturday morning.”

“Ain’t all of us gonna ride,” said a squatty man with a high, shiny forehead and sideburns so bushy they nearly concealed the lower half of his face. I presumed he had not chosen his countenance as an homage to Ambrose Burnside, who’d been a pesky Yankee general. “Fred and me went down to have a look at the mules earlier. Ain’t but eleven.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Miss Hathaway as she stepped forward with a clipboard. “I made it very clear that we were paying for twelve mules.”

“Whatever you say, but there ain’t but eleven.”

She turned to me. “Oh, dear, this is terrible. Shall I call the man and demand that he produce another mule before six o’-clock tomorrow morning? What if he refuses?”

“Can’t we just sort of jam them together and hope nobody counts?”

She gave me a level look. “That wouldn’t reflect what was in Henry’s journal, would it? Ten of the men were riding, while two of them walked alongside the mules pulling the caisson. I daresay most of the students who’ll watch the documentary are capable of counting to twelve.”

“I’ll find another mule, okay?” I looked over her shoulder. “Oh, good, here come Simon, Sweetpea, and Corinne. I wonder what’s happened to the cavalry?”

“The Yankees are saddling up their horses,” volunteered Dahlia, who was maneuvering the double stroller through the tourists with the practiced ease of a NASCAR driver. “I just came from there. The one with the most stripes on his coat said they’d be along shortly.”

Jeb crossed his arms. “Can we get on with this? It ain’t right for us to be standing here surrounded by cars and telephone poles and women with babies. In fact, if that lady”—he gestured at LaBelle—“doesn’t stop taking pictures of me, I’m going to rip the camera out of her hands and stuff it in her big fat mouth.”

“Well, excuse me,” said LaBelle. “I just assumed anybody what goes to all that effort to make hisself ugly as a catfish is doing it so folks will take his picture.”

“Please,” I said loudly as the crowd of nearly fifty people began edging forward, “I need you to back up and give us some room. We’re about to have two dozen soldiers on horses, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Yankees,” mumbled a fraternity boy sitting on the asphalt, his back propped against a truck and a beer in each hand. “Goddamn Yankees right here in Stump County! We ran ’em off before, and I say we ought to do it again.”

“You are poorly schooled in Arkansas history, young man,” Harriet said sharply. “I trust that some morning when you’re not debilitated by a hangover, you’ll take time to visit the Headquarters House and learn about the Battle of Farberville.”

Jack went back to describing the scenes he’d be filming, from the arrival to the establishment of the camp beside Boone Creek. “We should be done in a couple of hours. After that, I expect you’ll have visitors with lots of questions for you.”

“Always do,” said the big, hairy dude, as Hammet had dubbed him. He leered at LaBelle. “You come around tomorrow, little lady, and you can take all the pictures you want of me.”

Simon joined his compatriots. “I don’t see the point of this,” he said. “Surely even these cretins can follow instructions, as long as they’re given in words of one syllable.”

“How about ‘shut the fuck up, jerk’?” Jeb said.

The cavalry trotted up in the nick of time, with Andrew Pulaski in the lead. Neither he nor Sweetpea acknowledged each other with so much as a glance. The men all dismounted, some of them calling greetings to their soon to be mortal enemies, if only for one small skirmish. The horses were jittery, as was I.

I stepped forward. “Now that we’re all here, Miss Hathaway has an announcement about a change in the script. We’ve added a scene that will affect only those rebels who were killed during the exchange of musket fire and left behind.”

“Just a few of you,” Harriet said apologetically, as if she felt it was unfair that only half of the Confederates had been shot like fish in a barrel. “As the script now stands, after the surviving rebels ride away, the Union soldiers come up to the road to collect the mules left behind and then determine that the caisson is damaged. Colonel Ricketts”—she nodded at Andrew—“orders his men to mount their horses and prepare to ride back to join their army. They depart, at which time the camera will linger on the bodies of the dead. After a poignant moment, perhaps with a fife playing softly, a mountain woman in a thin cotton dress and bare feet comes walking down the road. She kneels beside each body, searching the pockets for coins or trinkets. She removes a pair of boots from one body, a cap from another, a belt from yet another. When she nears the crumpled body of Hadley Parham, she freezes as she hears a groan. Is he still be alive?”

An expectant hush had fallen over the parking lot. All eyes, except for those of Waylon Pepperstone (and mine, obviously), were fixed on Harriet. He looked oddly agitated, as if he had a sudden need to relieve himself. If he’d been adhering to Jeb Stewart’s diet, he probably did.

