Confederates Don't Wear Couture by Stephanie Kate Strohm Page B

amazing like that. I put a handful of kettle corn into the handkerchief and tied it up.
    â€œTwenty minutes to battle!” blared out over the PA system.
    â€œRun, doll!” Tammy shooed me out of the tent. “They muster at fifteen.”
    We were all the way on the Confederate end of Sutlers’ Row, so it was only a quick run down the hill to the encampment. Once I was there, however, I had no idea where to go. All of the tents were indistinguishable, and they stretched on seemingly forever. I headed down one row of tents, as all around me Confederate men put on their jackets, exited their tents, and started making their way toward the battlefield.
    â€œWhere’s the fire, sweetheart?” one called after me as I raced by, picking up speed the longer I went without seeing any familiar tents. “What’s your rush, doll? We’ve got more’n fifteen minutes!” another called.
    Another row of tents—and nothing.
    â€œWho’re you lookin’ for, darlin’?” An old man shrugging on a long officer’s coat called to me as I rounded the edge of one row of tents.
    â€œThe Fifteenth Alabama,” I yelled back.
    â€œTwo rows down, all the way on the other side. Should be about to muster, though.”
    â€œThank you!”
    I took off in the direction he’d indicated. By the time I spotted the top of a head with a familiar auburn tint to it, the camp was abuzz with activity, and the grassy lanes formed by the makeshift tent village were swarming with men.
    â€œBeau!” I called. In the sea of butternut browns and shades of gray, the russet-colored blur stopped and turned. Since I was dressed all in white and about a head shorter than everyone else, I was pretty easy to spot. Beau made his way over to me.
    â€œLibby, what the hell are you doin’ out here?” He grabbed my arm, steadying me, to keep me from being swept away on the Rebel tide. “We’re startin’ to line up. It’s almost time for the battle to begin.”
    As if on cue, the fife and drums on the edge of the battlefield burst into a spirited rendition of “Dixie.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I brought you this, I—Here . . .” I held out the little white bundle.
    He took it, perplexed, and peeled back a corner of the handkerchief. “Popcorn?” A look of disbelief passed over his face. “Popcorn?” he repeated again, dumbstruck. Beau looked up at me and grinned. “You ran all the way the hell out here, practically in the middle of battle, to bring me popcorn?”
    â€œIt’s kettle corn,” I replied, somewhat defensively.
    Beau threw back his head and laughed. “Kettle corn.” He popped several kernels in his mouth. “Delicious.” He swallowed and tossed in another handful. “I never had anyone bring me a battle snack before. You got a juice box hidden up your shimmy too?”
    â€œNext time,” I promised, grinning.
    BOOM!
I turned toward the noise. On the Union side of the field, a cloud of smoke arose from a cannon way in the distance.
    â€œHell, that’ll be fifteen. Artillery’s doin’ a safety check,” Beau said, indicating the spot in the field where the cannon smoke lingered.
    Sure enough, the loudspeaker boomed, “Fifteen minutes to battle! Troops, report to your officers and line up for inspection!”
    Goodness! It was hard not to get swept up in the spirit of things. My heart was pounding in its corseted prison, what with all the excitement, and men rushing around, and horses pawing at the grass.
    â€œWell . . .” I turned to Beau. I had no idea what to say in this situation.
Have fun? Good luck? Break a leg?
Nothing seemed right.
    â€œShoot, do you need your handkerchief back?” He hadn’t quite finished the kettle corn.
    â€œNo, you keep it,” I said. “For, um, luck.”
    Beau nodded, smiled, and ate the last