Ashby whispers in my ear, “I don’t know what he’s doing, but you’ve got to stop it. Please, Stonewall. Hurry!”
Ash crouches low and scurries away down a corn row.
I jump to my feet and run fast up the hill toward Cyrus. He’s planted the Confederate flag almost at the top of the hill by an ammunition cart and is now heaving against an artillery piece. I fall in beside him.
“Glad you could make it,” he says.
I don’t answer, just push. Or at least pretend to.
“Wheel them around!” I hear our officer shout, his white face finally showing some color.
About a hundred yards below us on the other side of the hill is the right flank of the Union line. Now we can do to them what they were planning to do to us. As we turn the cannon around, the history of this moment flashes into my brain. The Confederates did capture the Union artillery, but they didn’t have any artillery men as part of the charge. The Confederates never knew how to load and aim the guns, so once they fired the guns already loaded they had to retreat back to their line.
Now I see I’m right. Once we get the cannons turned around, Cyrus and the others are puzzled at what to do next. I’ve seen it done at the reenactments a gazillion times, but I’ve always been too busy complaining about the noise to find out how it all works.
One soldier tries yanking one of the horse harness chains still strapped to a cannon. Another dimwit actually sticks his arm down a gun’s barrel to feel if it’s loaded with a shell. He’d make a good reenactor.
From the ammunition cart behind the cannons, Cyrus picks up a ten-pound iron shell and heaves it through the Parrott’s muzzle. But he has no clue where to load the powder and detonate the gun.
“Cease fire!” our officer suddenly commands even though not one of the guns has been shot. “Cease fire!” he shouts again. “That’s what they’re for.” And he points back to the cornfield.
Out of the stalks march twelve Southern soldiers, muskets on their right shoulders, led by another officer. Only when they reach us, stack their muskets, and deploy two men to each of the six cannons do I recognize the new officer’s bushy blond sideburns and a fat belly. He was the other one that Dupree approached . . . the one who Ashby must have seen with her father.
Now I see. Dupree knows all too well this part of the battle. So he’s made sure this time the Confederates have people who can work the Parrott guns.
As I watch the new troops methodically load and prime the artillery, I get the feeling I’m still missing something. Why would Dupree do this? He and I already know that the South wins this battle. Whether it happens with or without the Parrott guns shouldn’t really matter. Should it?
Down below the hill, General Jackson’s men have begun an assault of their own. They have pushed the Yankee line back to Mrs. Henry’s house, but are now pinned down themselves. A few volleys from our artillery could clear the way for General Jackson to crush the Union line once and for all.
I look back to our guns and brace for their blasts. A few seconds pass. But nothing happens. I look to the artillery officer, expecting him to order his men to fire. But he’s not even facing them. He’s holding to his eye a long old-fashioned brass telescope—at least, it’s old-fashioned looking to me.
“Do you see him?” our pale-faced officer asks.
The fat one shakes his head.
“But he said he’d be right there by the house.”
“I know what he said!” the fat one snaps. “But maybe he doesn’t know everything. I mean, who can say for sure where someone would be at any particular time on a particular battlefield? Especially with Sherman.”
Cyrus glances at me. “Who the heck is Sherman?”
Sherman? I’m too surprised to answer Cyrus. Not sure, man. Sherman! Ash had been thrown off by the officer’s thick Southern drawl.
I’d forgotten that Sherman was here . . . no, is here, at Manassas. Of all the Yankees, William T. Sherman is the one most hated in the South. Later in the war, he will burn and destroy much of the South—houses, schools, crops, cattle, most of Atlanta, anything on his “March to the Sea” as it’s eventually called—as part of a plan to crush the spirit of the Confederates back home. Even I don’t like him. He is a terrible man with a terrible job ahead of him. But I also know it’s a job that needs to be done for the North to win the war.
Dupree must know he’s down there somewhere. So he’s gotten these two Rebel yahoos to capture the guns that can do the job: Scout Sherman out and kill him. And if Sherman goes, so does one crucial piece of the Union puzzle that will one day win the war. Who knows? Maybe like a domino game, his fall leads to other Yankee losses.
