Seikos.
âWhoâd your wife vote for in the last presidential election, if you donât mind my asking?â a third infantryman demanded.
Rep spotted the trick a nanosecond too late to keep âAbraham Lincolnâ from slipping out of his mouth. The others guffawed as the questioner removed his hat and shook his head at the thought of a woman voting. The approach of an emphatically contemporary couple saved Rep from further commentary.
âExcuse me,â the female half of the couple asked the group, âmay we take your picture?â
âFact is,â the man whoâd asked about Melissaâs voting habits said, âthe only picture I have here is a pencil sketch of my wife that her sister drew for me to take along when I signed up. I am partial to it, and would be much obliged if you did
not
take it.â
âIâm sorry,â the woman said after Peter whispered to her. âI didnât mean âtake your picture.â May we make your image?â
âOh, most certainly,â the man said with an oddly quaint bow.
All six members of the group promptly assumed studied poses around the stacked muskets while the woman cheerfully snapped off four shots.
âWeâll see you at retreat,â Peter told the group as the photo op wrapped up. âWe have to get our recruit here a little more kit.â
Peter strode off and Rep followed him. The encampment was spread over four acres of rolling pasture well north of downtown but still within Kansas Cityâs ample borders. Some men sat at campsites, playing checkers or reading Bibles. Others, in groups of six or eight, marched and drilled. Counting blue and gray troops together, Rep thought there were nearly a hundred re-enactors here already. Most of those he saw were infantry, but he noticed a smattering of cavalry and one artillery unit on each side as well.
As they trudged, Peter pointed to an open area perhaps a hundred yards square. A row of hay bales stood at one end, while four men in a medley of uniforms stood at the other, firing revolvers at targets on the bales.
âFiring range,â Peter explained. âThereâll be a black powder shooting competition on Friday afternoon.â
âYou mean those things fire real bullets?â Rep asked.
âVery real,â Peter said, grinning at the naïve question. âFifty-four caliber, some of them. The reason Iâm pointing it out to you, though, is that if you go down the hill directly behind those bales and then hike about eighty feet, youâll find some Port-a-Potties. A lot of the guys actually use regulation latrines, but I figured you might not want to get that realistic.â
âYou got that right,â Rep said.
Another two-hundred strides brought them to the sutlersâ tent. Sixty feet long and thirty wide and with its canvas rolled up on one of the long sides, it sheltered merchants hawking everything from Civil War songbooks to Enfield rifled muskets and period handguns. Racks and coat-trees groaned under the weight of complete uniforms for all branches of both armies. Replicas of eyeglasses and pocket watches from the era, cartridge boxes, and canteens covered tables. The sutlers all wore convincing nineteenth-century civilian dress, but Rep noticed that the prices on their wares were right up to date.
At the far end of the tent, Rep saw a sutler and a guy in a gray uniform, standing about three feet apart and ostentatiously ignoring each other. Before he could speculate too far on what that might be about, Peter led him to a different merchant with a bristling, black beard.
âEvening to you, trooper Damon,â the man said.
âEvening, Mr. Jameson,â Peter said. âPrivate Pennyworth here thinks he might be in the market for a saber.â
âWell, I donât have anything quite as elegant as that model 1840 heavy cavalry dragoon saber youâre wearing with its half-basket handguard and