‘You both look damned fine, if I say so myself. You’ll pass unnoticed here, at least until the show wraps up.’
Ethan looked down at the markings on his uniform. ‘Private? You couldn’t have found anything with rank?’
‘All greenhorns have to be privates at these events,’ Zamora explained. ‘Just the way it is.’
Ethan looked over the roof of the car to where Sedillo Park was spread before them, a large open space lined with dense thickets of trees. Around the edge were large tents and marquees, various flags flying above their entrances in the hot wind. None of them were emblazoned with banners or adverts in the usual manner. Nearby were old wagons, carts and horses, and on the warm air he could smell the fumes of a hundred camp fires.
A single, broad banner arced over the park entrance, emblazoned with bright red, white and blue text.
SOCORRO ANNUAL CIVIL WAR
RE-ENACTMENT
The Battle of Valverde
Ethan could see hundreds of people mingling around the fires and the horses, rank upon rank of fully uniformed Confederate and Union soldiers, all drinking coffees or Cokes and chatting amiably.
‘You really think they’ll use this as a place to meet up?’ Lopez asked Zamora as they began walking into the park. ‘They can’t be held that often.’
Zamora nodded.
‘Just a few every year. Santa Fe’s come earlier, in February and March, to coincide with the anniversary of the actual battles. Out here near Arizona the re-enactment groups from south of the border team up with Socorro groups for larger displays. Hiram Conley was heavily involved in many of the re-enactments and was considered an expert.’
‘I’ll bet,’ Ethan replied as they strolled into the park between two large wagons and onto the field proper.
Ethan reckoned that he could see maybe two thousand soldiers, roughly split between Confederates in their smart gray uniforms and the Union troops in dark blue. Enrico gestured to the massed ranks, the bayonets of their rifles glittering in the hot sunlight.
‘Back in the day when these battles were fought, the men wouldn’t have worn such identical uniforms. They’d have been all beaten up and modified, not to mention the fact that Valverde was fought in the winter so they’d have been huddled up in greatcoats if they were lucky enough to own them.’
Ethan nodded, surveying the scene.
‘Hiram Conley and his comrades were Union soldiers. Most likely they’ll stick with what they know and be among those troops.’
‘Could take a while to find them,’ Lopez said, looking at her copy of the old photograph and Lee Carson’s mugshot. ‘Half of these enthusiasts have grown long moustaches and beards to look more authentic.’
Ethan thought for a moment.
‘Let’s focus on Lee Carson,’ he said. ‘He’s the one we know has a good reason to find help — his hands are falling off. If we’re lucky, where we find him we’ll find the rest of them.’
Ethan watched as Lopez and Zamora, armed with their photographs, struck out for the Union lines while he headed for the furthest flank of the army. Since arriving, he had noticed the ranks of speakers lining the edges of Sedillo Park, from which issued the voice of a commentator that rose and fell with flukes in the wind. It had crossed Ethan’s mind that they could just put out a call for Lee Carson to come in: he had, after all, been known to live amongst ordinary people during his very long life. The problem was, he might now live under a pseudonym. Any call-out for the wrong name would alert him instantly.
Ethan approached the Union lines and decided on a different tack. He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket as an idea hit him, and dialed Lopez’s number. She answered on the first ring.
‘Look for men wearing gloves of any kind,’ Ethan said. ‘If Carson’s here, he’ll have to keep his hands out of sight.’
‘Good call, will do.’
Lopez rang off, and Ethan was about to pocket his cell phone when a voice thundered out across the field.
‘You there! Have you absquatulated your senses?! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?’
Ethan stopped dead in his tracks as a portly man bearing the uniform of an officer sitting astride a magnificent golden-coated palomino with a white mane vaulted down from his saddle and strode up to him. The officer wore a silvery moustache as long as a canoe, bright blue eyes wide as dinner plates and skin flushed with apparent outrage. He jabbed a thin black cane at Ethan’s cell phone, various medals and tasseled ribbons on his shoulders vibrating with the sudden movement. Ethan lowered the cell phone.
‘I’m making a phone call.’
‘A phone call?!’ the officer thundered in disbelief. ‘This is 1862, God damn your hide, man!’
The ranks of troops amassed behind the officer had fallen silent, watching the exchange with interest. Ethan blinked.
‘No, it’s not.’
The officer seemed to rise another inch in height, eyes widening even further as he sucked in more air to shout with.
‘You dare defy your commanding officer?’ he bellowed. ‘By Satan’s breath, I’ll have you in irons by sundown, you insolent little tick!’
‘You really take everything this seriously?’ Ethan asked, holding his own temper in check.
‘This is the army, boy, not a weekend away!’ the officer boomed. ‘Where’s your bivouac? Where’s your commanding officer?’ He raised his cane as though to swat it at Ethan.
Ethan took a single step forward to put himself right in the officer’s face and then reached down, grabbing the man’s balls and twisting hard. The officer went up on his toes as a strained whistling sound squeaked from his lips. Ethan spoke quietly but with force.
‘Ethan Warner, Lieutenant, 15th Expeditionary Unit, United States Marine Corps, Iraq, Afghanistan. I’m here on business and I’m the real thing, buddy, not a jumped-up fantasist like you. You either shut up and get lost or I’ll kick your ass clean off this field in front of two thousand people, understood?’
The officer deflated like a burst balloon as panic flickered behind his eyes. He squealed in taut agreement. Ethan twisted his grip a little harder while he reached into his pocket and pulled out Lee Carson’s mugshot.
‘Recognize this face?’
The man’s blue eyes swiveled to look down at the picture. He nodded briskly as beads of sweat on his forehead twinkled in the sunlight.
‘Light infantry guy,’ he squeaked, ‘halfway down the ranks, behind the artillery.’
Ethan nodded slowly. ‘Now, good officers lead by example, not by force. I don’t expect to see you raising that pathetic little stick of yours to anybody else, understood?’
Another jerking nod, the man’s breaths now coming short and sharp.
‘Well done,’ Ethan said, and released his grip.
The officer gasped, resting his hands on his knees as he fought for breath and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.
Ethan turned, making his way through the lines of soldiers now staring at him and whispering as he headed toward where he could see the ugly muzzles of artillery pieces poking from the ranks. All of them were finely polished, gleaming in the hot sunlight. He searched for gloved hands, looking at the soldiers cradling their long-barreled muskets and rifles. One of them, an old man with a drooping gray moustache and beard, wore leather gloves but was far too aged to be Carson. Ethan was about to move on when the old man turned and jogged down the line of infantry.
Ethan froze. The old man was tall, his shoulders broad and rangy and his step far too spritely for his apparent age. Ethan began following him as he turned off the front line of troops and headed toward the rear of the formations. Ethan moved parallel to him before reaching the back of the ranks to intercept the old man as he emerged. He called out to him as he tried to duck into a nearby tent.