Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run (6 page)

The general begins shouting long before he gets his horse stopped.

“Quick, boys, are you Evans's men? Where is he?”

“Holding a position at the top of that hill, sir,” answers Cyrus.

“Wait!” Cyrus cries as the rider spurs his horse to keep galloping. “He's sent us with a message. Are you General Bee?”

“Yes, yes, of course, for God's sake hurry!”

Cyrus hands him the scrap of paper. I blurt out, “Colonel Evans can't hold the hill. He needs more men or he has to retreat to Henry Hill.”

“What hill?” General Bee asks.

That's right. It's not named Henry Hill yet. The naming of things comes after the fighting. I point to Mrs. Henry's house.

There's a flicker of defeat in General Bee's eyes. He wasn't looking for more bad news.

“Miller, ride back, warn Capshaw!” One of the riders spurs his horse into a tight turn and gallops off.

“Anything else?” Bee asks us.

“Do you want us to take Colonel Evans a message, sir?” asks Cyrus.

“No, I'll go myself!” shouts Bee, and spurs his own horse across the stream and road we just crossed and races toward Evans's men, who even now are retreating down Matthews Hill.

“Come on,” Cyrus says. “The battle is going to reach this spot any minute. We've got to help the old woman!”

 

Even though the hot July sun burns brightly outside, inside Mrs. Henry's house is dim and gray as we step through the front door.

Sweat drips from our faces as we lug the old woman into the parlor. Mrs. Henry's face shines with sweat too, but her skin is so white from sickness or fear—I'm not sure which—she looks like a wet piece of marble. We lay her down.

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret,” she wails. The two women rush inside and lean the muskets they've been carrying for us by the door. Margaret comes forward to take Mrs. Henry's hand.

After being outside all day I can barely see in here.

“Where's the light switch?” I ask.

The other woman gives me a puzzled look. She goes to the window and swishes aside a curtain. Sunlight streams inside.

Right. No electricity. No lightbulbs. Just sun. Mom and Dad would love this place. Real authentic.

“Her bedroom is this way,” says Ms. Margaret, and she starts climbing a rickety staircase.

Upstairs. Of course it is. Cyrus goes first and I have to raise my end to keep Mrs. Henry level so she won't slide off the mattress. She's heavier than she looks.

“Jacob!” the other woman calls. Out of a dim corner comes a black kid about my age. He wears raggedy overalls and no shoes. He glances at me as he takes one handle of the mattress and I'm surprised to see that, even in the house's dim lighting, his eyes are the greenest I've ever seen.

“Thanks,” I say.

He looks confused and just as quick, his eyes dart back to the ground. At first I think he's shy. But halfway up the stairs it hits me. He's not shy. He's a slave. At my school, we could be on the forensics club together, but here in 1861 he's just a slave.

We hoist Mrs. Henry into her room. Her room has a dresser, a big bowl that must be a washbasin, a wooden chair in one corner, and a low bed in the other. A Bible sits on a small table next to the bed.

Out the window I can see the Confederates retreating across Young's Branch and up Henry Hill. Across the turnpike in the hay field, two solid lines of Union soldiers are advancing.

We carefully ease the mattress onto Mrs. Henry's bed.

“Ohhhh,” she moans. The women arrange her black dress and pull a blanket to her chest. Her white knuckles clench the blanket.

“She's got the fever,” says Ms. Margaret.

The other woman picks up the washbasin. “Jacob. Go get some water and towels.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the boy says and leaves the room.

“And send word for your father,” she calls after him.

A voice rumbles from the stairway. “No need for that.”

I turn to the doorway. Materializing out of the stairway's darkness is a tall black man—another of Mrs. Henry's slaves, I assume. He is bald and seems old too, judging by the wrinkles in his face. But his walk is strong and steady as he crosses the room to Mrs. Henry's side. The two other women step aside to let him pass.

“What you need now, Missus Henry?” he asks.

She holds out a trembling hand to him, which his large hands seem to swallow.

“Edward. Edward. They're coming.”

