Simon the Fiddler: A Novel by Paulette Jiles

Author:Paulette Jiles [Jiles, Paulette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Historical, General, Westerns
ISBN: 9780062966766
Google: IKOiDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 006296674X
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-04-14T06:00:00+00:00

Damon pulled out his C whistle with the ribbon on it and played the melody. Ta dum ta dum-dum . . . and Doroteo sang a harmony.

“Should have stuck to your music, you dim-witted hill-jacks,” said the guard ahead of them.

They came to a confectioner’s shop. It was now the office of the provost marshal. The provost marshal was a fat man with a receding chin and Simon could see burnt-looking pale hairs on the backs of his hands as he wrote down their names and particulars by the light of a railroad lamp. Simon could tell he was some kind of an officer because he had bars on his shoulders, but he was Union and so Simon wasn’t sure what they meant. He stood the fiddle case on one end and kept a hand on it and turned to the others, who widened their eyes innocently; Doro gave a small shrug.

All around them candies glistened behind glass; taffies, ribbon candy, lozenges, lemon drops. Simon wondered where the candy man had gone. The man with the fuzzy yellow beard sat down on the floor with his legs straight out and a sullen expression. The provost marshal told him to get up and he did, reluctantly.

“Names,” said the provost marshal. He leveled his pencil at Simon. “You.”

“Simon Boudlin,” said Simon. He had claimed to be Simon Walters when he was conscripted, so it was safest to go back to his real name and hope he was not on paper anywhere. “I never started that fight and I never hit anybody.” He pulled up the neck of the white shirt against the cold and his reddish hair was curling outrageously in the wet atmosphere.

“Nevertheless, you’re charged with disorderly conduct unbecoming. Where is your pass?”

“What pass?”

“Pass to travel,” said the provost marshal. “Pass to keep breathing.”

“I don’t have one.” Simon spread one hand. “Nobody ever said I had to have one. What is it?”

“Never mind then, fiddler, where are your discharge papers?”

“Me?” Simon took on an alarmed expression. “Discharged from what?”

“The Confederate Army.”

“I was never in it.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Hiding.”

“Me too,” said Damon and Doroteo chimed in, “I also.” Damon groped in his pocket and came out with the D whistle.

“Then where did you get that vest?” he said to Simon.

Simon was about to become very angry. Why did he have to answer to somebody as to where he got his damn vest? So what if it was Confederate issue? “At the gettin’ place,” he said.

The fat officer stared resolutely at his papers; then said again, “Names.”

“Private George Farley,” said the soldier.

“Nepomuceno Policarpo Yturri y Contreras,” said Doro, and he spelled it for him, slowly, relentlessly.

“To hell with that,” said the officer. “Give me the short version.”

“Doroteo Navarro,” said Doro and then instantly regretted it.

“Angus Oppenheimer.” Damon blew out his whistle.

“Stop that.” The officer sat at the confectioner’s counter with papers in front of him and clearly felt that it was all getting out of hand and his detentions and arrests were unraveling at an alarming speed.

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