Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run (5 page)

“You owe me one, brother,” he says. He crouches down and reloads his musket. “Didn't expect it to be so
intense
. That's the word, don't you think? And the noise! My stars! I've never heard so much in my entire life. Talk about sound and fury!”

He prattles away until a cheer from the Yankees interrupts him. We both look up and see away to our right a Confederate flag-bearer fall to his knees. He tries planting the staff into the ground as he falls. It stays upright and looks like it will hold. But a breeze topples it onto him, the flag draping over the bearer's dead body.

Thirty yards beyond the fallen flag, a Yankee crouches low to the ground and starts running for the flag. He obviously hopes to capture it and be a war hero, but before he takes five steps, the red-haired guy who has just saved me has jumped over a bunch of bodies, almost gotten shot, and picked up the fallen flag.

My new-found friend holds it up and turns to face the rest of our brigade. “Yeeeehaaaaaaaa!” he cries. His back to the Yankees, he waves the flag over his head, oblivious to the gunfire now aimed right at him. Bullets pierce the flag and one breaks the staff just above his hand. But he catches the falling flag before it hits the ground. Again he starts waving and whooping, and now many of the other men let out whoops of their own. They start to push forward again.

For a second it looks like they're winning. They're actually driving the Yankees back. But one look over their heads and I see that the Yankees aren't really retreating. They're falling back into a storm of Union reinforcements who are marching right at us. A glance down our line tells me that we are about to be swamped.

“Fall back! To the hill, men!” cries Colonel Evans.

Finally, an order I can live with. I jump to my feet and pick up the heavy musket. Everybody who is left turns and runs for a cover of trees at the top of a hill behind us. Everybody but that redheaded lunatic still waving the flag. He finally starts running with us when he realizes we aren't coming back. The battle has only lasted about fifteen minutes and already I'm exhausted. But those trees look like safety and I run as fast as anyone.

 

“Take cover!” cries Colonel Evans. “Reload and prepare to hold the hill!” He gallops on to the edge of the trees, where I guess he can see what is happening.

I don't need to see. I already know. Unlike all the real soldiers here struggling to stay alive, I know everything that is going to happen today. As crazy as it sounds, all that worthless information my dad pumped into me is now actually useful.

As I flop down beside some of the other men under the trees, I know that we are on Matthews Hill. General Bee will be here soon with some reinforcements, but they won't be enough. We will fall back to Henry Hill and there will be my namesake, General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson—though he hasn't gotten the nickname Stonewall yet. That's coming up soon.

I know that the battle is really just getting started. I know that by the end of the day, the Confederates will claim victory, but that almost a thousand men—maybe the men sitting next to me right now—will die.

I even know that my great-great-great-great-uncle will get shot in the butt, if he hasn't already.

I also know that I've got to get the heck out of here.

“Boy oh boy! Durn, this is something, ain't it?” someone says.

I look up. It's the redheaded guy again. He must really like the word
durn
. But he's grinning now. He has handed off the flag to someone in the color guard, and is reloading his gun while watching the Yankees at the bottom of the hill.

“Why did they make us retreat?” he mutters. “That was starting to get fun.”

I look up at him. His red hair is fiery against the gray sky. Up close I see he's only a few years older than me. I guess I just assumed all these soldiers were grown men, but this guy looks like he could be one of the high school kids who ride my bus. He's leaner than me and much taller, but he's still got a few pimples and could definitely use braces if not a whole new set of teeth, I notice, as he cracks a big, crazy smile while pouring powder down the gun's long muzzle.

Somehow knowing that he's a kid too makes what happened on the battlefield even more embarrassing. “Thanks,” I say. “You know . . . for what you did.”

He finishes loading and sights his musket. “You mean for saving your durn life?” He smiles. “Don't mention it. You'd do the same for me. You'd
better
do the same for me or I'll come back to life and kick your butt! Ha! Just joshing you, brother. That'd make a good story though. I got to write that down.” He drops his voice real low: “A man . . . haunted the rest of his life by the spirit of the man whose life he didn't save.
Oooooooooo. Double, double toil and trouble
.
Et tu, Brute?
Yes, I've got to write that down. What regiment are you from anyway? Ain't seen you before.”