“Got him!” says the artillery officer, peering through his telescope. He’s standing next to the artillerymen’s musket stack, and the other officer steps quickly to his side.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Durn sure I’m sure,” the artillery officer replies. “He was in my class at the Point.” He hands off the scope. “Look for yourself.”
While his companion looks, the artillery officer barks orders to his men—coordinates, range, altitude. Any moment they’ll have a lock on Sherman, or as close to a lock as Civil War cannon can have.
The science fiction scenarios tumble through my mind. I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything today to change the outcome of the battle, the war. But what am I supposed to do when someone else wants just that—a different ending? Let it happen?
Seriously, what am I supposed to do, shoot the officer? How can I shoot a real live person? But what if that person is unknowingly going to change the world, let the South win and all the crap that comes with that? No, I still can’t shoot him. But what? Step in front of their guns? They’d either yank me away or just blow me up. I can’t overpower the whole battery by myself.
Sweat drips down my face. I look behind me. The stack of muskets! Maybe I can grab a couple of muskets and sneak off somewhere and fire them and create some kind of diversion that’ll bring the others running and stop them from doing what they want to do. It’s not much, but . . .
Wait a second. Just beyond the stack of muskets, I see what I need.
Quietly, I take a step backward. Another and another. The eyes of all the other Confederates around me are down below, looking in the direction of the big guns. Three more steps and I’m at the ammunition cart. I grab the staff of the Confederate flag and pull it out of the ground. I carefully climb onto the cart. Standing about four feet above the heads of Cyrus and all the others, I’m now the tallest point on this hill. Still none of the Confederates see me—I hope to God some of the Yankees do. I take a deep breath, thrust the flag high up in the air and start to wave it.
The two officers standing to the left of the six guns are gazing at the enemy below. “Ready, men!” I hear the artillery officer yell. The last gun grinds into place. “Aim!” I see Big Jim and Elmer put their hands to their ears. I wave my flag as hard as I can. The artillery officer raises his hand.
BOOM!
The earth shakes and I fall to the ground. Fire and smoke envelop us. Chunks of dirt and rock land on my back. I look up to the officers. Where they were standing is now a gaping hole from an artillery shell. The nearest gun to them is a twisted mass of metal. The rest of our men are alive but on the ground. They look like drunks as they stagger back on their feet.
Only Cyrus seems collected. Through the smoky haze, I see him scrambling from soldier to soldier. He pulls them to their feet and hands them their guns again. He’s pointing down the hill and yelling at the men to get into a battle line.
The smoke lifts. I look to where Cyrus gestures. A determined horde of Yankees is charging up a lane right at us. An officer urging them on, they’re coming to get their cannons back. Whether they saw my flag or had already seen us, or were simply doing what my history books say they actually did, I don’t know. A small part of me hopes it was my flag. But a bigger part—the part that remembers the Yankee shell hitting our t
wo officers—hopes I had nothing to do with it.
The Yankees get closer and closer. Our artillery guys still look dazed. They’re also unarmed. The shell that killed the officers also obliterated their muskets. They take one look at the advancing enemy, one look at each other, and bolt toward the cornfield, disappearing into the stalks.
“I guess it’s up to us,” Cyrus says. “I was hoping for a chance to shoot off one of these. True, I’m not sure exactly how to go about it.”
Cyrus, Big Jim, and Elmer stand over one of the cannons. For a second they look like some of my neighbors staring into the engine of a pickup truck. Cyrus holds a smoldering stick.
“Maybe if you light it here,” I hear Elmer say.
Cyrus touches the stick to where Elmer points. Nothing happens.
I try to estimate the number of men coming at us. Two hundred maybe? Five hundred? A glance at our line and it’s obviously more than us.
“Uh, Cyrus, the Yankees are getting closer,” I say. “Lots of ’em.”
Cyrus glances at me. His face is almost black from gunpowder, and he’s bleeding from a scrape on his scalp. But his eyes are steady as they look at me. He smiles.
