Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

by Donna Andrews

  We strolled in silence, until we reached the highway that divided the battlefield in two—and apparently marked the northern boundary of the encampment.

  “Weren’t there tents above the road?” I said, frowning. “I could have sworn there were people setting up over there this morning, and now—damn!”

  I jumped, as the cannon went off, sounding much louder than it did at the craft fair. Though, curiously, it didn’t seem to shake the ground any more. Perhaps I was getting used to it.

  “The cannon’s right over there somewhere,” Michael said, pointing off to our left.

  “That’s right. I suppose they’re aiming at the redoubts.”

  “The what?”

  “The redoubts—that’s the technical term for those forts on the battlefield. You know, the earth embankments with the wooden stakes sticking out the sides and ditches all around them?”

  “Oh, so that’s what a redoubt is,” Michael said. “My regiment’s been talking for weeks about how we’re going to storm one this weekend, and I’ve been too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what a redoubt was. I should have asked you ages ago.”

  “Redoubt Nine, probably; the French forces actually did storm that a few days before the end of the siege.”

  I jumped as the cannon boomed again.

  “I can guess what happened to the people who used to have their tents over here,” I said.

  “Yeah, looks like they all moved farther from the artillery. That’s why the rest of the camp is so crowded.”

  “I can’t believe they’re really going to keep doing that all night,” I fumed. “Come on, let’s go talk to them.”

  “Meg, I thought we—”

  “Michael, I know you want to have a serious conversation,” I called over my shoulder, as I strode over the battlefield toward where the artillery squad had camped. “But I’m half-asleep and cranky and preoccupied with everything that’s happened tonight. Having a serious talk right now would stack the deck in favor of an argument I don’t want to have. But if you help me talk those beastly gunners into shutting the hell up for the rest of the night, not only is that a subject that I think we can both agree on, but I will probably be grateful enough to—awk!”

  I found myself lying facedown on the ground.

  “Halt! Who goes there!”

  “Oh, for the love of—” I muttered.

  “Meg!” Michael called. “What happened?”

  “I tripped over something,” I said, levering myself up.

  “I said, Halt! Who goes there!”

  “Gatinois chasseurs,” Michael called out to the invisible sentry. “Are you all right?” he said to me.

  “Did I ever tell you that there are cactus on the battlefields?”

  “Cactus?”

  “Approach and be recognized, Gatinois chasseurs,” the sentry called.

  “Hang on a moment, will you?” Michael called.

  “Yes, cactus,” I repeated. “Tiny little cactus, only a few inches tall.”

  “Meg, did you hit your head when you fell?”

  “As kids, we all learned not to go barefoot on the battlefield, because of the cactus,” I said. “The barbs are so fine you can’t even pick them out with tweezers. Have to wait till they work their way out.”

  “But you’re not barefoot now, are you?”

  “No,” I said, getting to my feet. “But I landed with my face in a clump of cactus. I do hope I didn’t trip over something those miserable cannoneers strung up around their camp. We’ve already had one homicide tonight.”

  “Maybe we should talk to them later,” Michael suggested.

  I strode on toward the artillery crew’s camp—we were close enough now to see a fire, flickering faintly in the middle of a block of tents.

  I heard Michael, behind me, talking to someone. The sentry, I supposed. I’d managed to bypass him, and found myself standing in front of something.

  I peered closer and realized I was staring down the mouth of the cannon.

  Chapter 18

  Okay, I knew they probably weren’t going to fire the cannon again right away, but just to be safe, I ducked well to the side. Then I realized that there was no one standing by the cannon.

  Strange. They’d just fired. Before going down to my booth that morning, I’d watched the artillery crew fire the cannon, while the officer in charge gave a running commentary for the audience. It took eight people—and that was pared down from how many they’d have had in a real battle—and they went through more than thirty steps. I seemed to recall that at least a third of the steps involved cleaning the cannon up after firing. So why wasn’t someone still scouring the barrel or whatever?

