Disclaimer: This and the following chapters take place in the context of Harry Turtledove's "Guns of the South." None of the characters are mine (in fact most are historical), and as with the case of Star Trek and Babylon 5, I'm just doing this for fun, no copyright violations are intended, so please don't sue me. ;) I tried to keep spoilers for "Guns of the South" to a minimum while making things understandable to people who aren't interested in the book, but if you want to read that book, you should do it before you read this. As always, comments, criticism, and suggestions are welcome.
Chapter 6
Watching his lone customer through thick lenses that did little but magnify his owlish appearance, Raeford Liles tallied up the purchases in his head. "Anything else?" he asked helpfully. If he could sell anything else to his apparently generously spending patron, he would. As it stood, this visit alone would net him more money than he'd seen the rest of the week combined.
Dempsey Eure grunted, setting down a fifty-pound sack of feed on the floor beside the steel plowshare, new pair of boots, and two identical sacks, also of feed, that he'd picked out. He stopped to wipe the stinging sweat out of his eyes, and took one more considering look around the inside of the store. "No, I reckon that's everything, Mr. Liles."
Liles made a show of leaning over the rough hewn wooden countertop, and working out a price in his head, though he'd already done so. "Sixteen dollars Confederate, even," he pronounced. He paused, expecting a haggle, but none seemed to be forthcoming.
"Seems fair enough," Dempsey said, pushing his black felt hat back on his head, until the tall feather atop it brushed against the ceiling. He grinned at the older shopkeeper, and said, "Did pretty well for myself last season," as he withdrew a billfold from his pocket, and peeled off one twenty-dollar note.
"I'd say so," Liles replied, trying not to look envious. He accepted the bill, then dug under the counter for a moment, coming up with four one-dollar notes.
"Say what you will about Henry, but that Yank knows what he's doing. He made a few suggestions for that crick back behind my place, and now I've got plenty of water for the fields, no matter how dry it gets 'round here." Liles only grunted noncommittally, and Dempsey shrugged. "Oh, almost forgot, got a copy of today's paper?" That was something of a running joke – by the time the newspapers reached Nashville, they were usually a few days old. He slid a pair of silver half-dimes across the counter, while the storekeeper checked his stock.
Coming up from behind the counter with a copy of the Richmond Examiner, Liles pocketed the money and handed it over, even as he shifted at the sound of the opening door, the better to see the new arrival. He grinned toothily when he did. "Morning' Nate."
Pushing the door closed behind him, Nate Caudell pulled off his hat, and shook his head. "God almighty, it's worse in here than it is out there," he said, stabbing a finger behind him at the too-bright haziness of Nashville's town square. "Good morning, Mr. Liles," he greeted, almost as an afterthought. Then he saw the other man. "Dempsey? That you? How in the hell are you?"
Dempsey Eure smiled as he shook his friend's hand. "It's been a while, Nate. How are things with you and Mollie?"
"We're getting by. Got our own place up near the schoolhouse now. I'd ask you to come by for supper, but neither of us is any good at cooking anything more complicated than our good old Confederate cush." He affixed as much horror as he could on to that last word, and Dempsey Eure shuddered at the memory of that barely warm, sticky mash of old cornmeal and bits of whatever meat could be scrounged up in the winter camp of the Army of Northern Virginia.
"I hope you can find it in you to forgive me if I don't take you up on that offer," the other man said. As a schoolteacher Nate Caudell may have been the most educated underofficer in their whole company – Company D of the 47th North Carolina regiment, The Castalia Invincibles – during the war. But he never could cook worth a damn in the opinion of every other sergeant in their cabin.
Caudell grinned. "Oh, I think I could do that, Dempsey. As it is, Mollie and I try and get ourselves invited over to Henry's place for supper as often as we can."
With a chuckle, Dempsey nodded to the small stack of purchases he's made. "Well, I'd best be loading this stuff up. Lucy goes up the wall when she thinks I've been out drinking. Give my regards to Mollie."