“Good,” he says, “the closer the better. I’m not sure exactly how to aim this thing either.”
Suddenly Elmer screams and falls to the ground. He clutches his arm. Blood pumps from a bullet hole, his white sleeve turns scarlet.
“I’m not turning yellow, Cyrus,” I say again, “but they’ve got us outnumbered. Let’s leave all this and get Elmer some help.”
“Are you kidding? At this range we can’t miss!”
“But we don’t even know how to fire—”
BOOM! Cyrus’s gun recoils. Smoke gushes from the barrel. Somehow he’s figured it out. Or maybe he accidentally touched the fuse. He grins. But the shot zooms right over the Yankees’ heads. Now they are within easy musket range and they open fire on us. We dive for cover. No chance we can even get off another shot.
“Come on,” I plead. “They’re going to get these guns one way or another. If we make it back to our line we can keep fighting!”
This idea appeals to the others, especially since Elmer is starting to turn pale from loss of blood. Cyrus reluctantly agrees. We take off back the way we came. At least this time we’re going downhill. Elmer can barely run, so Big Jim half carries him.
We plunge through the cornfield and make it back to our old line, where we collapse into a small crater created by an exploded shell. Big Jim screams for an orderly to take care of Elmer, but there doesn’t seem to be one around.
I turn to look for Cyrus. He’s gone. I look back the way we came.
Oh, no.
He has stopped halfway down the slope and is standing straight up in the middle of the cornfield, his red head and shoulders sticking out like a balloon over the crop. Good grief! He’s loading his gun! Bullets whiz by all around him, cutting ears of corn from their stalks.
“What are you doing?” I scream, but he can’t hear me.
I watch in horror as he takes aim and fires. The advancing Yankees have now reached the cannons we just abandoned and are wheeling them back around at us. What can Cyrus possibly do all by himself? He must be crazy!
I see him start loading his gun again. I have no choice. I run back into the open to get him. A bullet buzzes by my ear as I dive into the corn.
“What are you doing?” I holler when I get to him.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, taking aim again. I follow the line of his gun right up to the ammunition cart. He squeezes the trigger.
A huge blast erupts from the artillery. At first it seems like one of the cannons has opened fire on us. But when the smoke clears, I see I’m wrong. Cyrus must have hit one of the powder kegs, and now a fire rages from the ammunition cart. Two dead Yankees slump over one gun and others run away.
I look wide-eyed at Cyrus.
“Hated to leave all that powder for them Yanks,” he says. “You have to agree—that was a durn good shot.”
CHAPTER TEN
WE DIVE back into the crater with Big Jim and Elmer and lie still a moment trying to catch our breath. Just as we stop gasping, more bugles ring out over the battlefield. I peek over the crater’s edge. A brigade of Yankees has just joined the Union line by the Henry House.
I turn to warn the others, but Cyrus is crouched over Elmer. Elmer is lying on the ground, his face white and eyes rolling into the back of his head. I thought he was just grazed in the arm, but now I see that the shot practically amputated him at the elbow. His sleeve and the right half of his white shirt are drenched in blood. I wonder if it really matters if he makes it to the doctor. From what I know about battlefield medicine, he doesn’t stand much of a chance.
All of a sudden, Cyrus jumps up.
“Get down!” I yell. Cyrus has his back to the enemy and is scanning the rear of our line. Without warning he starts jumping up and down and waving, as if he’s trying to be the target of the entire Union army.
“Cyrus!” I cry as I hear bullets buzzing overhead. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is where he gets the butt shot. But just as quickly, he’s back on the ground beside me.
“Big Jim, I can see a nurse just back of the line a bit. You’ve got to get Elmer out of here,” says Cyrus as he finishes tying off a handkerchief around Elmer’s arm in a vain effort to stop the bleeding. “He’s not up for this.”
Big Jim doesn’t move, just lies stretched out next to Elmer.
“Go on, Big Jim,” Cyrus says again.
Big Jim looks up at Cyrus. Gunpowder has turned his face just about as black as his hair and wiry beard, but now I see tears trickling down his cheeks, leaving clean streaks where they run.
