Cat on the Scent

by Rita Mae Brown

  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.”

  * * *

  16

  People slowly began to return to the field. At first the sight of Archie kneeling over Vane-Tempest looked like acting. Distraught, he loosened the older man’s collar.

 
Harry, a sprinter, had been the first person out from the sidelines. She grasped Vane-Tempest’s wrist to take his pulse. Irregular. His breathing was shallow.

  Miranda, slower but hurrying, motioned for Dr. Larry Johnson to join her. The gray-haired Confederate dumped his weapon and ran. Reverend Jones solicited a four-wheel drive to take him to the victim.

  Vane-Tempest, in shock, stared upward with glassy eyes. His lips moved.

  Larry tore open his tunic. The bullet holes, neat, could have been drawn on his chest except that blood oozed out of them.

  Susan Tucker jumped into a farm truck parked on the side out of view of the battle. She pressed hard on the horn, making her way through the crowd, looking for Sarah. Sarah, returning with her husband’s canteen, was slowed by the distance, the heat, and now the retreating crowd. Susan caught sight of her at the hunter barn, standing at the open door, shielding her eyes against the sun.

  Finally reaching Sarah, she shouted, “Get in.”

  “Oh, God, he’s really mad at me, isn’t he? I had to catch my breath for a minute. It’s sweltering in this dress.”

  Susan didn’t answer Sarah. She was trying to return to the battlefield as fast as she could, given the crowd, which slowly got out of her way as she laid on the horn.

  She pulled up close to where Larry was working on Vane-Tempest. Sarah, at first, didn’t realize it was her husband lying on the ground, the focus of grim activity. Susan nudged her out of the farm truck.

  Sarah stood by the truck door for a second, then ran for the prostrate figure. She tore away her hoop skirt to run faster.

  “Harry, keep people away,” Larry ordered, then barked at Miranda, “See to Sarah.”

  Sarah, mute, fought Miranda. BoomBoom ran up to help the older woman. Together they pulled Sarah a short distance from her husband so Larry could work unmolested.

  “Hold his head still. You might have to clear his mouth out.” Larry spoke low, and calmly.

  Harry, on her knees, placed a hand on either side of Vane-Tempest’s florid face as Larry crossed one hand over the other and pumped on the wounded man’s chest with all his weight.

  The two cats watched, as did Tucker. She put her nose to the ground but knew it was hopeless; too many feet had trod the earth, too many guns had been fired.

  “Shot in the back for sure,” Mrs. Murphy softly said.

  “What a terrible accident.” Tucker hung her head.

  “No accident,” Mrs. Murphy crisply remarked. “Three bullets in the back is no accident.”

  Pewter stared at the tiger.

  Archie knelt on the other side of the gasping man. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Vane-Tempest blinked. His eyes cleared for a moment and he seemed to recognize everyone. But his left lung was filling with blood.

  In the distance an ambulance squealed.

  Harry watched Larry work. She’d known him all her life as a family doctor but this was the first time she had seen him dealing with an emergency. She admired his cool proficiency and his physical strength. In his middle seventies, Larry acted like a man in his fifties.

  The ambulance rolled out onto the field. Within seconds the crew, headed by Diana Robb, had Vane-Tempest on a stretcher and inside the vehicle. Larry hopped in behind, and the door slammed.

  “Waynesboro,” Diana called to Harry and Miranda. “It’s the closest hospital.”

  Miranda and BoomBoom guided Sarah back to the farm truck. They squeezed in, heading to Waynesboro, a good twenty-five miles away and up over treacherous Afton Gap.

  As the humans continued to mill around in disbelief, Mrs. Murphy suggested, “Fan five feet apart, and move toward the tree.”

  “What are we looking for?” Tucker inquired.

  “Spent bullets. The holes in his chest were made by clean exits.”

  Archie, shaking, walked toward the main house, a vacant look on his face. Harry caught up to him.

  She called over her shoulder, “Come on, kids.”

  “In a minute,” Tucker barked.

  “Hurry. It won’t take long for one of these fools to grind the bullets into the earth,” the tiger urged.

  “Found one.” Pewter stopped.

  The other two ran over. Sure enough it was a lead bullet, fattish, with three concentric rings on the bottom and a squashed nose lying in the grass.

  “Can’t call her back.” The tiger thought out loud. “Tucker, carry it in your mouth.”

  The corgi happily pinched the bullet between her teeth.

  “Don’t swallow,” Pewter teased.

  They trotted after Harry, who eased Archie toward the hunter barn.

  “I need to get back to my tent.”

  “Arch, there will be questions. You’re better off here.”

  “I didn’t shoot him.” Archie was beginning to comprehend the full impact of this dolorous event.

  “Of course you didn’t. However, why subject yourself to strangers or even friends asking questions you may not be emotionally prepared to answer? Come on in here. I’ll find Cynthia Cooper. I know she’s around.”

  “This is Sheriff Hill’s territory,” Archie vaguely protested.

  “I know that but it can’t hurt to have an Albemarle deputy with you. Archie, trust me.”

  His emotions crystallized into anger. “Trust you! For Christ’s sake, you’re the goddamned postmistress. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He pushed right by her, plunging into the crowd.

  Harry said nothing. She walked into the barn. Fair was brushing down his horse. He looked up.

  “Hi.”

  “H. Vane’s been shot.”

  “What?” Fair stopped, brush held midair.

  “Shot through the back.”

  “Really shot?” It was sinking in.

  “Really shot.”

  “Some fool was back there actually firing bullets? Of all the stupid—”

  “Maybe it wasn’t stupid.”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Harry. Who would shoot H. Vane on purpose? He’s not worth the lead.” That popped out of his mouth before he realized it.

  “A lot of men marched behind him, including Archie Ingram. You know how people think.”

  “It’s absurd.” He paused. “Is he going to make it?”

  “I don’t know. Larry Johnson worked on him. He’s on his way to Waynesboro Hospital.”

  “Well, they’ve dealt with gunshot wounds before.”

  Tucker walked up to Harry and opened her mouth, dropping the bullet smack onto Harry’s foot.

  “Good job.” Pewter praised the dog.

  Mrs. Murphy studied her human’s face. Harry bent over to pick up the fired bullet.

  “Good Lord,” she said, then stared at Tucker, who smiled back.

  * * *

  17

  Miranda’s house, centrally located behind the post office, provided a gathering place for old friends. Her cooking drew them in as well. Few things delighted Miranda Hogendobber as much as feeding those she loved and even those she didn’t love. Holy Scripture bade her to love all mankind but many times she found the theory easier than the practice.

  Harry helped serve apple cider and Tom Collinses. BoomBoom had remained at the hospital, but then BoomBoom flourished amid tragedy, especially if the tragedy was visited upon someone other than herself. However, since she and Sarah were friends, her staying on might serve some good purpose.

  Cynthia Cooper sat next to Fair. They were both such light blonds they could have been twins, although they were not related, not even distantly, which is always a disappointment to a true Virginian.

  “I can understand someone taking a shot at Archie but not Sir H. Vane-Tempest.” Cynthia sipped the most delicious apple cider she had ever tasted. In conjunction with Miranda’s piping hot scones it was perfection.

  “You don’t know that it was on purpose.” Harry passed around the silver tray filled with jellies, preserves, and unsalted butter. She thought the sh
ots were intentional but she wanted to see what others would say.

  “Actually, I should be the one to say that.” Cynthia dumped mounds of persimmon jelly on her scone.

  “You’re off duty.” Harry smiled at her.

  “Tell me again about the bullet.” Cynthia split open the scone, releasing a thin waft of moist, fragrant air.