"Not until you change that front tire," said Remo.
The lieutenant took a step back and raised his voice to a bellow. "Men! Commence firin'!"
More musket muzzles crowded in through the windows-only to be clapped flat as they were met by the hands of the Master of Sinanju and his pupil. They withdrew as if sprained.
"Reinforcements!" the first lieutenant cried in a harried voice. "We be needin' reinforcements hereabouts."
Additional knots of rifles angled in through the three open windows and were as quickly confiscated to form a kneehigh pile on the floorboards.
After that no more muskets intruded.
The first lieutenant tried to bluff it out. "You are surrounded. And must come out," he said firmly.
"Not a chance," said Remo, slapping away a stealthy hand that tried to slip in and recover a weapon.
"There is no escape. We are not a-gonna go away."
"Fine."
"We are prepared to starve you out," the first lieutenant warned earnestly.
"Go whistle 'Trixie,"' sniffed Chiun.
"That's Dixie,"' Remo reminded.
"Please," begged the first lieutenant, "this be my first real fuss, and Ah don't wanna go home to my pappy with my honor all in tatters."
"Fix the tire and we'll think about it," Remo told him carelessly. And during the hesitant pause that followed, he lifted a filigreed musket from the pile and began taking it apart with steel-boned fingers.
An anguished wail near the trunk became a semiarticulate "That's my great-great-great-great grandpappy's 1861 Springfield. He shot it from Chickahominy clear to Spotsylvania! It's a prized family heirloom!"
Remo wrenched the firing lever loose and tossed it out the window, saying, "Bet I can fieldstrip this antique before you guys can get that tire changed."
Remo lost that bet, but not by much. A jack came out of the trunk, the car cranked up, lugs spun off, a fresh tire swapped for the flat and the sedan dropped back on four good wheels before Remo could separate the barrel from its mounting.
"Nice time," said Remo as the sedan finished rocking on its springs.
"I was a pit-crew chief at Talladega six years runnin'," an eager voice told him, adding, "Can I have grandpappy's Springfield back now?"
"After you drive us to the Crater," said Remo.
"We will have to accompany you, a-course," the first lieutenant said sternly.
"Why don't you drive?" suggested Remo.
"A singular suggestion," said the first lieutenant, ducking behind the wheel. He started the engine, then called out to his troops. "You men form a double column behind this redoubtable war wagon and follow smartly. Ah will drive at a suitable trot."
Driving at a trot was the first lieutenant's sincere plan, but once the car began bouncing along the road, his foot became exceedingly heavy on the gas. He started to wonder if his barefoot state had something to do with the problem when he felt the steely fingers clamping the back of his neck and realized they had been there some minutes.
"What are you doing, you confounded Northern spy?" he demanded.
"Steering," said Remo, giving the first lieutenant's head a sharp twist to the left. The First Lieutenant's hands on the wheel obligingly steered to the left, taking the coming turn at very high speed. He had nothing to say about the matter, he was astonished to discover. In the rearview mirror the Kentucky Boot less Bluegrass Band, straining to catch up, broke into a dead run.
"We are putting my band behind."
"They'll catch up," Remo assured him.
As they approached the loop in the road before the Crater, the first lieutenant noticed the olive drab tanks parked here and there among the Confederate gray cars.
"Whose tanks be these?" he asked.
"Stonewall Brigade."
"Sure they ain't Sheridan's?"
"Search me," said Remo. "Keep your shoulder down. I need to see to steer."
A finger came off one of the first lieutenant's neck vertebrae and tapped another. The lieutenant's foot came off the gas and tapped the brake more smartly than if he had had something to say about it. The gray sedan eased to a stop, and the rear doors fell open.
The first lieutenant grabbed for the door handle when a thick wristed hand reached in through the open window and snapped the steel lever clean off, then threw it away.
"Why don't you set a spell?" Remo told him.
"Ah can get out the other door, you know."
"Barefoot boys have crunchy toes," Remo pointed out, shattering a stone under the heel of one shoe.
"Reckon Ah'll await my men," said the first lieutenant, tucking his precious toes under him where they would be safe from the Yankee devil spies. After all, he was a picker, not a fighter.
THE MASTER of Sinanju following, Remo walked over to a knot of good ole boys brandishing assorted shotguns and modern rifles.
A man in some sort of gray buttoned tunic, the Stars and Bars of the late Confederacy whipping from his broad shoulders, turned at their approach. He had a wide, beefy face and thick black hair piled high on his head in a lustrous Elvis pompadour.
"What manner of soldier is that one?" asked Chiun.
"Looks like a Confederate Captain Marvel."
"Nonsense, Remo. He is at least a general. Behold the many golden stars upon his proud shoulders. As ranking Master, it is my duty to treat with him and accept his abject surrender."
"Ranking Master?" said Remo, but Chiun had already hurried ahead. Remo didn't bother picking up his pace. If there was going to be trouble, Chiun could handle it. After all, Remo had driven the car.
NARVEL BOGGS, a.k.a. Colonel Dixie, Scourge of the South, saw the tiny little man approach. His eyes went past him to the fruity white guy who brought up the rear.
"Looks to me like an advance guard of them New York Stonewalls," one of his trusty raiders muttered.
"He does have that look about him. Not exactly swishy, but them's certainly faggy garments."