"I'll do that, Dempsey," Caudell replied. "If you can spare me a moment to pick up the new readers I ordered, I'll help you load all of that into your wagon. That is yours out front?"
"Yep, that's mine, all right. Thanks Nate, that's real kindly of you," Dempsey said gratefully, stooping to lift one of the sacks. Even as he was moving towards the door, Raeford Liles, who had overheard the entire conversation, was pulling three bound readers from a back shelf.
Caudell had barely reached for the coins in his pocket when he heard his friend let out a startled noise. Looking back, he saw that Dempsey Eure had stopped in his tracks, and was staring, open-mouthed, out the small dirty window beside the door. He dropped a silver half-dollar on the counter, and grabbed the books in one motion, turning back to his friend. "What is it?"
"Take a look out there, Nate. What do you make of that bunch?"
Walking over to the matching window on the opposite side of the door, Caudell saw immediately what Dempsey was talking about. The four people walking across the small square directly towards Raeford Liles' general store looked like no other group of people he'd ever seen; at least not outside of Richmond, and then only during the Grand Review of the Confederate armies. Two of them looked as though they spent most of their time wrangling cattle out on the Texan range, although it struck him odd that their garments appeared to be brand new, but were not the more formalized wear that most wealthy land-barons seemed to prefer. Following a short distance behind those two, were a man and woman, both of whom were finely dressed – far more so than could be expected in a town like Nashville. They were all the more strange because the layer of fine white dust on their clothes spoke of a long walk on an unpaved road. Nate thought it odd for that; people dressed like that tended to be able to more than afford a coach fare.
"What are you two gawking at?" Liles asked irritably. He was frequently irritable, so they both ignored his tone.
"You're about to find out," Dempsey said, suddenly scooting backward from the window. He'd forgotten that he was still holding a heavy sack of feed in his arms, and quickly dumped it back in front of the counter, along with the rest of what he'd bought. Then he tried to look busy, burying himself in the newspaper he'd dropped on top of the pile. Nate abruptly found something in one of his school readers that required his complete attention.
Liles was the picture of frustration, but it was short-lived, as the front door opened, and four people crossed the threshold.
With only the barest hint of trepidation, Sheridan took a deep breath, pushing open the wooden door beneath the hand-painted sign that identified the building as "Liles' General Store." The room beyond was dim compared to the sunlight outside, but it didn't take long for his eyes to adjust. He moved aside so the others could follow him in, and looked around, gratified to see that there were only three people inside. Recalling the curious glances they had attracted while walking through the town itself, he was now convinced that the fewer people they encountered, the better.
Two men stood just inside the entrance, one on either side by the windows. Both were intently reading, a newspaper and some kind of paper-backed book, respectively. They were so engrossed by what they were reading, they never looked up. That's too engrossed, a small, paranoid part of Sheridan's brain insisted. He forced the feeling down, but noticed that Garibaldi's right hand had drifted down towards his belt, where his PPG was concealed; obviously his paranoia was just a little stronger than his captain's.
"What can I do for you gents?" The store's proprietor – Mr. Liles, Sheridan concluded logically from the sign outside – was looking at them with undisguised curiosity, but he didn't seem to be suspicious of them, and Sheridan saw Garibaldi relax imperceptibly.
"I was wondering if you've got a newspaper. We've been ah… traveling, and haven't kept in touch with recent events, so you know…"
"Yeah, I got a couple of papers left," Liles said diffidently. He didn't move, waiting expectantly to see some money first, Sheridan realized.
He obliged the storekeeper, reaching into a trouser pocket for the handful of period coins he'd put there back on the ship. Doctor Crusher was carrying most of their funds in her handbag, since it was all in the form of gold and silver coins, safely stamped and dated as being from 1850, and the United States. Data's attention to detail had been exacting, but that had been assuming they knew what they were getting in to, which of course they hadn't.
