He didn’t wait for her to answer, but started across the field. Meg was behind him; Killer was not. He went back and picked up the little dog. Crawling through the fence, Matt was greeted by a man in a Union uniform. “Sir! Living history that way!” he said, and pointed.
“Thanks, thanks so much,” Matt said, and the soldier tipped his hat. They walked past scores of people, some in casual summer dress, many in uniform—or in their daily clothes with Union or Confederate hats or other paraphernalia. But no matter what people were wearing, they were friendly and courteous as they walked around. Most seemed to be talking about what they’d seen or learned.
He supposed that people probably didn’t come to these events if they weren’t interested, if they didn’t care about history—and if they didn’t honor the fields of battle that had taken more lives than other wars.
He caught Meg’s hand. She was wearing a pantsuit that was dignified and proper but didn’t scream FBI agent. He hoped they looked like a couple of tourists fervent about Civil War history.
They passed an officer explaining the use of the Enfield rifle to a crowd, and then an infirmary. At last they came to a surgical tent. A man in a Union doctor’s uniform was describing field surgery, saying that even the federal forces had been low on ether, the anesthesia of the day. Most of the time, the men were dosed with whiskey. Limbs were removed, flesh cut, a bone saw used. Tourniquets were employed to stop the bleeding. Good doctors, he told his audience, disinfected the wounds with some of the alcohol the injured were drinking; these doctors had discovered that they lost more men to infection after surgery than they did to the surgery itself.
He poked Meg; he could see that Sylvia Avery was assisting in the mock surgery.
The doctor finished his speech, announcing that he was Dr. Collin Ferber of Philadelphia, a fifth-generation surgeon, following in the wake of his ancestor, who had worked on the Gettysburg battlefield. The crowd responded with applause, then began to disperse. Matt took Meg’s hand again and moved through the milling people to find Sylvia Avery.
“Well, hello, you did come by!” she said, obviously glad to see them both.
“It was an excellent lecture and show,” Meg told her.
Sylvia beamed. “Thank you. We pride ourselves on historical accuracy.”
“Do many of the reenactors actually stay here at the camp?” Matt asked.
“Oh, yes, most do. We used to stay, except I have to admit, the more years that go by, the more I long for my creature comforts. Showers, soft beds and softer pillows and finding an excellent cup of coffee ready for me when I get up,” Sylvia said. “Frankly, Jordan and I are too old these days to enjoy too much authenticity.”
Meg smiled. “Not to worry. I know many younger people who like to camp at nice hotels.”
“I was wondering, Sylvia, how do you feel about being on the battlefield? Men trooped all over these fields during the war. You’re here at night sometimes, right?” Matt grinned. “At least until you return to the B and B.”
“Do I see the ghost troops refighting the battle? Is that what you mean? Or limping away, weary and bloodied?” she asked shrewdly.
“Exactly.”
“I think at one time or other, any of us who are out in the fields at night believe that we see soldiers, Yankees or Rebels, marching. Some people think they see the actual battles as they’re being fought, men screaming and dying, bullets and black powder—the whole nine yards. Me? Yes, I guess in the darkness and the moonlight I believe I’ve seen soldiers,” Sylvia said.
“What about strange noises?” Matt asked.
“Well, yes. A friend of mine who was out here a few days ago heard something. First she thought it might be one of the advance people, so to speak, the ‘sutlers’ or shopkeepers who sell reenactment clothing or weapons or antique items. They come and set up pretty early. During the anniversary of the actual battle, things get pretty hectic here, and they like to be prepared. Anyway, my friend told me she had a horrible night. She was sure she heard someone screaming, crying out through the night. In the morning, however, she felt like a fool. She’d gotten up several times during the night and walked around, but couldn’t find anyone in distress. Another friend told her that she was hearing echoes of the past, the cries of men who died on the field, waiting for their own troops to find them among the dead.” She smiled at them curiously. “Why? Are you seeing soldiers walking in the mist?”
“Oh, yes, I believe I see them, too,” Meg said. “Is your friend here now?”
“I’m sorry, she’s not. But she’ll be here tomorrow if you want to come by. Oh, I forgot! That speech Congressman Walker is giving is tomorrow, isn’t it? Anyway, if you get a chance, she’ll be here most of the next week. And,” she added with a wink, “when it’s late at night, you’ll know where to find me. A comfy bed at Peter’s place.”
“Thank you, Sylvia. I’m sure we’ll see you again,” Meg said.