This dude is seriously off the wall. Talk about ADD. He could definitely use some of my Ritalin. It takes me a second to realize he's asked me a question, which I try to dodge.

“Well, I ain't seen you before either,” I say, trying to match his accent.

“Good point.” He extends his hand. “What's your name?”

We shake. His hand is hard as rocks. “Stonewall Hinkleman,” I say and smile.

A surprised look shoots across his face. “Hot durn! That's the same as mine.”

“Stonewall?” I ask. Since Stonewall Jackson hasn't gotten his nickname yet, I figured I'd be the only one.

“Nah,” says the kid. “Hinkleman. That's me. Cyrus Hinkleman.”

The smile slips from my face. My stomach lurches.

“Whoa!” he says. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

I have.

IT'S GOOD that I have something to think about besides all the people I just saw get shot and stabbed. A few feet away from me, a young guy with freckles and blond hair is trying to load his gun, but his hands shake too badly and all his powder spills onto the ground. He tries to scoop up the black powder and pour it back down the barrel, all the while talking to himself. It's obvious all he can think about is dying, and he probably will.

Frankly, that's all that I've been thinking about so far. I've been mocking my dad and all his reenactor buddies for years. I should have been paying attention! Knowing about the Civil War isn't enough. I need to know how to
act
in it. Like what to do with this musket I've got in my hands. I'm glad it's already loaded, because after I fire that one shot I'm screwed!

But now my brain races in another direction. Thinking of bits and pieces of movies and science fiction books I have read. If there's one thing I've learned, you can't mess around in the past without messing up the future. One wrong step and your parents never meet, or you never get born, or apes rule the world, or Michael J. Fox has to play the guitar real loud.

Or your great-great-great-great-uncle survives the war's first battle and goes on to be Robert E. Lee's right-hand man and single-handedly destroys the Union Army two years later at Gettysburg, winning the war for the South.

Maybe that's a stretch. I don't think I've done anything yet to keep Cyrus from getting shot. I do feel like a jackass for all the cracks I've made about him. He seems like a real nice guy, and he's the exact opposite of a coward.

I mean, right now he's got this stone in his hand that he uses to sharpen these two knives that he keeps in a scabbard on each hip.

“Nice knives,” I say.

Cyrus flips one out of his belt, lets it spin in the air a couple of times, and catches it by the hilt.

“Is this a dagger I see before me?” he says, doing his crazy Shakespeare thing again. He could almost be one of those drama geeks from school. But then he says, “Not really a dagger, actually, a throwin' knife. And I got a pretty good arm, if you don't mind me bragging a little.”

He looks down the hill, to where some Yankees are gathered about a hundred yards away.

“Heck, I could probably stick one of 'em between the eyes from here. Well . . . maybe.”

Okay, so he's not exactly like the drama geeks. A little more . . . uh, violently insane. But . . . he did save my life.

Speaking of life-saving, my main mission is to survive this battle and get the heck out of here. The best thing I can do is run away, lay low, and try to figure out how to make this bugle take me back home.

I give the bugle a quick try. I bring it to my lips and play the first thing that comes to mind—the opening of “Dixie,” better known as the
Dukes of Hazzard
car horn song.

The metal stays cold, and I stay where I am.

“Whew,” says Cyrus, “you mean you been carrying that thing around all day and that's the best you can play it?”

Cyrus turns back to look down the hill at the Yankees who are getting into formation. No one's watching me. This is as good a time as any to slink away. I know the battle will pass this hill in a little while. Maybe I can just hide until everyone moves on. There's a fallen tree about twenty yards behind our line. If I can just make it to there, I should be able to sit out the rest of the battle. Then I can concentrate on getting back.

