Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run (4 page)

This is what we're waiting for now. Across the stream are maybe three hundred Yankees, a far cry from the thousands who actually attacked. Of course, the real Confederate army had ten times the number in our group. Real authentic.

“Can't you just feel it, Stonewall?” Dad whispers. He's wearing his “farmer's reenactment garb,” white shirt, home-spun britches, and straw hat, which is what most Confederates would have worn that early in the war before they got real uniforms. Real geeky.

Not that I look any better. For some reason, because I'm a bugle boy, Dad figures I would have had a uniform. So I've got on a hot and itchy pair of light blue pants and matching jacket with a yellow bandanna around my neck that makes me look like a Cub Scout reject. (Underneath it all is my trademark
Are We Having Fun Yet?
T-shirt—not much of a protest, but what can I say.) I've got this satchel over my shoulder that looks like a purse, which at least gives me a place to stash my Game Boy in case I get a chance to sneak away. Thankfully, the guys from school have never seen me in this getup. And hopefully they never will.

“Stonewall! I asked if you could feel it?”

Uh-oh, I can see he feels like bonding.

“What?” I ask.

He sighs and a dreamy look spreads over his face. “It feels like we're actually there. It's magical.”

Much more of this magical crap and I don't care what they do to me, I will not come back.

“Pardon me, gents,” says a voice over my shoulder.

Oh, great, just what I need to make the day perfect. Here comes Senator Dupree again! He barges in right next to me and starts combing his goatee and straightening his black hat. Now all eyes are on him.

“I'm feeling good about today, boys,” he calls out. “This war will be ours before the day is done.”

Well, duh, Dupree. It's not like we don't know that the Confederates win today, though saying the war will be ours is a bit much since they got their butt beat in the end.

He loads his rifle as well as this tiny little pistol that couldn't kill a rat, much less a reenactor. He holsters it on his ankle—the whole time yakking away about the destiny of the South.

Luckily, after a few minutes he wanders off. I hear him yammering as he walks the line. Reenactors nod as he passes. He reaches the very end of the line, but instead of stopping he keeps walking right into the woods, where he disappears behind a tree. Either he forgot to use the Porta-John or he's kinda creepy. Maybe both.

“Hi, Stonewall!”

I turn around to find Ash strolling toward me. It's pretty unusual for a female reenactor to be in this part of the battlefield, so everybody turns to look. I notice even a few Yankee reenactors watching. Some reenactors get all prissy, because she isn't supposed to be here. My dad is one of these people. I can practically hear him
tsk, tsk
-ing.

But she seems oblivious to the looks she's attracting. “Stonewall! Have you seen my dad?”

I try to act cool too, despite the neckerchief and a thousand other things that make me uncool. But I feel the glare of my father and all the others and can only manage a whisper. “Yeah, Ash, he went that way.”

I manage to cut my eyes at my dad and give Ash an eye roll. I lean closer and whisper, “I really hate this.”

Ash leans close to me and says right back, “Then why are you here?”

“What choice do I have?”

She puts her fingertip to her chin. “Well . . . you could
choose
to get shot as soon as possible. You could choose to require immediate medical attention and go to the hospital, where a particular nurse could choose to hang out with you the rest of the day.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” she says with a really nice smile.

Man, this could be the best reenactment ever.

Suddenly, the Yankee bugler blows and a drum starts to beat. Ash glances across the springs. “I guess that's my cue. Let me go find my dad real quick.” As she runs off she yells over her shoulder, “See you soon!”

I watch her run behind the line. At the end I spot Dupree, who's reemerged from the woods and is now kneeling on the ground like he's tying his shoe. No wonder Ash needs to keep an eye on him.

I look across the springs. In two long battle lines, one behind the other, the Yankees begin marching toward us.

Bring 'em on! Let's get this battle started! One shot! That's all I need to hear and I'm down. Down!

The Union guys are struggling through the stream.

“Stonewall!” Dad says. “Are you ready?”

