Confederates Don't Wear Couture (7 page)

The rest of the group around the campfire laughed.

“Fine,” Dev said tensely. “I get it. There's no coffee. Then what the hell is this?”

From all around the campfire, different men tending pots chimed in with their various coffee substitutes: roasted corn, rye, okra seeds, sweet potatoes, acorns, and peanuts.

“Do any of them,” Dev said, rubbing his temples, “contain caffeine?”

Silence.

“I think Bill's still got some yaupon leaves left,” one of them eventually piped up. He wore round glasses with thin metal frames and had a bristly brown mustache.

“‘Yaupon'?” Dev asked.

“Y'all can make a tea from the leaves of the yaupon shrub. It's a kind of holly. Grows all over. It's got a bit of a kick, but it's hell to digest. I think there's a reason its binomial name is
Ilex vomitoria,
” he concluded sagely.

“He'll be lucky if that's the end it comes out!” one of them roared, and the rest of the soldiers chimed in.

Dev picked up a fresh mug of steaming hot acorns and stomped over to join us. I finished my johnnycakes and set the plate down on an unoccupied stump.

“There was only one surefire way that Southern folks got coffee,” Beau suggested.

“Oh?” Dev asked, intrigued.

“Informal truce with the Yanks. During the war, men'd swap tobacco for coffee and run on back before anyone knew they were missin'. Everyone had tobacco.”

“Except me,” Dev muttered. “But I've got cash, which is better. When do we next see Yanks?”

“Tomorrow.” Beau took a swig from his own mug and grimaced slightly at the taste. “Tonight, maybe.”

“We're leaving today? Already?” I asked. “We just set everything up!”

“Life of a soldier, always on the move,” Beau said, grinning. “We're headin' south to Tannehill. Besides, we've been here all weekend. This wasn't a battle, just trainin' camp. Instruction on firearms, that sort of thing. Get all the new guys up to speed so the others don't call us farby.”

Dev shuddered. I was lost.

“‘Farby'?” I wrinkled my nose, confused.

“Didn't you research
anything?
” Dev sighed with mock exasperation. “‘Farb' is a derogatory term used in the hobby of historical reenacting in reference to participants who exhibit indifference to historical authenticity, either from a material-cultural standpoint or in action. It can also refer to the inauthentic materials used by those reenactors,'” Dev quoted prosaically.
“Wikipedia.”

“While normally I don't condone
Wikipedia
as a valid source,” Beau drawled, and my heart skipped a beat—finally someone who took checking the validity of their source material
seriously!
—“in this case, it's pretty accurate. Farbs are reenactors who don't care about bein' authentic, not with their uniforms or accessories, or even the way they act. We take bein' authentic real serious in this regiment. We don't even let women in, which a lot of the regiments do. Let women dress up as soldiers an' fight, I mean,” he clarified, nodding at me. “I don't have a problem with it, but most of the older crowd think it's too farby.”

“And being a farb is like social
suicide,
” Dev added. “Major no-no. There's no better way to get blacklisted than to be a farby sutler.”

“'S true,” Beau agreed. “It'll sink your business like Mike DuBose sank the Tide back in 2000.”

Dev and I stared at him blankly.

“The Alabama Crimson Tide?” he tried. “Finished three and eight that season?” Still nothing. “Football?”

“Ahhh,” we said in unison, nodding.

“Yeah, no,” Dev said. “We don't do that.”

“Anyway,” Beau said, shaking his head, “y'all have nothing to worry about. From what I can see”—he looked me up and down, eyes coming to rest on mine as he smiled warmly—“everything looks amazing.”

I blushed, but before I could formulate a response, a small bear pushed its way between us and started attacking my tin plate.

“Aw, Willie, no!” Beau moaned, and tried to pull him off. On closer inspection, it turned out not to be a bear, but a very large, very happy, cocoa-colored dog. “I hope you were done with your molasses.” He grinned ruefully. “I swear that dog has some kind of radar system that lets him know when anyone in Alabama sets down a plate.”

Dev watched, horrified, as the dog joyously cleaned the plate with a massive pink tongue. “What on earth is that . . . that . . . that creature?”

“That”—Beau folded his arms proudly—“is Willie. He's a Chessie, mostly. A Chesapeake Bay retriever,” he explained. “But there's definitely somethin' else in there.”

