Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run (15 page)

He starts us running toward a small group of soldiers. They've captured a small, balding man with a white goatee. He looks like a butler, dressed in a tuxedo with long black coat-tails.

“Help! Help!” he cries out. “I am a United States congressman!”

A big, red-faced major has a gun leveled at his chest. “And you're still a prisoner of war,” he declares.

“Then why are you firing at me?” whimpers the congressman. “A poor old unarmed man? A civilian?”

“That was a mistake,” the major answers. “Now come forward and you will be shown honor.”

“Honor?” bellows Dupree as he runs up. The major turns around. “This man has no honor and we owe him none! He'll keep fighting until he's in his grave. So take your best shot, soldier.”

He slaps Cyrus on the back. Cyrus raises his gun, but hesitates.

“Just shoot him, sir?” says Cyrus.

“Yes, soldier,” barks Dupree. His imitation of a real, blood-thirsty colonel is a little too good. Even so, Cyrus still doesn't pull the trigger.

“Don't do it, Cyrus,” I whisper. “It's wrong. For a whole lot of reasons.”

“What's that, soldier?” snarls Dupree.

I'm terrified that Dupree will recognize me, but I can't back down now.

“Uh, there are rules about prisoners, aren't there?” I say, “I mean, you can't just kill them.”

“He's right, sir,” says the major, “I can't allow this prisoner to be shot. There are rules to war.”

Dupree nods again to the major. “Rules, you say?” His voice is soft. It's the grandfatherly voice. He's campaigning now. This is when he's most dangerous.

“Perhaps today there are rules. But what about tomorrow? Next month? Next year? What about at Antietam when our blood will turn red the road beneath our feet? What about two years from now at Gettysburg when they will butcher thousands of Pickett's men on the field? Or the next year at Petersburg when they blow up a mine they've dug under us?”

Dupree turns around, his arms wide as if to take in all of us who are listening. “We have a chance to end this war now!” he says, his voice now sounding like the preacher. “We kill this man, this”—he glances at the congressman and snarls—“this politician, and the invaders will know we are serious. Deadly serious. The Yankee Congress will lose its will and they will give us what we seek. Freedom!”

Dupree finishes and everyone is silent. I can't tell whether they're in awe of him or just trying to figure out what the heck he's talking about. No one moves as Dupree takes Cyrus's musket. He aims it at the congressman, who has taken shelter behind the major.

“Step aside, major,” Dupree says. “And let's see if we can end this war today.”

Dupree's preacher voice has done some kind of Jedi mind trick on the major. He steps aside like he's in a trance. The congressman is an easy target. Nobody else is going to help him, obviously, but I'll be durned if I know what to do.

Maybe I can try some kind of professional wrestling move on Dupree. Or club him in the head with my musket. Yesterday I couldn't imagine doing something like that. But . . .

A clattering of hooves rings out from the stone bridge behind us. The major shakes his head as if to wake up.

“What is going on here?” the horseman calls.

Everyone turns, including Dupree. Reining to a stop is a man with a hawk face, bright eyes, and red, brushed-back hair. In place of a uniform, he wears a long gray coat and polished leather riding boots. He looks familiar. But I don't recognize him until Dupree kneels and whispers, “Your Excellency. This is truly an honor.”

Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America, leaps from his horse and grabs the awestruck Dupree by the shoulder and stands him up.

“Please, please, please,” President Davis says. “This isn't England and I am no king. A simple ‘Mister President' will do just fine.”

Turning to the major, President Davis asks, “Now what is amiss here, major?”

“I had this here civilian prisoner in my custody, sir. He'd surrendered.” With a nod toward Dupree, the major adds, “But he makes a pretty good case for shooting him.”

President Davis looks down to where the congressman is struggling to get back to his feet.

“Alfred?” President Davis says. “Alfred Ely, is that you?”

The congressman stands up and wipes the dust from his white pants. “Aye, Jeff. It's me.”