  I moved closer again and reached out to touch the cannon’s mouth. The metal was the same temperature as the surrounding air. Didn’t cannons heat up, even a little, when they were fired?

  I was still pondering when a man appeared from behind a nearby tent and came over to stand by the cannon.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t she?” he drawled, patting the barrel like a favorite horse. “Can you imagine what it must have been like, with over fifty of these babies pounding on the town?”

  “Quite a sound, too; and no, I don’t even want to imagine what it must have been like,” I said. “Are you really planning to keep this up all night?”

  He sighed.

  “They’re from the encampment, Jess—I mean, Captain,” the sentry said, as he and Michael came up behind me. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “No kidding,” Captain Jess said. “We’re sort of obliged to keep it up all night, ma’am,” he added. “Come on; if we’re going to keep you awake, we can at least entertain you.”

  We followed Jess through the tents to the fire at the middle of the encampment. A dozen men and several women sat around the fire. One strummed a guitar. Several held steaming mugs, and some munched toasted cheese sandwiches. My stomach growled, reminding me that I had stormed away from the party, several hours ago, without eating much.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Jess asked. “We have beer, hot cider, water, and a fresh pot of our national beverage. No tea, of course.”

  “National beverage?” Michael asked.

  “Coffee,” I explained. “After the Boston Tea Party, the Continental Congress made it the official national beverage. I’d love a cup.”

  “Me, too,” Michael said.

  “I still say it’s an anachronism,” one of the men around the fire said. “The coffee may be authentic, but not if you insist on fixing it with filters and a drip machine.”

  “Well, then, pour me out two mugs of hot anachronism for our guests, Mel,” the captain said. “’Cause I’m not about to spoil good coffee boiling it in the same pot you’ve been using for the salt pork. Do you folks take your anachronism plain, or with cream and sugar?”

  I felt a little more mellow toward the artillery crew once I was sitting by their fire, sipping a cup of excellent coffee, and I didn’t say no when they offered me a toasted cheese sandwich. But I couldn’t help thinking that every minute brought us closer to the time when they’d feel obliged to fire off the cannon again, and I was bound and determined to stop them.

  “Look,” I said, when I’d polished off my snack. “I don’t want to abuse your hospitality or anything, but what is it with firing the gun, anyway?”

  I heard mumbles from several of the people around the fire.

  “We were hired to fire it throughout the festival,” Jess explained.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “To simulate the shelling that began on October 9, 1781, and lasted until Cornwallis finally threw in the towel. I got that much. But why do you have to keep it up in the middle of the night, when there’s no one awake to hear you? Or at least there wouldn’t be anyone awake if you weren’t keeping them awake.”

  “I’d be happy to knock off at sunset, or midnight, or any old time you like,” he said. “But it isn’t up to me. You’ll have to take that up with Madame Von Steuben.”


  “Von Steuben?” Michael said.

  “The Prussian general Washington brought over to whip the American troops into shape,” I explained. “Noted for his harsh discipline, skill as a drillmaster, and ability to curse fluently in three languages.”

  “You do know your history,” the captain said, with a bow.

  “I grew up here,” I told him, with a shrug.

  “And one of this Von Steuben’s descendents is helping out with the festival?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, for heavens’ sake, Michael,” I said. “They mean your mother, of course.”

  The captain’s jaw dropped. Several people around the fire appeared to be choking on their coffee. Michael looked startled, then burst out laughing.

  “That’s perfect,” he said. “Madame Von Steuben!”

  “Course we don’t call her that to her face,” Jess said.

  “Of course not,” I said. “You’re still alive.”

  “She specifically told us to keep firing sporadically all night,” he said. “Said she wanted to make the experience more genuine. Help people understand what our forefathers and foremothers really went through.”

  “Should have told her no, like you did with the live ammo,” Mel said.

  “Live ammo?” I echoed.