Liles fixed the shiny gold dollar Sheridan dropped on the wooden counter with a fishy glare, but accepted the coin after a cursory examination, producing change from somewhere underneath the back of the counter. The newspaper followed, and Sheridan nodded gratefully, pocketing the smaller coins. Odds were good that they wouldn't tell him anything more than the newspaper could, but just the same, he slipped them into a different pocket from the money he'd brought.
Behind him, Sheridan could hear his companions wandering about the small store, ostensibly browsing the wares. He folded the paper under one arm, nodded to the shopkeeper, and motioned the others to follow him out the door. The light within the building wasn't conducive to reading – which once again raised his concerns about the two men in the store. The lighting was bad inside, no question; so if they weren't truly reading, just what were they doing? Did they suspect anything?
"What does it say, Captain?" Garibaldi asked, once the door had closed behind them.
The question bringing his attention back to the more immediate matter, Sheridan put his paranoia on hold, and looked down at the newsprint in his hands. "With any luck," he told them, "this paper should have some news on the war, so we'll know what to expect. We can't find out why it is we're here until we know what's…" He hadn't even realized he'd trailed off.
"Uh, Captain? What is it?" Garibaldi shifted uncomfortably when Sheridan didn't respond, instead, flipping through the pages rapidly, as if searching for something.
"I don't understand it," Sheridan said. His anxiety was palpable, and remained that way until suddenly his roving eyes located what he was looking for. Letting out a relieved sigh, he traced his finger to the text underneath a bold black headline that read simply, "War." He couldn't understand why the story would be on page twelve, but he shrugged. His relief lasted only two sentences into the article, and then his veins turned to ice. On a whim, he flipped back to the front page, and found the date. "Oh hell," he muttered tersely. 26 June, 1871.
Garibaldi tapped his foot impatiently, watching the captain's antics, but when he saw the look on the other man's face, he shivered despite himself. What the hell is scaring Sheridan like that, he wondered. And then the door behind them opened squeakily, and the two men who'd been reading inside came out into the sunlight, each carrying a heavy burlap sack. Instantly, all his attention was focused on them, and he felt himself unconsciously bristling as he noticed the surreptitious glances they were stealing as they loaded the sacks into the wooden bed of a small wagon.
"What the hell do you make of that, Nate?" Dempsey Eure asked, the moment the door had shut behind the four strangers.
Caudell shook his head, closing the reader, and tucking it under his arm. "I don't know Dempsey." He frowned thoughtfully. "I just don't know. There's something… off… about those people." Something was tickling the back of his mind, but he couldn't place the feeling and dismissed it with another shake of the head. "I can't put it any better than that."
"They can be damnyankees for all I care," Raeford Liles put in with a cackle, holding up the gold dollar. "They're suckers, and they've got money to spend."
"Damnation, Mr. Liles, don't you ever think about anything else?" Dempsey said, sounding humorously disgusted. The odd combination left him with an expression that looked almost painful. Liles only cackled the louder.
But it was that gold coin that caused something to click into place in Caudell's mind. Strange accents, strange clothes… they pay with gold, and they must have enough of it, if they didn't say anything about Lile's prices… and they just look wrong, somehow, like they don't belong. "Just like the Rivington men," he thought, not realizing he'd spoken until Dempsey turned a startled gaze on him.
"What? You can't be serious, Nate. Marse Robert has all them bastards – all the survivors, at any rate – locked down tighter'n Mr. Lile's money box, and that's the Lord's own truth!" Dempsey looked stunned, and even a little afraid.
Caudell couldn't blame him, and he knew far more of the truth than his friend. He suspected that the only people who knew as much as he did about the Rivington men were Mollie and President Robert E. Lee. "I know that, Dempsey," he said. "I don't think they're Rivington men either. For one thing, one of them is a woman," he pointed out with a grin. "Can't remember ever seeing any Rivington women during the big fight. But these people are different too. They don't have the same accents, and they aren't wearing those splotchy uniforms."