A high-pitched scream rushes through the air. A crash rocks the house, knocking everyone but the black man to the floor. He almost goes over but bends his knees and sways like he's on a tossing ship, and he's able to steady himself.

Cyrus and I crawl to the window.

“Durn,” he mutters.

The Confederate army is now almost to the house. Crossing the turnpike at the foot of Henry Hill is the Union army. Far behind it, on top of Matthews Hill, clouds of black smoke rise from half a dozen Union artillery guns firing cannon-balls right at us, like Mrs. Henry's house has a giant bull's-eye painted on it.

Several more explosions shake us. We look down and there below us, Confederate cannons are starting to fire at the oncoming Yankees.

“Mercy!” Cyrus shouts. “Have you ever seen such!” I elbow him and we both turn around. The women are still lying facedown on the floor, crying and hugging each other so tightly they look like one big mass of clothing and hair. The black man, now sitting on the edge of Mrs. Henry's bed, gazes at us with wide, unblinking eyes.

Jacob stumbles into the room carrying a large basin of water that he sets beside Mrs. Henry.

“Oh, Jacob, thank you,” she says weakly. “It's such a comfort having both of you here.”

Jacob smiles, but it's not a real smile. It's fake, like one he's practiced for a play.

The black man dips the towel in the water and places it over Mrs. Henry's forehead.

“I'll stay with Missus Henry. Y'all get on to the McLean place where it's safer,” he says to the two women. He looks at Cyrus and me and adds, “Or wherever else you ought to be.”

The two women go down the stairs first. Cyrus follows at a gallop.

I'm perfectly fine where I am. I've got four walls around me that are at least strong enough to stop a bullet. Maybe I could squeeze myself under her bed to be on the safe side.

“Get,” the black man says. It's the second time I've heard that word today. Must be something in the air.

I look at him. His eyes are fierce, glaring at me.

I take a deep breath, get to my feet, and bolt for the door. I spin around to look for a final time at Mrs. Henry. I know that any minute now, a bullet or maybe an artillery shell is going to crash into her room and kill her. (So maybe this isn't the safest place to be!) She is supposed to be the only civilian killed in this battle. But I don't see how the black man is going to survive if he stays at her side. Maybe because he's a slave the history records won't count him as a person.

He's still holding Mrs. Henry's hand in one hand, but his other is on Jacob's shoulder. They look at each other for a long moment. The man nods and Jacob runs past me so quickly I can't tell if it is sweat or spilled water or tears on his cheeks. The man glances at me a moment and turns back to Mrs. Henry.

Another shell hits the house. Cyrus is probably already outside. I don't want to go back out to the battle, but I can't stay here. I know this place is going to get hit, and hard. Besides, there is nothing left to do for Mrs. Henry. She is going to die, but at least we got her back to her room.

I head down the stairs and out the door, and find that the battle has caught up with us.

CYRUS IS already in the new Confederate line of battle that extends out from either side of Mrs. Henry's house. Our artillery has stopped the Union troops cold. (I'm going to say “our” while they're keeping me from getting killed!) At the bottom of the hill, the Yankees are hiding behind the trees along Young's Branch to form a new battle line in the turnpike.

But they're not going to be pinned down long. Yankee reinforcements pour down Matthews Hill, while above them more Union artillery begins firing at us.

Maybe now's a good chance for me to bid Bull Run good-bye. It's been great, folks! The bullets, the slaughter, little old ladies scared to death!

Reenactments have never looked so good.

There's a wood of cedar trees about a quarter of a mile to the rear. Nothing but an open field separates me from its shelter—and promise of escape.

I step down from the porch to the yard and start walking away from the house, away from the Confederate line. Cyrus and everyone are all looking the other way, down the hill at the Yankees. I try to act casual in case anyone's looking.
Don't mind me
. . .
just taking a nice summer stroll through a battlefield
. . .
nothing to see here
. Just a few more steps and I can run for it.

“Stonewall!” someone calls. I can't keep myself from looking back.