Here we go. I look down our line to my left and see Mr. Harvey sitting on his white horse. Mr. Harvey has white hair and a long white beard and is playing Colonel Nathan Evans today. The real Colonel Evans, whose nickname was “Shanks” because his legs were so skinny, was the fierce Confederate commanding officer at that moment in the real Battle of Bull Run. Earlier that morning, the real Colonel Evans had figured out that a small Union attack three miles away was just a diversion to keep the Confederates from the real attack here at Sudley Springs. He was able to rush his troops to Sudley Springs just in time.

Mr. Harvey, our Colonel Evans, isn't so fierce. He really owns a dry cleaner's, has terrible breath, and legs that aren't even close to skinny. But he gets to play Colonel Evans every year because July 21 is his birthday. Happy birthday, Mr. Harvey.

Mr. Harvey slowly draws his sword. All the men in our line raise their muskets and aim them at the Yankees.

“Stonewall!” Dad snaps.

Oh yeah, the bugle. I'm so anxious to get wounded, I almost forgot. I raise it up, trying to look a little bit like I actually know how to use it. Suddenly I realize I never practiced playing it since Tom gave it to me. Now I'm definitely not feeling magical. The mouthpiece will be cold and I know I won't get a sound out. And I know that, to Dad, a poorly played
Charge!
will almost be as bad as me not having a bugle at all.

But when the bugle touches my lips I have to jerk it away because the metal is so hot. I look and see the dents ripple and smooth out. And the rust and dirt tarnishing the surface fade away, leaving the horn gleaming and spotless in the morning sun.

“Dad? Look at—”

“Stonewall! Shhhh!” he hisses. “Just be ready.”

“But Dad—”

Ringing out over the field is the voice of Mr. Harvey, who shakily points his sword at the Yankees and croaks, “Charge.”

“Now, Stonewall!” cries Dad. “Now!”

Without thinking, I put my mouth to the bugle. The metal is like fire. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and blow.

I'VE ALWAYS hated it in movies when somebody goes back in time and it takes them half of the movie to stop saying “I must be dreaming.”

No, you know right away.

At least I do.

A sunny, blue sky just a few moments ago is now filled with clouds. The short grass under my feet has become knee-high weeds and thistles. Scrubby trees have sprouted here and there.

The annoying hum of the interstate is gone, replaced by gunfire and screams. And louder than anything else—my own bugle blasting out a loud, clear note like I have never played before.

“Charge!” cries a voice. I look. Standing in the stirrups on a white horse is a wild-eyed officer with a kooky Amish-looking beard waving his sword over his head. It has to be the real Colonel Evans. It sure ain't Mr. Harvey!

Am I freaked out? Of course I'm freaked out. Reenactments may be boring, but at least they're predictable—pretend to charge, pretend to shoot, pretend to die. But there's no pretend about this. I can actually hear bullets buzzing over my head. I look down. There's a guy on the ground in front of me holding his bloody stomach and trying to keep his insides from spilling out. I throw up all that leftover soup I ate for breakfast.

I've got to get out of here. Out of this real battle and back to the fake one. Being with my dad's friends never seemed so good. But how, I don't know, and there's no time to stand around like a dipwad talking about dreaming. I've got to move or I'm toast.

Someone suddenly shoves me from behind.

“Look out, boy!” a big bushy-bearded man roars. He jostles past me, almost knocking me down. I turn around in time to see another man raising his rifle to push me to the side. “Durn fool!” he shouts. Behind him come even more men.

I glimpse another officer on horseback, waving his sword and shouting, “Move, men, move!”

They swarm past me. Eager and angry.

Instead of a bunch of pasty, middle-aged guys in costumes, this is a mob of tough, lean men. Real soldiers. Or at least real farmers in a real war. They look like they just dropped their pitchforks in the field, picked up a rifle, and came here to fight. Many don't have uniforms, they aren't marching in a straight line. And they stink. Body odor, and I mean bad. I am surrounded by men who have been marching for days without a bath or fresh clothes.

