Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run (14 page)

“Yes, boy,” he whispers. “Five packets seem just about right.”

As I walk away, I wonder for a moment if I've made a mistake. A twenty-first-century Game Boy in the wrong nineteenth-century hands? But the batteries
are
almost dead. I doubt McLean will be changing any history with it.

I march back down the lane to find Cyrus and Big Jim. It doesn't take long. I spot them standing beside another house, much smaller than Mrs. Henry's, really just one big room with a small front porch. I've seen the house before, but I know it wasn't there the last time my parents dragged me to Manassas. On that part of the battlefield, only the Henry House still stands.

I reach Cyrus's side, but he and Big Jim don't seem to realize I'm here. I follow their gaze to a dead Yankee slumped against the front porch. He's young, about Cyrus's age, with long blond curls and a smooth white face.

Lying faceup at his feet is a comrade of his, shot in the stomach and dead too. He has black curly hair and a mustache. Something about his pale face looks familiar. But there's something in all the dead soldiers I've seen today that looks familiar. Maybe it's how surprised they all look—their eyes opened wide or eyebrows wrinkled—like they didn't really expect today to be this bad.

“Cyrus,” I say, and reach into my satchel for the tobacco. “I got you some—”

Before I can finish, Big Jim falls to his knees. He grabs the black-haired Yankee's shirt and buries his face into his chest. He starts crying loud, painful sobs that shake him and the Yankee's body.

And it hits me why the Yankee looks familiar. He looks like Big Jim and Elmer. This must be John Mark, their older brother, who didn't believe in the secession and went to fight with the North.

I've seen a lot of fear and death today. But seeing Big Jim clutching his brother brings tears to my eyes. I take a step toward him to pat his shoulder when all of a sudden he jumps up and runs to the other dead Yankee leaning against the house and starts screaming and punching the corpse in the ribs.

In an instant, Cyrus is behind him. He seizes Big Jim's collar and yanks him away.

“Leave me be!” Big Jim cries.

But Cyrus doesn't leave him be. He spins Big Jim around, throws his arms around his shoulders, and hugs him tightly. Big Jim fights against Cyrus, hits him a few times hard in the back. But Cyrus doesn't let go. He just squeezes harder until Big Jim finally sinks onto Cyrus's shoulder and begins weeping again.

I step over to the dead Yankee's battered corpse. I guess Big Jim blames this kid and all the other Union soldiers here for going to war over the secession and causing John Mark to make a choice. Fight for his brothers or fight for his country. I'm glad I'll never have to make a choice like that.

Just as I'm about to turn away, I notice a scrap of paper clutched in the Yankee's hand. I kneel down and start peeling his rigid fingers from the paper. It's an envelope.

When I work it free, I see scrawled on the envelope the name Sarah. It's not sealed, so I open it carefully and take out the page. It's dated July 14, 1861. One week ago today.

Now, this reads like science fiction. I mean, the guy writes like he knows he's going to die. Like he's already dead. As I keep reading, though, the letter turns from strange to simply sad. First, the guy tells his wife he's ready to die for his government, for his country. That he feels a debt to all those men who have died before him to make the country great.

But then he says he knows his death will mean sorrow for his wife. That he's glad to have spent so much time with her, but that he will miss being with her and watching his sons grow up.

By the time I read his last sentence, I am crying.

From the look of his wounds, he never got the chance to whisper her name. You never see this part in the reenactments, with all their dramatic cries of anguish and overacted death scenes. This is a real man who gave up everything for his ideals, for his country. But why did this man's wife, Sarah, have to suffer for this to come true? Surely there was a better way to make America great than for thousands of men to kill each other in Mrs. Henry's front yard.

I have to keep my back turned to Cyrus and Big Jim so they can't see the tears trickling down my cheeks. Can't let them catch me crying over a Yankee I don't know. I fold the letter, put it back in the envelope, and slip it into the soldier's pocket. Maybe a friend will come back and find him and know how to find Sarah. She will want to read it.

As I kneel beside Sullivan, a shadow falls over us. I look up to find Edward, the black man who took care of Mrs. Henry, standing over me. Sweat drenches his bald, shining head and he is wiping mud and dirt off his hands with a handkerchief.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My house,” he replies.

And I know where I've seen this house before. This is the Robinson House. I've seen it in pictures in history books, but only its foundation survives to the time my family visited the field. And the man staring into his muddy black hands must be Mr. Robinson, a freed slave.

“You're Mr. Robinson,” I say.

This gets him looking up. “How you know that?”

Before I know what I'm saying, I hear the words come from my mouth. “Because I'm not one of them.”

I'm not sure what I mean, and I don't know if Mr. Robinson does either. But he nods as if he understands and keeps wiping his hands.

I ask, “How is Mrs. Henry?”

He shrugs. “Soon to be in the ground. I just dug the hole.”

I don't know if I should or not, but I reply, “I'm sorry.”

He nods again.

“Does she have any family?” I ask.

“Just her son,” he answers, “ever since our father died.”

This sounds strange. “Our?” I ask.

“Me and Missus Henry's,” he says.

Now I am totally confused. “But that means she's your sister,” I say. “How, if you're, well . . . and she's, like . . .”

He spits into his hands and keeps wiping. “My momma was Mr. Henry's housekeeper and when I was born I was his slave as well as his son. But his daughter, Judith, she never treated me like a slave. She treated me like a brother. Now she's gone too.”

“And that's why you were freed when your father died,” I say.

He just shrugs again. “Suppose so, but the problem is Jacob. Mrs. Henry owned him and treated him all right. I don't know what'll happen to him now.”