"They ain't from Rivington either, Nate," Dempsey said suddenly. "When I first saw 'em out the window here, they were coming this way down Washington Street from the west side of town. Only way into town on that side is the Castalia Road."
"Really?" Caudell hummed, frowning. "That's a good twenty miles from Castalia, and they sure didn't walk that whole way since dawn. They aren't dirty enough for a march like that either." At that, Dempsey laughed, recalling that feeling from far too many such marches. "But they are too dusty to have taken a coach. Maybe I oughta go up and drop by Henry's place tonight," he said, shaking his head. "He's only about five miles up that road from here, and I think he, or someone working for him, would have noticed people who looked like they do walking past his farm."
Dempsey Eure looked confused. "What'll that prove? It won't mean anything if Henry didn't see anything. And there's no towns between here and Castalia, so where else could they have come from?"
"I don't know. It won't really prove anything, I guess… hell I might just be spittin' wind here. But if these people do have something to do with the Rivington men, we'd better find out fast as we can."
"Cain't hardly argue that," Dempsey allowed. "But how d'you figure we go about doing it?"
Nate Caudell shrugged. "Don't know that either. Anyway, how's about we start loading up that wagon of yours before Lucy calls out the army to track you down. We'll think of something while we work."
Chuckling, Dempsey nodded, and reached for the heavy burlap sack he'd put down a few moments earlier. "All right then, as you say."
They had only gone a few feet into the sunshine outside when they realized that the four strangers were still standing around, just yards away, clustered around the tall leather-clad man who'd paid for the paper inside. They weren't speaking, and seemed to be regarding their evident leader with expectant demeanors. Almost as soon as the door closed behind them, the second man who looked like a genuine cowboy abruptly turned and stared at them with hard, cold eyes. Holding off a shiver at that nearly predatory expression, Caudell helped Dempsey heave the sacks into the bed of the wagon, then went back into the store for more.
The door swung open behind them while they were gathering the last of Dempsey Eure's purchases. Neither looked up as footsteps thumped on the floorboards behind them, but in a moment, they heard the voice of the tall cowboy again.
"Excuse me, but me and my… associates are trying to get to Rocky Mount. Can you tell me the fastest way to get there?"
Raeford Liles blinked up through his thick glasses, and broke into a wet chortle. "That'd be by coach, and the next one doesn't leave 'til five o'clock, officially."
The other man winced, but wasn't deterred. "And unofficially?"
"Seven-thirty if the Lord hisself came down here and drove it," Liles said, cackling again at the stranger's reaction. Then he forced himself to feel a pang of mercy. "It's not the same thing, but I reckon you could talk to Dempsey here about hitchin' a ride. He lives about four miles down that road." Turning to a visibly startled Dempsey Eure, he went on, "Ain't that right, Dempsey?"
"Uh, well yeah, I mean, my place is down that way some." He shot a pleading look at Caudell, who looked momentarily thoughtful. If these people really were Rivington men, they were the last human beings on Earth who he'd want to travel with. The suddenly calculating look on his friend's face made his heart sink.
"Why don't you go ahead and give these folks a ride, Dempsey?" Caudell suggested pointedly. "At least as far as your place. It's still a fair walk, but there'll be plenty've light left. Besides, if your supper invitation is still good," – Liles made a surprised noise, and Caudell quelled him with a sidelong glance – "It'll be a little bit before I can go round up Mollie and Henry. I know he's eager to see just how you've gone about doing what he suggested."
Dempsey caught on almost immediately, and the undertones combined with an invitation he hadn't extended, told him that Nate, Mollie, and Henry Pleasants would be doing more than just dropping by for a meal. He still didn't care much for the idea of driving those miles with four potential Rivington men in his wagon, but he could see the need. They weren't likely to get a better opportunity to keep an eye on them. "That's all true enough, Nate," he conceded. He turned to look squarely at the stranger, who, he noticed with some surprise, looked to be mulling over some idea of great import, or maybe deep-rooted shock. Either way, he didn't appear to be paying overmuch attention to the conversation happening around him. "If you're still interested, mister," Dempsey told him, "I can take you about four miles down towards Rocky Mount. Can you be ready to leave soon?" To his surprise, the stranger smiled warmly.
