Cat on the Scent (8 page)

14

Oak Ridge rises out of the land south of Lovingston, Virginia. Built in 1802 by a Revolutionary War veteran, one of the Rives family of Albemarle, the estate was buffeted from the scalding rises and freezing plunges of unregulated capitalism. The originator of Oak Ridge rode the economy like the tides. His progeny fared less well and over the nineteenth century the place changed hands, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

Finally Thomas Fortune Ryan, a local boy born in 1851, made good in the New York stock market and bought the place he remembered from his impoverished childhood. By that time, 1904, Ryan was the third-richest man in America—true riches, for there was no Internal Revenue Service.

He set about creating a great country estate, not on the scale of Blenheim but on a Virginia scale, which meant he kept a sense of proportion. The mansion was twenty-three thousand square feet, and eighty other smaller houses, barns, and water towers completed the plan. A hothouse, built as a smaller version of London's famed Crystal Palace, sat below the mansion.

The place bore the mark of a single, overriding, rapacious mind. An alley of oak trees guided the visitor to the main house from the road—the northern, back side of the house. The grander entrance was on the other, southern side facing the railroad tracks because that was how Mr. Ryan rode to his country estate from New York, in his sumptuous private car. The buggies, phaetons, gigs, and the occasional coach-and-four drove up the back way.

Given that the glory days of rail travel were over, the approach now was from Route 653, the paved highway to Shipman, the back road.

The reenactors camped on the miles of front lawn and former golf course, their Sibley tents resembling teepees, common tents and larger officers' tents dotting the verdant expanse like overlarge tissues.

The reenactors would have to tramp a half mile to the oak tree, reckoned to be 380 years old. The Yankees would rise up out of the eastern woods surrounding Trinity Episcopal Church, while the Southerners would be marching due north from the edge of Mrs. Wright's hayfields.

The view was better for the public from the oak tree and it reduced the possibility of a raid on the main house.

Having that many people on her front lawn caused the petite and pretty Rhonda Holland some inconvenience, but she bore it with good grace. John, her dynamic husband, delighted in strolling along the neatly laid out avenues of tents to chat with the fellows cleaning rifles, fiddling, and singing. A convivial man wearing a floppy straw hat, he had plans for Oak Ridge as magnificent as Thomas Fortune Ryan's.

John worked more slowly than Ryan, thanks to the proliferation of government agencies choking him with regulations, but he never gave up.

The entire Holland family was on hand to view the reenactment, as were thirty thousand other people, a far larger crowd than anyone had anticipated.

Add in the five thousand reenactors, including camp followers, and there were a mess of people.

Harry sat on a camp stool. Tucker sat next to her, and Mrs. Murphy and Pewter lounged on a camp table spread with maps. The cats weren't supposed to come but they'd hidden under the seat of the truck, then raced to freedom when the door was opened.

Pewter nibbled on a square of hardtack.
“How could they eat this stuff?”

“With difficulty,”
the tiger said, watching Fair Haristeen struggle with his gold sword sash.

“Here.” Harry wound it around his middle, the two tasseled ends of the sash tempting Mrs. Murphy, but not enough to leave her perch, just enough for her to swat at the tassels when he walked by.

Fair, a twinkle in his eye, said, “I love it when you fuss over me.”

“Stand still.” Harry commanded but she smiled when she said it.

“You know I never looked so good as when you bought my clothes.”

“Fair, stand still. You're a vet. Coveralls aren't that glamorous. You look the same now as when we were married.”

“Meant my Sunday clothes.” He playfully pinched her buttock. “I liked it best when you undressed me.”

“Pulease.” Harry drew out the word. Pretending to ignore the banter, she secretly enjoyed it. “There. A proper Confederate officer.”

“I'd rather be improper.”

“What's with you? Maybe the prospect of battle is an aphrodisiac.” She laughed.

“No,
you're
the aphrodisiac. I'm only doing this for Ned Tucker.” He kissed her on the cheek.

A shout outside the tent sent them onto the grass avenue.

Archie Ingram and Sir H. Vane-Tempest fought in Sir H.'s tent, next to Fair and Ned's tent. Archie, lean and quicker than the Englishman, cracked him hard on the jaw.

The larger man, about forty pounds overweight, sagged for an instant against the corner tent pole. The tent wobbled dangerously. Then Vane-Tempest collected himself, lunging for Archie, grabbing him by the waist and bulling him out onto the grassy avenue.

Sarah, in a pale melon gown complete with hoop skirt, rushed out. Smart enough not to get between them, she hissed, “Stop it!”

The men paid no mind.

Vane-Tempest clumsily ducked Archie's blows but enough landed that red marks swelled on his cheeks. Archie danced around him. One solid blow from Vane-Tempest would have picked the smaller man off his feet, then sent him crashing to the ground.

