Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run

by Sam Riddleburger

  Cyrus is starting to go faint, his face pale and eyes droopy. I’ve got to plug up the wound, but I’ve used up all the rags Ash left.

  That’s when I remember the neckerchief. That stupid, super-nerd, Boy Scout reject neckerchief that my parents made me wear, which, by the way, I haven’t seen ANYBODY else wearing today in the real war.

  I ball it up, pour the rest of the whiskey on it, and stuff it in.

  This is way too much for Cyrus. He screams again.

  I remember my gym teacher’s favorite bit of advice. I think it might actually work here.

  “C’mon,” I say, “walk it off.”

  It’s a struggle, but I get him up. He leans on me while I wrap strips around his butt as best as I can.

  We start moving. Man, it’s going to be a long walk.

  Cyrus gasps and groans with each step. We stagger back toward the stone bridge. I need to get him to the field hospital. I’ve done as much as I can, but how are we going to make it that far? I’m not sure I can go that far by myself, much less dragging Cyrus. But I can’t leave him.

  We’re almost to the bridge when a figure suddenly appears from the shadows beneath it and runs toward a low rock wall to the north. The figure is crouched so low to the ground that I barely notice it. It disappears behind the wall for a second, then jumps over the wall and starts running across the field toward the retreating Yankees.

  “Jacob!” I cry out.

  He whirls around with a look of surprise.

  “It’s me, Jacob,” I call. “Please help us.”

  He seems to stand frozen forever. As if he’s stuck in the mud and can’t get out.

  “Jacob, please,” I call again, as Cyrus’s body starts to crumple to the ground. “I can’t hold him anymore.”

  Still he doesn’t move. What is he doing? I need help!

  Jacob glances toward the Union army and back again at the stone bridge. Now I see what he’s doing. He’s not just some kid running across a bridge and through a field. He’s a slave trying to escape. Trying to make it to the Yankees. To his liberators. To freedom.

  “Forget it! I’m sorry!” I yell quickly. “Just go! Go! Go!”

  But it’s too late. A unit of Confederates—new arrivals who haven’t seen a bit of action yet—begins to cross the stone bridge. There must be two hundred of them in a long column.

  Jacob runs toward us and slips his head under Cyrus’s other arm.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

  I look at Jacob, but his face is blank and cold. He could have been halfway to the Union army by now. He could have had a new life and I ruined it.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again, but by now we’re at the bridge. The column of troops parts, and together, Jacob and I bear Cyrus across Bull Run and head for the hospital.

  “Hang on, Cyrus. I can see the stretchers now. We’re almost there.”

  Up ahead is Wilmer McLean’s barn. The wounded lie in rows on the ground beside it, waiting their turn for the surgeons inside.

  Cyrus blacked out just after we crossed the bridge and has been dead weight for most of the mile we’ve trudged. But I haven’t stopped talking to him the whole way, if anything just to keep me going. Jacob hasn’t said a word, not even when we passed Mr. Robinson’s house a little ways off to our right and up a hill. I saw the old man standing on his front porch with his hands on his hips and I waved as best I could without letting Cyrus fall. But he didn’t wave back. He just watched us walk past.

  I told Jacob he should go, but he didn’t even glance at the old man.

  Still, despite my bayonet wound—and how many guys at my school could claim that?—and the fact that my legs and chest burn from carrying Cyrus, for the first time today I feel kind of relieved. Cyrus has his butt shot, but I’m hopeful I saved his life, and that I haven’t caused too many problems for the future.

  Sure, we’ll have to deal with Dupree back in the present, but at least his chance of mucking up history is over. Mission accomplished. My work here is done. I’ve still got to figure out something to do for Jacob, but all in all, I feel pretty good.

  Until we stagger into the field hospital.

  Bloodied soldiers lie all around us. Loud screams come from inside the barn. Stacked up outside the barn door is a small pile of amputated legs and arms. A man drenched in blood emerges from the barn’s dark interior bearing another bloody leg while two others, who are hoisting a stretcher with a wounded soldier, pass him on their way to the surgeons inside.