“Is he?” Dahlia whispered.

Harriet nodded, to everyone’s relief. “She uses the hem of her dress to wipe the blood from his face, then helps him stagger to his feet. She drapes his arm across her thin shoulders, and they move slowly down the road.”

“Who is she?” said Kevin from behind the refreshment stand.

“She is, or to be accurate, was, the great-great-grandmother of a woman named Hospiss Buchanon, who was living right here in Maggody until a recent and most unfortunate incident took place. As of yet, we do not know this mountain woman’s name or have much information about her descendants, but a record was kept in the family Bible. What’s more, Hospiss included valuable information in the letters of application she submitted to the DAC. She even attempted to make contact with her cousins who live today in South Carolina. Wouldn’t it have been heartwarming if she could have met her cousins one hundred and forty years later to share family stories?”

“I’m sure Oprah would have invited them on her show,” said LaBelle.

“Yes, indeed,” I said, taking over from Harriet before she began to fumble her lines. “Two cousins embracing on the porch of the mansion, or glaring at each other across the courthouse steps. Certainly a worthy human interest feature for the media in either case. We don’t have all the information yet. Wendell Streek, who was the genealogist for the historical society before his tragic accident, had compiled much of it in detail. The only copies of his files remain at his mother’s home. Miss Hathaway has found another member of the society who is willing to sort through everything and put it in publishable shape as a memorial to Wendell. I’m planning to drive into Farberville this evening and take the files to this accommodating volunteer.”

“That just twangs my heartstrings,” said Dahlia. “Mebbe someday I’ll write up my granny’s memoirs, assuming I can ever find her.”

“I told you I’d find her, Dahlia,” Kevin bleated from behind the table. “Soon as I’m off work, I’ll jest go right back up on the ridge and stay there as long as it takes.”

“Dahlia,” someone murmured.

Jack took over from me. “Okay, everybody, let’s block out the skirmish so we can do it most efficiently on Saturday morning. Colonel Ricketts, I want to shoot some footage of you and your unit arriving slightly before dawn on Saturday morning, when we have just enough light. Have you determined where you’ll tether your horses?”

“Trees at the back edge of the pasture,” said Andrew. “We’ll ride across the creek and—”

“Dahlia!”

I stared at Waylon Pepperstone, who was moving slowly but purposefully toward Dahlia. His eyes were wide and very bright, his mouth gaping, his arms extended to grasp her voluptuous assets.

“What in tarnation is wrong with you?” she said. “You just stop right there, mister. Don’t you come any closer to me!”

“Dahlia, you know I love you,” he said in a plaintive voice. “I came all this way to tell you.”

Jeb snorted. “Some damn fool must have given that boy whiskey.”

Waylon kept closing in on her. She shoved the stroller at a woman standing nearby, then began to back away. “I’m warning you,” she said. “Don’t make me slap you silly. Kevvie, do something!”

Waylon lunged at her. She reeled around and took off running toward the side of the SuperSaver, moving with amazing alacrity for someone of her size.

“Kevvie!” she howled as she disappeared around the corner.

“Dahlia!” Waylon howled, but with different intent. He, too, disappeared.

Kevin finally came to what limited senses he possessed and took off after them. “I’m coming, my goddess!”

“Why, that Yankee aims to rape one of our women!” yelled Jeb. “Come on, men, we’ll catch the dirty bastard and string him up.”

The Confederates, with the exception of Simon, ran after Jeb, jostling each other, tripping over the spectators, and shouting threats that sounded more unpleasant than a straightforward lynch party.

“What are we gonna do, Colonel?” said one of the Yankees. “We can’t let those rebs beat up on one of our own!”

“No, we can’t!” Andrew barked. “Mount your horses, men, and prepare to charge!”

Charging across a grassy expanse must have worked somewhat better than it did in a crowded parking lot. Several of the women began to shriek as the horses pranced and shied, their hooves clattering on the asphalt. Most of the men were yelling obscenities as they tried to get out of the way. The fraternity boys scrambled onto the hood of their car and began to sing “Dixie.” LaBelle screamed as a horse bore down on her. Children crawled under cars and trucks, or stood bawling like calves. Idalupino jumped up on the table, which promptly fell over, sending bottles, cans, apples, bananas, and oranges bouncing and rolling all over the parking lot.

“If you pick it up, you gotta pay for it!” shouted Jim Bob from the doorway of the store. “I’m watching every one of you!”