Cat on the Scent

            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.