"That'd be great. Name's John Sheridan. And we're ready to go as soon as you are," he said, extending a hand.
Dempsey took the hand with a firm shake, smiling despite himself. None of the Rivington men he'd met, and admittedly that had not been many, were so friendly, and none that he knew of had such an ordinary name. Realizing he was being impolite, he said, "My name's Dempsey Eure." Determined not to end up going this alone, he deliberately added, "And this here's Nate Caudell. He's the schoolmaster 'round here." His point made, he continued, "Anyhow, just let me get this last bit loaded up, and we'll be on our way."
The "last bit" consisted of two heavy burlap sacks, and Sheridan shrugged. "Works for me," he said, heaving one of them across a broad shoulder.
It was only then Nate Caudell realized just how tall the man was. The only other people of similar height he'd ever seen had been Abraham Lincoln and the other Rivington men. His eyes narrowed further when Sheridan leaned out the door, and with a crisp air of authority at odds with his apparel, called out to his companions. "Michael, get in here and get this last bag out of here." The burly hard-eyed man who'd been staring at them before was the one who responded to that implied command, grabbing the last sack, and carrying it out to the wagon.
He is – or was – a soldier, Caudell realized. It didn't surprise him, after what he'd seen from the Rivington men, but the rest of it didn't add up. They stand out, and don't seem to realize just how much. They, at least those two, are probably soldiers, and they seem to have plenty of gold. Uncannily like the Rivington men. On the other hand, I've never seen any Rivington man wearing anything but those spotty clothes, and never in the company of English dandies and women. So just what in the blazes are they, where – or when, his mind added, as an image of the impossible book Mollie had shown him years ago intruded unbidden into his thoughts, – did they come from, and why are they here?
The moment the two of them had left the building with the seed bags, Caudell rounded on Dempsey. His friend knew nothing about the book with the impossible publishing date, and hadn't been close enough to the final stand of the Rivington men to have heard enough to wonder, but knew just enough to be very worried. "Listen, Dempsey, you make sure it takes as long as it can for you to get home. Yeah, I know Lucy'll complain, but this is important now, you hear? Take it slow, delay them 'long as you can there. I don't want to get Mollie involved, but she'll kill me if she finds out –" That earned a chuckle from both Dempsey and Liles, who had only a foggy understanding of what was going on, "– so I'm gonna go get her, then get over to Henry's place at the double-quick, and get him. The only thing in Rocky Mount worth mentioning is the railroad, so they must be trying to get somewheres else. We need to know where that is, and why."
Dempsey grinned lopsidedly at that. He had had a well-earned reputation as the slowest sergeant in the regiment when it came to getting from one place to another. "Reckon I can manage that, Nate. I'll make sure there'll be some grub ready, too. But only if you hurry like all the devils of hell are on your heels."
"Don't you worry about that," Caudell said sincerely. Then grinning, added, "Once Henry hears about this, you can bet we'll be there yesterday, earlier if he can figure out a way to fly us there. Remember, he's got even more reasons to want another crack at 'em than we do." That much was also true. Henry Pleasants had watched his entire regiment be chewed apart thanks to the weapons provided the Confederacy by those same Rivington men, and then they had not only tried to assassinate the new president of his adopted country and start their own uprising, but had done so with weapons even he couldn't fathom. As an engineer, he saw that alone as a personal affront.
"I hope you're right about that," Dempsey allowed dubiously, "I surely do. Because if we're not wrong about these folks, we're gonna have to stop them from doing whatever mischief they're here to do, any way we can. And after the last time, I'm not looking forward to that, and that's the truth."