Fair watched for a moment, then grabbed Archie's upraised hand. Archie whirled around and caught Fair on the side of his head.

Ned Tucker, running from the other end of the avenue, seized the Englishman before he could land a telling blow on Archie. Although thirty years older than Archie, Sir H. wanted to fight.

Vane-Tempest shook Ned off more easily than Ned thought he could. The two antagonists pounded each other again.

Herb Jones, dressed in his artillery sergeant major's outfit, hurried out from the headquarters tent. Larry Johnson, Hayden McIntire, and a host of other Crozet men followed.

Two men from Rappahannock County dashed over, canteens banging against their hips.

The four of them finally separated Vane-Tempest, who was sputtering “bloody this” and “bloody that,” from Archie, who grimly said nothing.

Sarah rushed to her husband's aid. He needed ice held to his cheek. He grandly pushed her aside with one arm and advanced on Archie once more. Fair and Bobby Forester, from Rappahannock, lunged for him again.

“Leave me alone!” the florid peer of the realm commanded.

Herb Jones strode into the middle of everyone. “Gentlemen, save it for the Yankees.”

This made everyone laugh except for Archie and his opponent. Even Vane-Tempest evinced a small smile.

Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter sat quietly at their campsite, watching the exchange.

“They can't abide each other.”
Tucker scratched her ear.

“H. Vane gave beaucoup money to Archie's campaign last year.”
Mrs. Murphy swatted at a fly.
“You'd have thought they were two peas in a pod then.”

“Guess Archie didn't keep his promises.”

“I'll settle with you later.” Archie's jaw jutted out, his facial muscles tense.

“You'll settle with me? That's a laugh.” Vane-Tempest smoothed his hair with his right hand. “And you had no business invading my tent in the first place!”

“Archie, come with me.” Herb put his hand under Archie's elbow. “Fair, you keep an eye on H. Vane until we draw up in formation.”

“Yes, sir.” Fair saluted.

The gray line parted as Herb propelled the county commissioner toward the HQ tent.

Men listened to Herb. He'd attended VMI and then fought in Korea, where he experienced a revelation about his calling on earth. When he returned home he entered the seminary, which provoked no end of amusement among his contemporaries. They'd known him as a hell-raiser at military school.

“Now, Arch, what is the matter with you? You're becoming . . .”

“A liability,” Archie snapped, his knuckles bleeding.

“I was going to say ‘an embarrassment.'” Herb didn't mince words. “You're an elected official.”

“We're in Nelson County now, not Albemarle.” Archie hung his head, half mumbling.

“You know this will get into the papers.”

Archie glumly said nothing as Herb continued to guide him toward the large HQ tent.

As the crowd dispersed, Sarah allowed herself a flash of temperament. “H., you're a perfect ass.”

“And you're a perfect bitch,” he evenly replied.

“That does it. You can play soldier by yourself. I always thought this was silly to begin with, grown men dressing up and waving swords about. At least your father was a real soldier.”

“That's below the belt, Sarah.” His mouth clamped shut like a vice. “But then that's your favorite geography, isn't it? You forget I served in the RAF. I just didn't have the good fortune of being born in time for the big war.”

Fair, face reddening because he didn't want to hear this exchange, stepped away from the sparring couple. “You won't run after Arch?”

“No.” Vane-Tempest turned on his booted heel and disappeared into his tent.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter ran over and peeped under the tent flaps. Sarah, cooling down, walked inside after her husband.

“Why do you let him get under your skin?”

Vane-Tempest sagged heavily on a big trunk. “A man who's been bought ought to stay bought.”

“Oh, Henry,”—she called him by his Christian name—“you didn't contribute that much.”

“Five thousand dollars at the county-commissioner level seems rather large to me. We aren't talking about the Senate, my dear, and I didn't leave the money in a brown paper bag either. I'm not that crude.” He motioned for her to stop speaking as Ned Tucker entered the tent.

“Think you can go out today?”

“Why not?” Vane-Tempest answered the soft-spoken lawyer, Susan's husband.

“You took a couple of good pops to the face.”

“He can't hit that hard.”

Not exactly true, since Archie had rocked him with the blow to the jaw, but his punches were light otherwise.

“Can you put this aside? I mean, you two are marching in the same company.”

Vane-Tempest shrugged, the shrug of superiority. “He won't bother me. I apologize for losing my temper in the first place. I don't like his attentions to my wife.”

“Henry!”

He laughed. “He does look at you all the time.”

“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.”

Miranda, hanky to her nose, nodded.

As the drumbeats grew louder the crowd strained forward.

They could hear officers calling out orders. The Union regiment at the forefront stopped as the Confederates, still at a distance, moved forward.

“Load,” called out the captain.

The soldiers placed their muskets, barrels out, between their feet. As the officer called out further loading orders, they poured gunpowder down the barrels and rammed the charges home.