Just as I am getting ready to run, someone barks, “You two! I need two fast runners.”

“Yes, sir,” calls Cyrus eagerly, pulling me to my feet.

The order has come from an officer. It's Colonel Evans, and Cyrus seems anxious to please him.

“Our signal boys are missing,” Colonel Evans says. “I need you two to take a message to General Bee.”

“Yes, sir!” chirps Cyrus happily.

This sounds great. If I can't hide behind a tree, at least I'll be running away from the action.

But as Colonel Evans hands Cyrus the message, another thought occurs to me. “What happened to the other signal boys?” I ask.

Colonel Evans doesn't answer. From the look on his face, he doesn't have to. Those boys aren't missing. They're already dead. Messengers make easy targets for Yankee sharpshooters.

From where we're standing on Matthews Hill, Colonel Evans points out Bee's men. They're about half a mile away on top of Henry Hill, beside a two-story white building that has to be the Henry House. It might as well be thirty miles away. The land between the two hills is an open hay field. Separating the hills is a wide dirt road known as the Warrenton Turnpike and Young's Branch, a creek that flows into Bull Run. A brick house by the turnpike and a few trees along Young's Branch are the only protection from Yankee sharpshooters and cannons pouring fire on us.

It's hard to believe these guys had to go through this much trouble to send a message half a mile. I'm going to be really ticked off if I get killed because Colonel Evans didn't have a cell phone.

“Get going!” roars Colonel Evans. “You tell Bee to either send more men up here or expect us to fall back to that hill where he's standing. Now go! Go!”

Cyrus takes off like a freaked-out rabbit. I'm right behind him, realizing that the faster we run the safer we will be. I hope this isn't where Cyrus gets his butt shot, because then I'll be out there all alone.

 

For a moment, no one seems to be shooting at us. I look around as we run down Matthews Hill and notice that except for a stray cannonball every now and then, we aren't in the line of Yankee fire.

We scramble through the field and pass by the brick house, which I recognize as the Stone House from my many trips to the battlefield park with dad. We cross the Warrenton Turnpike and wade through Young's Branch.

Cyrus must be in good shape, because he's still going strong. Me, I'm panting and wheezing. The only time I've ever run this far was in gym class, and it took me the whole period to make it. But now I'm too scared to fall behind.

We come out of the trees lining the creek and start up Henry Hill when suddenly to our right we see two old ladies in dusty dresses carrying an even older lady on a mattress. They stumble. The old lady almost falls to the ground. She cries out, and I can see that all three women are terrified.

“What the heck?” says Cyrus, who is, of course, completely surprised by this. I'm confused for a second too, until it dawns on me it has to be old Mrs. Judith Henry.

I hesitate, not sure what to do. I know that Mrs. Henry, whose house sits on Henry Hill, is not going to live through the day. By pure coincidence, her house, out of the thousands and thousands in Virginia, is where these two massive armies fight their first battle.

“No, no, take me back to the house!” cries the old lady.

“But it's not safe!” says one of her helpers.

“Don't care!” says the old lady. “I want to die in my own bed!”

According to the history books, that's exactly where she does die. But as the two women struggle to pick up the mattress again, a stray shell hits the field by the stream. The explosion rattles our teeth and the two women scream, dropping the old lady a second time.

For some reason, this is the most messed-up thing I've seen all day. I always thought war was about the soldiers, not about little old ladies. Still, history is history. I'm sorry her final hours are going to be so crazy and scary, but if she wants to die in her own bed there's nothing we can do to save her.

I start running toward General Bee . . . only to find Cyrus running toward the ladies!

“Cyrus!” I yell. “It's not going to matter!”

He stops and turns to me with this strange look on his face. Suddenly, the women scream again and point behind us. Horses and riders head our way at full gallop. If they're Yankees, we're all dead. But no, I can see now that they are Confederates. As they come closer, I can see that one looks familiar, a general maybe, with a dark pointed goatee and broad-rimmed hat.