He picks up his shovel and walks back toward the remains of Mrs. Henry's house.

I want to call out to him not to worry. That Jacob—and all the other slaves—will be free in just a few years when the war is over. But he would just think I was crazy.

“Thank you, ma'am, thank you very much,” I hear Big Jim saying.

I turn to see Ash again. She's bent over John Mark's body, wiping the blood from his face and closing his eyes. I imagine she's done that many times today. It's the first time I really stop to think that she's been through stuff that may be even worse than what I've had to do.

She pats Big Jim on the arm and stands up. I walk over to meet her. Cyrus gives me a look and turns back to Big Jim.

“How are you?” she asks with this real intense look on her face.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Tired, really. Real tired. You?”

“Yeah,” she says. “The same.” She looks around, down at Sullivan, at John Mark and Big Jim. “War sucks.”

I want to take her hand, but I can't bring myself to do it. “At least we made it,” I tell her. “At least we won.”

She looks up at me again. “I'm not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

She turns and points down the lane. At first I can't see what she's talking about. Confederate soldiers are still walking down the turnpike in the direction of the retreating Yankees.

“I don't . . .” I start, and suddenly see it. The black hat . . . the voice . . .

Crap. Dupree.

“Well . . .” I say. “The battle's over. The South won, just like it should. Which means we won. So . . . uh . . . what else can he do?”

But even as I say it, I don't quite buy it. And by the look on her face, neither does Ash.

We watch as Dupree moves from soldier to soldier. He's walking straight and talking loud and doesn't sound at all like a guy who's been beaten. Just when it seems like we've survived this mess and can go home, he wants to keep fighting. I'm tempted to just let him go. I watch as he kneels down next to a wounded Confederate and see the pistol strapped to his ankle. The Weapon. The Tempest. I think about what I wanted to tell Mr. Robinson. About the war being over and Jacob being free.

I just can't imagine it. I just can't imagine Jacob growing up as a slave. Heck, I haven't even really accepted the fact that he's a slave right now. It's too crazy to think about.

“If my father's this excited . . .” Ash says.

I finish her thought. “We're still in trouble.”

“So,” Ash says.

“So,” I say. “Once more into the brink.”

“I'll see what I can do to help,” she says. “Just remember, don't blow that bugle without me! You could be my ride home.” And she runs off to tend to a soldier with a big gash in his leg.

I walk back to Cyrus.

“Looks like something's up,” I say, pointing at the soldiers. “You're not going to miss out, are you?”

“Heck, no,” says Cyrus, but his grin isn't quite as wide and crazy as usual. He stands and grabs his gun. But Big Jim stays kneeling beside his brother. Cyrus pats Big Jim's shoulder.

“Be back soon, my friend,” Cyrus says. And for the first time today, Cyrus looks like he may actually cry.

But his eyes dry up before we're ten steps down the road. We mix in with the soldiers clustered around Dupree.

“Battle's not over yet, boys. There's a couple of Yankee big shots down there. Come and help me round 'em up.”

I do the last thing in the world I want to do and pull my hat down and join them.

The Battle of Bull Run may be over, but Dupree's still fighting. And so is his daughter—so I guess I am too.

DUPREE DOES a pretty good imitation of an officer. Somehow the soldiers around me are calling him “colonel,” and the act is good enough to fool a lot of the other soldiers we pass. We had fallen behind the first battle line, but Dupree prods many of the stragglers and scavengers into following him.

We start marching east toward Bull Run. In the distance we can see that the Yankees are crossing a small stone bridge—
the
Stone Bridge, as it will one day be known.

Union troops still hold the bridge and Union artillery booms from the stream's far bank, keeping the Confederates from crossing over and harassing the Yankees as they flee back to Washington. But even from where we stand half a mile away, we can see that the Confederates aren't the only people slowing the Union retreat.

In the history books I've read, all the attention is on the soldiers and the fighting. Occasionally the books mention other stuff like the supply trains—hundreds of wagons, pulled by teams of horses and stretching for miles, which carried the soldiers' food, ammunition, tents, medical supplies, and artillery. But I never knew much about them.

Until now. Now that I'm seeing a supply train I realize what a slow-moving nightmare it is. Particularly if the road isn't clear. And right now, it's not.

In the way are a bunch of the Northern officials—senators, congressmen, businessmen, and their wives. This morning they took carriage rides from Washington to Manassas to see their army destroy the Rebels, and with them, the Confederacy. They didn't expect that the Rebels would do the destroying. Now they are all trying to escape back to their homes along with the soldiers. And the road is one big traffic jam.

“There we go, boys, easy pickings!” shouts Dupree, and he picks up the pace.

We keep marching, and by the time we get to the main pack of Confederate troops, the Union fire has slacked off. The traffic jam has straightened out a bit and the Union artillery is being pulled away. The Confederates don't start chasing them again, though.

I know they should, because this is one of the South's best chances of crushing the Union army and winning the war.

Dupree knows this too.

“Keep on their heels, men!” he cries. “Let's teach them to stay out of Our Land!”

More and more soldiers are joining Dupree now.

By the time we start to cross the bridge, there's like a thousand of us. Cyrus and I are somewhere in the middle of the pack and we have to walk three to a row to squeeze across the narrow bridge.

On the other side is a field of corn, probably as tall as me, with the road running through it. The retreating Yankees are still within our sight, most of the Confederate officers are giving orders to capture wounded Yankees who can't keep up with the retreat.

But that's not what Dupree has in mind.

“Who gives a flick about these men?” he says as a line of exhausted, limping Yankees marches by under guard. “We're after bigger game . . . And there it is! C'mon, men!”