It's Cyrus.

He's leaning on his musket and talking with two men—one tall and gangly, the other short and squat like a tree stump. Both are older than Cyrus, have curly black hair, thick beards, and pale faces that don't seem to smile often. They're both wiping blood off their faces.

Somehow this doesn't seem like a real classy moment to slink away and hide under a log. Reluctantly, I join them.

They're loading their muskets as I come up to them.

“There you are,” I say when I reach Cyrus's side.

“Get ready, my friend,” Cyrus says. “The Yanks are upon us, but here we'll make our stand! Once more into the breach!”

The two men beside him roll their eyes and shake their heads.

“This here's Big Jim and Elmer,” Cyrus tells me. “They're brothers, live close to my daddy's farm back home. Boys, this is Stonewall Hinkleman.”

Big Jim takes aim down the hill. “Didn't know you had kin, Cyrus,” he says, his finger on the trigger. He fires and a cloud of smoke hides his face. Elmer does the same.

Cyrus scratches his head. “I haven't figured that one out yet, Big Jim.” Cyrus grins. “He's kind of hefty for a Hinkleman, but he moves pretty quick when he needs to.”

Big Jim and Elmer don't answer. They're busy reloading, and even though I know the basics, for the first time in my life I really pay attention. Forget all the junk about flanking maneuvers and sidearm shift and which side is right or wrong. I need to know how to really load this thing!

First, they tear a packet of powder with their teeth and pour the powder down the gun's barrel. They take the ramrod from the musket and pack down the powder, then drop in a round metal ball. They cock the hammer and set a firing cap under it.

Now they're ready to shoot—all in just fifteen seconds!

So when they pull the trigger, the hammer will strike the cap . . . which will shoot out a spark . . . which will touch off the gunpowder . . . which will fire the ball out of the gun . . . which, considering the technology of the early Civil War musket, will have a decent chance of hitting someone if they are less than a hundred yards away.

How on earth am I going to remember all that?

Big Jim and Elmer look down to the road at the foot of the hill, where the number of Yankees has grown so large they make the road look like a raging river. They sigh a deep breath, aim, and fire.

I look to Cyrus, who eagerly plunges his ramrod down the barrel. “What's wrong with them?” I whisper, though my ears are so shot I must have yelled, since Big Jim and Elmer both look at me.

Cyrus doesn't answer right away. He takes out a flask from his hip pocket, pops the cork, and takes a swig. Moonshine, I'd guess, by the smell of it. The fumes almost choke me from three feet away.

He offers me the bottle. I shake my head. He shrugs and shoves the flask back into his pocket. He glances at Big Jim and Elmer, who have gone back to reloading.

“Their big brother could be down there,” he whispers back.

“Brother? With the Union? But why isn't he up here with them?” I pause, then add, “With us?”

Cyrus shakes his head. “John Mark went up north to college a few years back. Now he says he don't believe in the secession. Don't think the South has the right to do it. He always was too durn stubborn for his own good.”

Before he can go on, a Union drummer begins to beat and the Yankee soldiers step into Young's Branch.

Cyrus aims and fires.

“Just missed,” he hisses.

Big Jim and Elmer raise their guns too, and fire. But their faces don't shine like Cyrus's when they pull the trigger.

Now two hundred yards in front of us, the line of Yankees rises up Henry Hill like an ocean tide, firing as they go. Bullets whistle above my head and plunk into the ground in front of me.

To my right, a big guy with shaggy sideburns raises his gun. If he was a reenactor, his gun wouldn't have a musket ball. It would just be full of powder so that it would
sound
like a real gun but not kill like one. And still he would aim well above the enemy's heads because, as Dad always preaches, “Even gunpowder firing from the barrel can hurt somebody.”

Apparently, authenticity has its limits.

But this guy aims low, so he's sure at least to hit a Yankee in the leg or stomach. I wait for the blast, the shroud of smoke. Nothing happens. Suddenly the man falls forward face-first to the ground. The green grass under his head turns dark red.