And they really want to fight! Each guy is pushing hard to get to the front of the line, like he wants to fire the first shot. Which is real inconvenient since I'm pushing hard in the opposite direction. Retreat! Retreat!

But I can't turn back. Another man shoves me and I stumble forward. I have to start running or the mass of men will trample me. Instead of the stutter-steps of the reenactors, these men really move.

In the middle of this pack of war-crazed soldiers, I can't see where we're going and I can't stop. At times we're pressed so close that I feel like I could pick up my feet and be carried along.

I hear a
crack, crack, crack
. The pack of men stops, separates. Between the shoulders of the men in front of me I see rank on rank of Union soldiers about seventy-five yards ahead. They've just crossed the stream, but they don't seem real organized either. They're clumped up in groups instead of one solid line of battle.

But they look like they want this too. And enough seem to know how to aim their guns and fire, because a couple of men in front of me suddenly crumple to the ground.

Watching them writhe in real pain, with real blood spurting out of real wounds, I realize I'm in real danger. I'm sure a bullet will hurt me just as bad as any of these men.

I'm still clutching my bugle. If it got me into this mess, maybe it can get me out. I put it to my mouth, but now the metal is cold. I give a little toot. Nothing happens. I blow harder. Still nothing. I try blowing
Charge!
again.

“You maggot spawn!” says a redheaded soldier as he slaps the bugle from my mouth. “We're already charging! Stop blowing that durn bugle and get ready to fight!”

He rushes on ahead, like the other soldiers around me. There's no real formation, no real direction. Soldiers scramble everywhere trying to get a good shot. Trying to chase after the Yankees, who I can't see anymore.

There's a huge explosion to my left. Dirt and pebbles sting my face and I fall to the ground. It must have been an artillery shell. I look to where it hit and almost puke. Lying just a few feet from me is a ripped-up soldier. His left leg is gone. I can tell right away that even in a modern hospital he wouldn't have much of a chance.

I crawl to him and try to hide behind his dead body for cover. His face is gray and speckled with dirt.

His eyes open, and I scream.

“Take my gun,” he wheezes. “It's loaded. Take it!”

The gun is as tall as me and feels as heavy, and I can't imagine being able to even aim it, much less shoot it. I sling the bugle over my shoulder and take the gun. The man closes his eyes. I don't move, but try to will myself deeper in the ground.

Suddenly I feel a pain in my shin. I open my eyes and the dead man's looking at me again. And kicking me with his one good leg!

“Get!” he snarls.

It's either get up or get kicked. I get to my hands and knees and crawl out of kicking range.

The rest of the Confederates have run past, but are now being pushed back toward us. I can see Union men in the swarm now. They have gone past the stage of firing guns. They're too close to take the time to reload. But they're not too close to use their bayonets. I've read all about this in Dad's books and I know a bayoneting is a bad wound. These blades attached to the barrel of a musket are designed to make you lose as much blood as possible, but I never knew it could be as bad as what I'm seeing.

Suddenly a Yankee is right on top of me. He's a freaking giant wearing a real U.S. Army uniform—a real soldier, not just some farmer with a gun. He's got an open gash running from his ear to his nose and is yelling his head off. I can't tell if he's angry or having the best day of his life. He stabs down at me with his bloody bayonet.

I roll just in time. The blade crunches into the ground an inch from my ear. I try to raise my gun. The Yankee's heavy black boot kicks it out of my hands and pins me down. He jerks the blade out of the ground and raises it for another strike.

The only thing I've got left is the bugle. I hold it feebly in front of me.

“No, don't!” I gasp. “I'm not really a soldier!”

He's not listening. He's laughing, his mouth twisting into a snarl. I close my eyes, brace for the bayonet.

A huge wet weight falls on my legs. I open my eyes. It's the Yankee. He's dead. Shot in the head. I look up to see the red-haired Confederate shaking his head at me. The guy who called me a maggot spawn. He looks at the bugle I'm still holding pathetically in front of me.

“Didn't I tell you to drop that durn thing and fight?”

I squirm out from underneath the Yankee. My pants are soaked in his blood.