the wind running soft through the meadows, the creek tinkling between slick stones, the hoof beats getting louder, the whinny of horses and the clanking of harness growing louder in the narrow pass. They’d be coming around the bend any minute, horses and riders alike breathing fire, red eyes promising a swift punishment for rebellion.
And Vernon Ray found himself before the open closet, where his dad’s uniforms hung. The captain’s crisp wool uniform with its braids and epaulets, the coarse tow-linen shirts for period civilization reenactments, the white cotton blouses, the regular gray buck private’s outfit with its frayed cuffs and bullet holes. At the end of the row was the one that would soon be too small for Vernon Ray, the drummer boy’s suit with its bone buttons and knickers. As he had many times before, he touched the scratchy fabric of its sleeve.
“I’ll make you proud,” he whispered, and it was neither the captain’s nor the toy soldier’s voice, but his own.
He slipped out of his Incredible Hulk T-shirt, the cool air of the room sharpening his nipples to tiny purple points. He kicked off his bedroom slippers and shucked down his pants. The underwear would have to go, because though the briefs were cotton, the waistband was a synthetic blend covering rubberized elastic, neither of which was extant during the War.
With trembling fingers, he wrested the uniform from its hanger. It smelled of campfire smoke and cobwebs. He slid his one bare arm into the woolen sleeve, enjoying the delicious scraping inflicted by the fabric. It was a little tight in the shoulders, but he shrugged into it until it rested comfortably. He was aware of his runaway heartbeat-
ratta-tat-tat
-as he buttoned up the front of the coat. Next he stepped into the matching knickers, sliding them up until the cloth tickled his penis. All the leather boots were adult size, and most rural children in those days wore no shoes anyway. He took the small kepi from its place on the rack, where it was tucked between a grandiose French cavalry hat and a felt fedora. He perched the slanted Rebel cap on his head, the brim tipped low just the way the toy soldier wore it.
Vernon Ray stood at attention for a moment, as if undergoing the captain’s inspection. Then he gave the Confederate Army salute and opened the cedar cupboard.
The snare drum was on the middle shelf, the largest object in the collection. The horsehide head was girded in place by a steel band, which itself was attached to the wooden shell by neat rows of brass tacks. A series of pig-gut strings held the head tight and could be adjusted to change the tone of the snare. A bridge of woven steel ran just beneath the head, designed to give off the signature rattling sound as the drumhead vibrated.
He lifted the drum carefully by its canvas strap, slinging the strap around his neck and almost knocking off his cap in the process. The drum’s weight felt comforting against his abdomen. He collected the hand-carved drumsticks and gave them an experimental twirl. He had his own drumsticks, rubber-tipped ones bought in the music store at the mall, but these had an entirely different balance and feel.
Like the bones of war.
“I’m ready, Dad,” Vernon Ray whispered.
He turned toward the table and the mock battle. Capt. Jeff Davis would die this day, but he would die proud.
Vernon Ray turned his left wrist up and rested the tip of the stick against the snare head. He clenched the stick in his right hand and raised it several inches above the horsehide.
“Awaiting orders, sir,” he said.
Do it, Earley.
Tears welled in his eyes, but soldiers didn’t cry, only scared little boys. He wanted to blink, but he promised his dad he wouldn’t. A freshet of salt water threaded down his left cheek and he licked it when it reached his lips.
Stoneman’s unit was closer now, the horses hammering out their own cadence, static in the air as if the sky were holding its breath.
Vernon
And Vernon Ray found himself before the open closet, where his dad’s uniforms hung. The captain’s crisp wool uniform with its braids and epaulets, the coarse tow-linen shirts for period civilization reenactments, the white cotton blouses, the regular gray buck private’s outfit with its frayed cuffs and bullet holes. At the end of the row was the one that would soon be too small for Vernon Ray, the drummer boy’s suit with its bone buttons and knickers. As he had many times before, he touched the scratchy fabric of its sleeve.
“I’ll make you proud,” he whispered, and it was neither the captain’s nor the toy soldier’s voice, but his own.
He slipped out of his Incredible Hulk T-shirt, the cool air of the room sharpening his nipples to tiny purple points. He kicked off his bedroom slippers and shucked down his pants. The underwear would have to go, because though the briefs were cotton, the waistband was a synthetic blend covering rubberized elastic, neither of which was extant during the War.
With trembling fingers, he wrested the uniform from its hanger. It smelled of campfire smoke and cobwebs. He slid his one bare arm into the woolen sleeve, enjoying the delicious scraping inflicted by the fabric. It was a little tight in the shoulders, but he shrugged into it until it rested comfortably. He was aware of his runaway heartbeat-
ratta-tat-tat
-as he buttoned up the front of the coat. Next he stepped into the matching knickers, sliding them up until the cloth tickled his penis. All the leather boots were adult size, and most rural children in those days wore no shoes anyway. He took the small kepi from its place on the rack, where it was tucked between a grandiose French cavalry hat and a felt fedora. He perched the slanted Rebel cap on his head, the brim tipped low just the way the toy soldier wore it.
Vernon Ray stood at attention for a moment, as if undergoing the captain’s inspection. Then he gave the Confederate Army salute and opened the cedar cupboard.
The snare drum was on the middle shelf, the largest object in the collection. The horsehide head was girded in place by a steel band, which itself was attached to the wooden shell by neat rows of brass tacks. A series of pig-gut strings held the head tight and could be adjusted to change the tone of the snare. A bridge of woven steel ran just beneath the head, designed to give off the signature rattling sound as the drumhead vibrated.
He lifted the drum carefully by its canvas strap, slinging the strap around his neck and almost knocking off his cap in the process. The drum’s weight felt comforting against his abdomen. He collected the hand-carved drumsticks and gave them an experimental twirl. He had his own drumsticks, rubber-tipped ones bought in the music store at the mall, but these had an entirely different balance and feel.
Like the bones of war.
“I’m ready, Dad,” Vernon Ray whispered.
He turned toward the table and the mock battle. Capt. Jeff Davis would die this day, but he would die proud.
Vernon Ray turned his left wrist up and rested the tip of the stick against the snare head. He clenched the stick in his right hand and raised it several inches above the horsehide.
“Awaiting orders, sir,” he said.
Do it, Earley.
Tears welled in his eyes, but soldiers didn’t cry, only scared little boys. He wanted to blink, but he promised his dad he wouldn’t. A freshet of salt water threaded down his left cheek and he licked it when it reached his lips.
Stoneman’s unit was closer now, the horses hammering out their own cadence, static in the air as if the sky were holding its breath.
Vernon
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