“Like grizzly?” Dev said tartly.

Willie finished licking the plate and looked up happily, tongue lolling.

“Hey, boy,” I said, kneeling down, and Willie came galumphing over.

“You're not going to . . . touch that beast, are you?” Dev was all disbelief.

“Sure am.” I scratched his ears, and Willie barked happily.

“Aw, he likes you,” Beau said softly.

“I bet he likes pretty much everybody. Don't you, boy?” He barked again, in the affirmative. “He probably also likes that I have molasses all over my hands.”

“You a dog person, then?” Beau knelt down to join me.

“Oh, definitely. I love dogs.” Willie slobbered happily. “We have two back home. Both much smaller than this guy.” I grinned. “But then again, most dogs are.”

“Corporal Anderson!” someone shouted from off in the distance.

“Duty calls.” Beau straightened and stood. “Let me see what he wants, and I'll be right back.”

Beau headed off, Willie loping along behind him. I stood too, and came face to face with Dev, whose eyebrows were up to his hairline.

“What?” I asked blankly.

“So now that you've cleaned up the whole dog versus cat issue, have you decided on two kids or three?” he said archly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why, Miss Libby, I do decla-uh, I hate that there
Wikipedia,
and I love me some obscu-ah nahn-teenth-cent'ry hist'ry.” Dev parodied Beau in a ridiculously over-the-top southern accent. “Let's git mah-rrried and have lots of bay-bies and raise giant daawwwgs.”

“Oh, shut your face.” I shoved him playfully. “He was
not
like that. He likes me as a friend. As a person. Just like he likes you.”

“Ah have nev-uh seen such a vision in a corset and hoop skurt. Y'all are as purty as a speckled pup.”

“We're friends. Just friends. Just because your depraved mind can't fathom the fact that people who could hypothetically be attracted to each other, even though they aren't, can be
just friends,
” I said, trying to keep talking over him.

“Ah'm so gallant and charmin' and chivalrous and han'som' in mah uni-fahhhm, and y'all are mah soooul-maaayte.” Dev pretended to swoon.

“And, anyway, I have a boyfriend,” I concluded triumphantly.

“Whom you still haven't mentioned to Corporal Hotpants.” Dev sipped his coffee demurely. “Interesting.”

“It's not interesting!” I protested. “I just don't want to be one of those girls who's like, ‘Hi, I'm Libby. I have a boyfriend!' the minute you meet them! It's super annoying! You might as well go ahead and print it on a T-shirt or something.”

“I shouldn't have unleashed you on the world in that corset.” Dev shook his head. “You're a danger to society. It's not fair to the hetero
sapiens
. They can't help themselves.”

“Seriously, stop,” I chided him. “Nothing would ever happen with Beau. Not in a million years. Garrett is the best boyfriend ever. Even if he hasn't returned any of my calls. Or texts. And has apparently forgotten I exist.”

Before Dev could form a rebuttal, Corporal Hotpants himself reappeared, accompanied by a middle-aged man in a long gray officer's jacket.

“So this must be the little lady I've heard so much about.” He picked up my hand, bent down, and kissed it, the whiskers of his full-on muttonchops scratching the back of my hand. “Now I understand what all the fuss was about.”

Beau blushed, which brought out the red in his hair. “Uh, L-Libby,” he stammered, “I mean Miss . . . Miss . . .”

“Kelting,” I supplied.

“Miss Kelting. This is Captain Cauldwell.” The older man bowed. “Captain Cauldwell, Miss Kelting.”

“It is truly a pleasure.” I think Captain Cauldwell smiled, but it was hard to tell under the bushy mustache. “Good to have a woman around. Gives the boys somethin' to look at.”

I smiled awkwardly. That was nice, I guess . . . if a little sexist. Dev coughed. Loudly.

“And this is . . .” Beau turned to Dev and realized he had no idea what his last name was.

“Mr. Ravipati,” Dev answered.

Captain Cauldwell looked back and forth between us.

“He's my brother,” I explained hurriedly, just in case the captain was one of the hard-core, serious 24/7 in-character types. Captain Cauldwell raised an eyebrow. “Uh, half-brother,” I amended.

