Chapter 2: Chapter 2
“Just lie around, um, starving,” he answered.
“Pretend starving, or are you telling us we don’t get to eat? Is the food authentic? What did they eat in 1863?”
“Well, it’s called the ‘Cracker Line’ operation, Mr. Tucker.”
“Call me Goose,” I said.
“Okay, Goose. My point is, there will be crackers, for one thing.” Patrick smiled. “Also, coffee, and tea…”
“Yum.”
“Is this your first time with us, Goose?”
“Yeah. That obvious, huh?”
“It’s fine. I like questions. I also like to keep things as authentic as possible. Just think, if going twenty-four hours without eating is hard, imagine what those soldiers must have felt like day after day. If you can come away from all of this with a sense of understanding and appreciation for the plight of these frightened, hungry, devoted, patriotic men, well, I’ll have done my job. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Damn. Suddenly, I felt pressured. “Um…Nope. Proceed.” I turned to Rip. “I should have packed more snacks. I wonder if there’s a convenience store nearby.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“After Pat said all that about appreciating the soldiers? I’d have come off as a pretty big jerk, don’t you think?”
“You said it.”
“We can have beer, right?”
“Shh!”
“Currently,” Patrick explained, “following previous battles not as successful as we might have liked, the confederates have occupied positions that require us Federals to bring in supplies from the Stevenson railroad. We must travel via wagon, up the Sequatchie Valley, and then south, over Walden Ridge, to the north bank of the river opposite Chattanooga to get rations where they are needed. The sixty-mile route is treacherous and winding. After rainy weather, this trek was taking our men over a week, and our animals were breaking down.”
“There’s not a test after, is there?” I muttered.
“Shut it!” Rip scolded.
When Patrick mentioned a man named “Baldy Smith” I chuckled. Rip sneered. I had a feeling he was already regretting his decision to include me, as much as I was regretting saying yes.
Rip and my sister had done so much for me. I owed them. This was step one in paying them back, except I was every bit as frustrating as a Civil War reenactment partner as I was as a depressed and isolating relative.
“Baldy Smith,” Patrick said again, “has devised a way to open a shorter route via Kelly’s and Browns ferries.” Patrick pulled out a brittle, yellowed map we all had to gather closer to see. The guy really knew his stuff. “To do this, we must first drive the Confederates from Raccoon Mountain. With the approval of Major General Ulysses S. Grant, Hooker’s force at Bridgeport will secretly move across here.” He traced the route with a small wooden pointer. “One group will lead the advance along the line of the railroad south of the river toward Wauhatchie.” The pointer showed that proposed journey as well. “Ours will cross northwest of Whiteside to join them. At Chattanooga, we will all drift downstream, past the enemy, to Browns Ferry, where we will secure the heights overlooking the site. We will have to fight off a small counterattack, but victory shall be ours.”
I was late in joining the rousing Hoorah!
“Hoorah!” Better late than never, I figured.
“Another brigade will then cross at Browns’ Ford’s north bank,” Patrick told us, “and a pontoon bridge will be erected. On the morning of October 30, forty thousand rations and tons of forage will have arrived because of our efforts.”
“The Cracker line is open. Full rations, boys!”
Once again, everyone else seemed rehearsed. The exclamation came in force, with me as an echo. “…rations, boys!”
“We’ll all meet back up here at eleven,” Patrick said, “in full garb, to prepare to start the reenactment. In the meantime, feel free to roam the grounds.” The torrential rain pouring down challenged the notion.
“Or not. Maybe take the opportunity to relax and get to know one another before we start.” Patrick fixed his glasses. They were always crooked. “There was downtime during war. The bond some of these men formed with one another is something else I hope we can replicate in the short time we have. Our mission will be grueling,” he continued, “but once again, keep in mind it’s nothing compared to what these actual young men went through in real life. You’ll all be leaving here alive.”
Another loud crack of thunder had me airborne. “Fuck!”
As our compatriots dispersed, Rip was giving me stink eye. “You’re not taking this serious,” he said.
“Seriously…”
“What?”
“I believe, seriously is the word you want. I’m not taking this seriously. You know History. I know English.”
“Jerk.” Rip walked away.
Gifts
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received Weekly Power Status
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Ranking 
-- Power
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