President Davis sticks out his hand and the congressman shakes it. I realize that of course the two men know each other. Before the war, Jefferson Davis was a United States senator from Mississippi, I think. He and Alfred Ely both served in the Capitol in Washington, D.C. They probably attended the same parties and worked on the same laws. Now they are enemies.

“Are you in the Union army?” President Davis asks the prisoner. “Or did you come down from Washington to see the show?”

“Aye,” Congressman Ely says. “There were a bunch of us.”

“That I can see,” President Davis says. He looks far down the road that leads back to Washington. A mile away, the few thousand Yankee soldiers still able to fight are formed in a line of battle facing us. Behind them, hundreds of carriages carrying the various officials and civilian spectators dash down the road.

“I suppose your party didn't anticipate this development,” President Davis says.

Congressman Ely nods and blushes, his face genuinely pathetic.

President Davis puts his arm around the congressman. “Well, Alfred, you're going to have to come back to Richmond with us, but I will make sure you are well attended.”

He turns to the major. “Major, the congressman is yours.”

The major takes Congressman Ely's arm and leads him away.

By now a crowd of a couple hundred soldiers has formed around us hoping to see President Davis. He raises his fist in the air and the soldiers erupt in cheers. I feel a tingle run across my skin as well.

“Gentlemen!” the president shouts. “The war is over. We have won the field. The day is ours.”

Another burst of cheers goes out. Even I clap a little, because it really is cool to see in person this guy you've had to read about all your life. Dad would be going freaking nuts right now.

“Lead us on, sir! Let's chase 'em all the way to Washington!” cries Dupree.

“That hardly seems necessary,” replies President Davis calmly as he turns to mount his horse.

Dupree grabs his shoulder.

“This is not the end but the beginning!” he rumbles. “We need to destroy them now!”

But his campaign voice isn't working on Davis.

“What's this?” President Davis snaps, swatting the hand away.

Under the glare of the president, Dupree falls to his knees again, but quickly remembers himself and jumps back up.

“I'm sorry, sir!” Dupree sputters. He doesn't seem to know what to say. His face is flushed, eyes popping in rage. He doesn't look like the slick politician, but a raving lunatic struggling to keep his cool.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he repeats, “but you are wrong. They will keep coming! We have won the field, you say? Unless we pursue them today, we will fight on this same soil a year from now. History books will call it the Battle of Second Manassas. And we will fight them at Fredericksburg, at Chancellorsville, in the Wilderness, and at Spotsylvania. We will try to bring the war to them at Sharpsburg and Gettysburg but we won't succeed and the war will come back to us. To Cold Harbor, to Petersburg, and finally to Appomattox. Along the way they will burn your crops, your barns and homes. They will destroy your cattle and steal your horses. They will confiscate your lands. They will throw you in a prison, sir, where you will stay for months before being released a bitter and broken man. And the rest of us will be left with nothing, sir. Nothing!”

Dupree is purple and spit flies from his mouth. Some of the soldiers seem moved by his speech, but Davis looks more annoyed than anything else.

“Yes, well,” Davis begins, but Dupree interrupts.

“But I can change all that!” Dupree's hand shakes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. The map! Dupree's raving hasn't accomplished much, but the map could actually convince Davis. Then things could really get screwed up.

Telling the future to a couple of low-ranking officers is one thing. But the president of the Confederacy . . . now here's a man who could use that information. And with it win the war!

I take a step forward. Another. A few more steps and I can grab the map from Dupree. I don't know what I'll do next—maybe rip it up or eat it like spies do in the movies—but I've got to keep Davis from getting it.

Dupree is unfolding the map. My heart hammering inside my chest, I get ready to make a grab for it.

But I don't have to. Before I take a step, President Davis turns his back on Dupree and mounts his horse.

“I am afraid there's no time today, soldier, for me to peruse your documents,” sniffs Davis. “Perhaps you could send them to my office in Richmond.”

Dupree opens his mouth to speak, but President Davis turns his horse toward the bridge, jostling Dupree, who drops his precious map in the mud.

