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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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 wher
e 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.
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.
Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run Page 4