“And sutler to the stars. At your service.” Dev bowed with a flourish.

“Ah, that's right. Mrs. Anderson spoke real highly of y'all,” Captain Cauldwell said, nodding. “You make that dress?” He indicated my outfit, and Dev nodded his consent. “Those're some good-lookin' duds.”

Beau shot us a discreet thumbs-up. Apparently, we were in.

“Thanks ever so.” Dev fluttered his eyelashes.

“Now I'm in charge of this unit,” the captain continued. “So if y'all need anythin', have any problems, y'all let me know. Not that you will. Have any problems, that is.” He clapped a hand on Beau's shoulder. “Beau here's promised to look after y'all, and he's a good kid.” Beau glowed under his praise. “Brought him into the unit myself, and up through the ranks, so I know what I'm talkin' about. Corporal Anderson!” he barked suddenly, all business.

“Yes, sir!” Beau saluted.

“Facilitate camp breakdown. I want us ready to move!” He touched his hat and bowed slightly. “Ma'am.”

“We don't have to move anything, do we?” Dev asked, horrified, once Captain Cauldwell was out of earshot.

“Naw, but you might want to put somethin' on over those drawers.” Beau smirked.

Dev had clearly completely forgotten he was in his underwear. To be fair, I had too.

“Just get your things together. I have to help the rest of the guys break down, and then I'll load y'all into my truck.”

“Corporal Anderson!” someone yelled. “You gonna finish your tea party, or you gonna help us pack?”

Beau rolled his eyes, grinning. “I'll be back.”

He jogged off, and Dev and I started wandering back to our tent.

“‘Gives the boys somethin' to look at,'” Dev muttered. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“No, you're a crazy man wandering around in long underwear,” I answered, giving him a look.

“You'd think they'd never seen a girl before,” he sniffed.

“Well, I am the only one here,” I said.

“According to
The Story the Soldiers Wouldn't Tell,
there should be way more gays,” he complained.

“But they wouldn't tell.” We stepped into the tent. “Maybe they are gay, but they're just not telling.”

“Good call,” he said, and pulled on a white cotton twill three-piece frock suit. “New mission: gayhunt.”

“That sounds like some kind of hate crime.”

“You know what I mean.” He casually tied a green silk cravat in a loose, floppy bow. “This'll be our new mission at the battlefield. Check out all the other soldiers in different units and spot the gays. It's probably best not to dip one's nib in the office ink, anyway. Or the unit ink, as it were.”

“Definitely best,” I agreed, as Dev checked out his reflection and picked up a white broad-brimmed hat.

“You like?” He struck three model poses. “Jeff Davis had one just like it.”

“You and the former president of the Confederate States of America are on a nickname basis?” I asked.

“‘Jefferson' is just too stuffy,” he said with a smirk. “Here.” He handed me a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with a taffeta plaid ribbon that matched my skirt. “Seashore hat, Godey's, 1861. Gotta protect that porcelain complexion.”

“Mmm.”

Once the few things we'd brought with us were back in our trunks, we headed out of the tent, and I was certainly glad I had that hat. The Alabama sun was beating down brutally. Dev and I sat on some rocks at the edge of the camp and watched as the soldiers swarmed around, breaking down the camp. I popped up and offered to help at one point, but was firmly escorted back to my seat by a group of men who informed me that a pretty little thing like me had no business lifting a finger, and they weren't gonna stand by and let a lady work in the hot sun. So Dev and I waited and chatted in the sunshine, until, much later, all of the tents were dismantled and packed into modern cars and trucks. Once everything was settled, Beau came to collect us, Willie padding along in his wake.

“Sorry that took so long,” Beau said. He reached out his hand and helped me up. “My truck's right this way.” He held out his arm to escort me, and although I was surprised at the gesture, I wasn't altogether displeased. There was something to this whole chivalry thing, after all. I took his arm, and we walked to the parking lot, Dev trailing grumpily behind like an unwilling third wheel.

We stopped at the passenger side of an old red pickup truck. Beau opened the door for me and helped me up. I folded my hoops into the seat. Once Beau saw that I was safely in, he crossed around to the driver's seat.

“Ah, a classic. The 1993 Dodge Dakota,” Dev said quietly. “You sure don't choose your men for their rides.”