  “First time she saw us fire the cannon, she heard me explain about the recoil,” Jess said. “If we were firing real shells, the gun would recoil, oh, about fourteen feet on a piece this size. That’s one reason they used a larger crew than we need; about six of the guys just hauled the cannon back in place after it fired. Also the reason we shout ‘Stand clear!’ before firing; make sure no one’s standing behind it, ’cause anyone who was, they’d be toast. If we fired live ammo, that is. When you’re just firing powder, you don’t get much recoil at all.”

  “And of course she didn’t think that was authentic enough, did she?”

  “Thought I’d never get her to see what the problem was,” the captain grumbled. “Those shells go a long way. They shelled the town from here, remember.”

  “You could fire over the river,” Michael suggested.

  “Oh, yeah, great idea,” Jess said. “There’re only about five hundred fancy yachts anchored out there right about now, with the festival on.”

  “Sorry,” Michael said.

  “Hey, we could aim at the highway,” one of the crew suggested. “Course I wouldn’t want to waste ammo on small fry like cars. Let’s see how many eighteen-wheelers we can pot.”

  “Tour busses,” Mel advised. “You want to maximize your enemy casualties, go for the tour busses.”

  “Don’t mind him,” the captain said. “Likes to pull the tourists’ legs.”

  “I hope they don’t know where Mom lives,” Michael muttered.

  “Getting back to the night firing,” I said.

  “She doesn’t hear gunfire, she’ll say we’re in breach of contract,” Jess said.

  “Yes, but she’s probably gone to bed by now.”

  “Yeah, ’bout an hour ago,” Mel said.

  “How do you know—” Michael began.

  “Always good policy, in the army, keeping track of what the brass are up to,” Jess said, giving Mel a dirty look.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said. “You cut out the cannon fire until, say, six A.M., and I’ll make sure at least a dozen people go up to her tomorrow and complain about the cannon firing all night.”

  Jess looked thoughtful.

  “And I’ll even make sure a couple of people are nearby to tell them not to be so fussy. Once you get used to it you don’t even hear the cannon, in case she doesn’t remember hearing it herself.”

  “Be nice to get some sleep, Jess,” one of his men said.

  “And the same thing holds for the rest of the festival, if you stop firing between midnight and six A.M.”

  “You sure you can manage that?” Jess said.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “No problem,” Michael added.

  “Shake on it then,” Jess said. We shook hands, and cheers went up around the campfire. Several people said goodnight and scurried away toward tents, and Mel refilled everyone else’s coffee mugs without a single complaint about the anachronistic preparation method.

  “I tell you what,” the captain said, winking at his crew. “Let’s fire the thing off one more time, just to seal the bargain.”

  The crew leaped up with such enthusiasm that I didn’t have the heart to protest. After all, I decided, it was so soon after the last shot that most people wouldn’t have fallen back asleep.

  “In fact, you can help us,” Jess said. “You can set the whole thing off.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate the honor, but—”

  “We insist!”

  Okay, if it kept them quiet the rest of the night, I’d tap dance on the bloody cannon barrel. But to my surprise, instead of leading us to the cannon, Jess stopped in front of a tent at the edge of the encampment.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Go on, look inside,” Jess said.

  Hesitantly, I lifted up one flap of the tent front—and found myself staring at a huge, gleaming, modern sound system, the kind roadies haul around to fuel rock bands.

  “Mel, Frank, run those speakers out,” Jess ordered. “Carrie, you make sure the tape is cued up right.”

  Mel and another soldier dragged out a pair of enormous speakers to flank the tent, while a homespun-clad woman put on a pair of earphones, fiddled with some of the controls of the sound system, and nodded to Jess.

  “Earplugs, everyone,” Jess ordered. “You might want to put these on, ma’am. Now, on my cue, just hit that button Carrie’s pointing to, and we’ll give those no-good redcoats one last volley before we retire for the evening.”

  I pressed the button and jumped back. Through the earplugs, I could faintly hear Jess’s prerecorded voice ordering his crew through the steps of the firing drill, culminating in a satisfactorily loud boom.