“It has been a long but prosperous day, my brothers,” President Davis cries out. “Let us rejoice in it.”

He gives his horse a kick with his heels and gallops back across the bridge. The soldiers cheer.

Shaking with fury, Dupree stoops down to pick up the map, which the horse has stomped into a shredded, muddy mess. As the other soldiers disperse, I nudge Cyrus and we move closer to Dupree. His eyes still follow President Davis, who grows smaller and smaller as the road winds away until he disappears over a hill.

“But I know what will come, Mr. President,” we hear him saying. “And I can't rejoice.”

The minutes pass. The Confederates around us grow fewer as they head back over the bridge. Even the ones Dupree had rallied are turning away now. Davis himself said they were done.

Dupree hasn't moved, but he's no longer trembling and his face has gone from red back to tan. Cyrus elbows me to follow him back to the others, but I'm not moving. Not until I know what Dupree is going to do.

I take my time picking up my musket and adjusting my gear so that I don't look too suspicious to Dupree. But he's not paying attention to me.

“He wouldn't even look at the map,” mutters Dupree as he uses his sleeve to try to wipe off the mud. Suddenly he stops. He peers closer at the map, takes another swipe with the sleeve.

“Sherman,” he gasps. “Sherman led the rearguard!”

Dupree jumps to his feet. From his pocket he fishes out a set of binoculars and looks through them.

Cyrus nudges me. “What are those? I ain't never seen . . .”

“It's him! Sherman!” Dupree hisses. “This time I'll take care of him myself!”

He drops the binoculars and picks up his rifle. He takes off through the cornfield toward the retreating Yankees, staying low so he won't be spotted.

Cyrus turns to me. “Well? Can we go now?”

“Not yet,” I say. I grab Dupree's binoculars. Is it really
the
Sherman? The Yankee officers on horseback are about a quarter mile away. It's hard to tell from this distance, but one of them looks almost ugly enough to be Sherman. He's definitely got one of those jacked-up beards, but then again, they all do.

I turn to Cyrus.

“Come on!” I call. “We've got to stop him.”

Cyrus crosses his arms and sniffs. “What for?” he asks. “Far as I can see, if the man wants to shoot a Yankee, let him do it. Not exactly fair play, but better one of them than one of us.”

I want to scream, but there's no time. “Forget it,” I say. “See you later.”

Dupree is through the cornfield by the time I start running after him. But I can see he's already huffing and puffing from the run. His brain may tell him he's a soldier, but he's a reenactor in body. He's in even worse shape than my dad! He's only fifty yards away by the time I clear the corn.

Beyond him, on top of the hill, I see the Yankee officers turn and start to ride off toward the line of retreating Yankees. Dupree flops down on the ground and rests the barrel of his rifle on a rock to help him aim.

I look back, hoping that Cyrus has followed me. I really need him now, but he's nowhere in sight. It looks like it's up to me to stop Dupree.

I'm twenty yards away. My chest and legs burn as I scramble up the hill. Ten yards. I see Dupree pull back the hammer on his rifle. Sherman has one second to live.

“No!” I scream and throw myself on top of Dupree.

He rears up faster than I expect. He swings the rifle and the butt hits me in the chin. My head rings and all I can see are little dots of light as I tumble off of him.

“What the devil are you doing, boy?” he roars. “He got away! Do you know who that was?”

“Good,” I wheeze through clenched teeth. It feels like my jaw is broken. He kicks me in the ribs. Hard. I can't seem to catch my breath.

“What did you say, boy? You ought to be ashamed to wear that uniform.”

I can see again. I can see the tip of his bayonet pushing into the fabric of my jacket—pushing into my ribs. I can see pure hatred on his face. He pricks me again with the bayonet.

“What's this?” I hear him hiss.

I look down. His bayonet has pulled up my uniform to reveal a faded blue T-shirt underneath.

“What the—” gasps Dupree. He kneels down and yanks up the uniform to get a look at my shirt: “Are we having fun yet?”