“Ha!”
Pewter was watching Fair, struggling with his frightened horse.

Mrs. Murphy, knowing Fair was a fine rider, didn't find it quite as funny as Pewter did.
“I don't think anyone knows how to get the horses used to this noise and the sulphur smell.”

Fair's big bay shied, dancing sideways. At the next volley of cannon fire the horse reared up, came down on his two forelegs, and bucked straight out with his hind legs, a jolting, snapping, hell of a buck. Fair sat the first one but the succeeding ones, spiced up with a side-to-side twisting action, sent him into the sweet grass with a thud. The horse, no fool, spun around, flying back toward the hunter stables. Fair, disgusted, picked himself up, then looked around, realized he was in a battle, and ran over to join his unit.

Sir H. Vane-Tempest, on the front corner of the first regiment, grimly stared into the billowing smoke. Archie Ingram was farther back in the square, as was Blair Bainbridge. Ridley Kent marched in the second unit behind them.

Mrs. Murphy strained to see through the smoke, which would clear, then close up again with new fire. Reverend Herb Jones, red sash wrapped around his tunic, sat on an upturned wagon to the rear of the battle. The heat had exhausted him.

Dr. Larry Johnson and Ned Tucker were in the third line of the regiment, faces flushed. Everywhere the two cats looked they saw familiar faces in unfamiliar clothes. The smoke thinning over the men's faces like a soft silver veil made them look even more eerie.

The first volley of rifle fire from the Yankees rolled over the turf with a crackle: Small slits of flame leapt from muzzles. Mrs. Murphy hoped they would be smart enough to keep their hands away from the barrel nozzles when ramming home the next charge. A man could lose fingers or part of a hand that way if a spark smoldered deep down in the gun.

By now all but one of the mounted officers had bought some real estate. The only animal moving forward was a huge Belgian draft horse, the horse calm as if on parade.

A few “corpses” dotted the field. Then a shroud of smoke enveloped the field as all guns fired at once.
Pop, pop, pop,
rifles and handguns reported between the rhythmic firing of the elegant cannons.

“Poor suckers died blind.”
Mrs. Murphy's whiskers twitched.

“Ugh.”
Pewter shuddered.
“Only a human would die for an idea.”

“That's the truth.”
The tiger blinked when a bit of smoke floated over the branches.
“You know, they can't accept reality. Reality is that everything is happening at once to everybody. There's no special sense to it. So humans invent systems. If one human's system collides with another human's system, they fight.”

“The only reality is nature.”
Pewter, not a philosophical cat like Mrs. Murphy, was nonetheless a smart one.

“True enough.”
The cat squinted as the smoke cleared. She saw Sir H. Vane-Tempest break from the ranks, never to be outdone, and sprint toward the enemy.

A loud
crack
, another volley of cannon fire and he went down, a hero to the cause.

The battle grew more intense. Tucker, since she couldn't see, lay on the reviewing stand between Harry's feet. She hated the noise, and the sulphur fumes offended her delicate nose.

After fifteen more minutes of the hardest-fought section of the reenactment, the Yankees broke and ran. That, too, was choreographed. It would never do for the Union troops to wallop Southerners on Southern turf unless it was a precise reenactment of an actual battle won by the Yankees. Not only was this a sop to Southern vanity, but it was also pretty accurate. The North hadn't begun to routinely chalk up victories until the latter part of the war, when victories in the west ensured victories in the east, and tens of thousands died.

The drummers kept drumming as the last smoke wafted over the flat expanse of hayfield, formerly an old airfield. The routed Yankees ran toward Route 653, collected themselves, and turned left, heading for the racetrack.

The wounded, in the name of authenticity, were being carried off on stretchers. A few of the dead had gel packs, which squashed when they fell. The fake blood gave them a realistic appearance.

As the last of the wounded were carried to the hospital tent the dead began to stir. The cats sat in the tree and laughed. Tucker watched with curiosity. She'd moved to the front of the reviewing stand.

One corpse didn't move.

A Confederate, resurrected, walked by without paying attention.

Archie Ingram, formerly deceased, also walked by. He stopped, nudging the body with his boot. Nothing happened.

Many people in the crowd were walking back to the main house, unaware of the unfolding drama.

That fast the two cats backed down the tree, streaking across the field.

“Tucker!”
Mrs. Murphy hollered.

The dog left Harry, just now noticing the curious sight, to join the cats.

Archie, down on his hands and knees, turned over the body. It was Sir H. Vane-Tempest.

Mrs. Murphy reached Vane-Tempest before Pewter or Tucker.

As the breathless gray cat caught up, the tiger sniffed the body.
“Powder,”
was all she said.

The corgi, famous for her scenting abilities, gawked for an instant.
“He looks like a piece of swiss cheese.”