“You don’t think . . . that John Mark could have done this?” he says, more of a statement than a question.
Cyrus tries to smile. “He ain’t that good of a shot, Big Jim. Now go.”
Big Jim slings Elmer’s good arm around his neck and begins to stand. He doesn’t make it far. Big Jim’s leg buckles and both men crumple to the ground.
“Big Jim, what the . . .”
And now we see it. Blood seeping up Big Jim’s shirt from his waist. Cyrus pulls up Big Jim’s shirt to see where a bullet has struck his hip.
“I’ll be okay,” Big Jim gasps. “Just a scratch.”
Cyrus whips out the flask from his back pocket and gives it to Big Jim. Big Jim raises it like he’s toasting Cyrus and takes a long swig.
“Whoa!” Big Jim gasps. “Some strong stuff, Cyrus.”
“Can you walk?” Cyrus asks.
Big Jim nods. “I can walk. I just can’t carry.”
Cyrus slips under Elmer’s other arm. “Stonewall, take Big Jim’s place.”
Big Jim gently lifts his brother’s arm and places it on my shoulder. My legs buckle, but I hold on.
“C’mon,” Cyrus says, and we start moving toward the rear.
Confederate soldiers pass us heading to the firing line.
“We’ll be back with you in a minute, boys!” Cyrus tells them.
Yeah, we certainly wouldn’t want to get too far away from all these lovely bullets.
Maybe it’s a lull in the battle, but it gets quieter with every step we take toward the rear. We come to another hole in the ground that’s been gouged out by an explosion and carefully lay out Elmer. Big Jim collapses beside him. I hit the ground too, but Cyrus stands back up and waves his arms to something or someone farther back.
“I got ’em,” he says. “They’re coming.”
Before I can ask who, two black kids scurry up with a stretcher between them. I hardly notice them because right on their heels is a nurse.
Ashby.
She kneels beside Elmer and starts wrapping his wound. Cyrus backs away to let her work, but not me.
She leans close to me and whispers, “Good job. Dad was furious when the Yankees got the guns back.”
I don’t say anything. My stomach is all tw
isted and my eyes keep seeing the hole where the two officers stood. Did I do that?
She glances at me. “You okay?”
I try to nod, to look soldierly, whatever that means. Instead I feel tears on my face. “Yeah, I’m fine. But those two officers died back there.”
Ash looks away and ties a knot on Elmer’s bandage. “I’m sorry, Stonewall.”
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve so it looks like I’m just wiping away sweat. “Let’s just say it wasn’t the greatest idea I’ve ever had.”
“But it worked, didn’t it? My father will do whatever it takes, so we have to do whatever it takes too.”
Suddenly Big Jim lets out a yell. We look, and the two stretcher bearers are trying to pick him up.
“Not me,” Big Jim snaps at them. “Him.”
The boys look at Elmer. “He’s dead,” one boy says.
“Not yet,” says Big Jim. “Get him, nigger.”
Did he just say the word—the N-word? Shocked, I look up at Big Jim. But I don’t think he even realizes he’s said something awful. Neither does Cyrus and neither do the two boys . . . I guess they’ve heard it all their lives.
But Ash looks at me and I can tell we’re both feeling the same thing.
The boys reposition the stretcher beside Elmer, who now lies still. Only the jerky rise and fall of his chest proves he’s alive.
I move out of the way so the boy closest to me can grab Elmer’s feet. I look into the boy’s straining face and am surprised to recognize him.
“Jacob,” I say.
The boy glances at me.
“Jacob, how did you—”
“Move, boy!” Big Jim shouts.
“Look, Cyrus,” I say. “It’s Jacob.”
I can’t explain to Cyrus or anyone why I’m excited to see Jacob. Maybe it’s because he seems about my age. Maybe because he, like me, has been living this boring life, minding his own business, doing what he’s told until suddenly waking up this morning to find himself in the middle of a huge battle.
But Cyrus clearly doesn’t seem interested. “Who?” he asks. “Who cares? Move it!”
Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run Page 9