  “That’s it for the night, folks,” Jess said. Mel and Frank put the speakers away while Carrie, putting the headphones back on, rewound the tape to the proper place.

  “That’s how come we know your mother had already gone to bed,” Jess explained, as we returned to the campfire. “As long as there’s anyone here to watch us, we go through the whole drill. We like doing it, but it just seems a waste of time and powder to do the whole thing with no one watching. So we assigned a couple of our guys to take turns shadowing her. She heads our way, one of them uses the cell phone, calls my pager, and we’re all correct by the time she gets here.”

  “Brilliant,” I said.

  “And so historically accurate,” Michael murmured.

  “Well, hell, we’re not nut cases,” Jess said “We’re big on authenticity, don’t get me wrong. You get some guys, they’re not interested in the history.”

  “Just want to come out, fire off their black-powder guns a few times, then sit around and drink beer,” Mel said, frowning at one of the other men lounging around the fire. The man lifted his mug, uttered an improbably loud belch as if it were a toast, and drained the mug.

  “Some others, they’re so gung-ho they want to come out and pretend the twenty-first century doesn’t exist,” Jess said, with a glance at Mel. “Want to do everything exactly the way it was done back then, no matter how long it takes or if there’s a good reason not to. Dig privies instead of using the chemical toilets. Drink unpasteurized milk. Boil their coffee like eggs. Hell, why don’t they just go ahead and bleed people when they feel sick; that’s pretty authentic.”

  “People have a right to do what they like,” Mel put in.

  “And I respect that right, as long as they don’t come over and try to interfere with our right to do what we like.”

  “Halt! Who goes there?” the sentry shouted.

  “Is Meg Langslow up here?” came the reply.

  “Oh, God,” I said. “Wesley.”

  “Someone you’re trying to avoid?” Jes
s said. “We could send him back the way he came.”

  “I wouldn’t want to interfere with the freedom of the press,” I said. “That’s part of what you’re all fighting for, isn’t it? Let him pass if you want.”

  A minute later, Wesley Hatcher scuttled over to where I was sitting.

  “I’ve been looking for you all night,” Wesley said. “I understand you found the body!”

  Chapter 19

  “Body?” Jess said. “You mean all that talk about a murder was real? I thought it was just one of those weekend murder games.”

  “Oh, it was real, all right,” I said.

  “By the time they finally found someone to let me out, the body was gone, and there was nothing to see,” Wesley complained. “I’ve got to get an interview with you!”

  “Wesley, as Mrs. Fenniman always says, the only thing you’ve got to do in this world is live until you die. Can I have another cup of your anachronism?” I asked, turning back to Jess.

  “Certainly, ma’am,” he said. He served out coffee all round, and we studiously ignored Wesley, who paced up and down, whining an occasional complaint. He sounded pitiful, like a dog that badly needed to be let out.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” we heard again.

  “Place is Grand Central Station tonight,” Mel muttered.

  “Danny must be loving it,” one of the loungers said. “Usually hard to keep awake on sentry duty this time of night.”

  “Hey, Jess,” said one of the two men who now approached the campfire. “Xavier from the Victory Center wants to know if we could help him out by making some charges.”

  “Hate to ask, when you’re pretty busy all day,” Xavier said. “But I’m really in a bind.”

  “No problem,” Jess said. “Thought you made these up way ahead of time, though.”

  “We did, weeks ago, but we had a burst pipe in the storeroom last night,” Xavier said. “Everything is soaked, including the charges.”

  “Ouch,” Jess said, and the men around the fire shook their heads in sympathy.

  “You want to learn how to do this?” Jess asked. Michael seemed interested, and I’d gotten my second wind, so Jess showed us how to cut trapezoidal pieces of paper in the proper size, measure the precise amount of gunpowder with a little scoop, roll the paper into a cylinder like a clumsy homemade cigar, and twist the ends closed.