  Jacob and I lay Cyrus on his stomach on the ground in line with the other wounded. His pants and the back of his shirt are soaked with blood. I turn his head to the side to make sure he can breathe. Now all I can do is wait. I’ve done all I can for Cyrus. My head spins and I collapse to my knees and puke until there’s nothing left to come out.

  An orderly comes up and holds a canteen to Cyrus’s mouth. The orderly pulls down Cyrus’s pants a bit to inspect the wound.

  “The bullet’s already out,” I say.

  “That’s good,” the orderly says. “He’ll be all right.” He looks up at me. “Is he your kin?”

  “He sure is,” I say.

  The orderly nods to Jacob, who hasn’t moved or said a word since being relieved of his burden. “Is he yours?”

  Of course we’re not related, I almost say, until I realize what he meant. “Oh, no. He’s nobody’s. I think he’s free now.”

  The orderly makes a nasty sound. I guess it’s a laugh, but it’s an ugly one. “Well, he ain’t free no more,” he says, clamping his hand on Jacob’s arm. “We got plenty for him to do. Let’s go, boy.”

  “Wait!” I cry. The orderly looks curiously at me. I should have said Jacob did belong to me and then later tonight try to help him escape. I’ve got to do something. But all I can think of to say is, “His name’s Jacob.”

  The orderly looks at me even more strangely. “So?”

  He begins walking off with Jacob in tow. I want Jacob to at least turn around so I can say good-bye.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Jacob,” I call after him. “I’m glad you were here.”

  But Jacob doesn’t even turn around. The orderly yanks his arm and they disappear into the shadows of the barn.

  I sit at Cyrus’s side the rest of the afternoon, waiting for his turn in the barn. The orderly left a canteen for us and every few minutes I hold it to Cyrus’s lips and let some water trickle out.

  From time to time, Jacob reappears from the barn carrying amputated limbs or toting in another wounded soldier. I see him out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t look at me and I don’t look too long at him. I managed to prevent him from doing the one thing he really wanted to do—escape. But hopefully what we did today will help lead to his freedom in a few years.

  I try explaining all of this to Cyrus as we wait, but he’s still passed out. After I say everything there is to say about Jacob, I tell Cyrus stories about the craziness of my father and his reenacting friends. How they spend most of their weekends traveling to Civil War battlefields and wearing old, scratchy clothes and sleeping on the ground. I tell him how half of the reenactors are so out of shape that they must stop after a few minutes of marching to catch their breath and eat a snack. I tell him about how the reenactors aim their muskets above the heads of the “enemy.”

  And I tell him that if they could see what I’ve seen today, and what I’m seeing all around me right now, they would never dream of spending their weekends reenacting it.

  The sun is setting behind the hills and a gray duskiness settles along the green fields. The smell of tobacco fills the air and campfires spark all around me as soldiers start boiling their coffee.

  Finally, two orderlies appear with a stretcher and place it beside Cyrus. I’m glad Jacob isn’t one of them. As they lift Cyrus onto it, I realize I won’t see him again. It is time for me to go back and I want to say good-bye. But he is still out of it.

&n
bsp; I think about writing a quick note, saying I am proud to be his great-great-great-great-nephew, but he’ll just think I’m crazy. I reach into my pockets for something to leave with him and feel the five packets of McLean’s tobacco I’d bought for him. I slip them into his pockets and pat his back.

  “I hope this makes us even,” I say. And the orderlies carry him away.

  I stand up, gaze around the field one more time, and unsling the bugle from my shoulder. Darkness is falling and the campfires sparkle like stars across the fields. I hold the bugle to my lips and feel relief that the cool metal quickly blazes with heat.

  Without even thinking about what to play, I begin to blow the slow, mournful tune of taps.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “UH, TOM? Here’s your bugle back.”

  I’m standing at the entrance of Tom’s Emporium on Sutler’s Row. It’s dark now and the stars are out. Inside the tent, a lantern glows. Tom’s face flickers in the orange light. He puffs on a pipe. The tobacco smells sweet—too sweet for me. Exhaustion hits me, my head reels, and I start to faint.

  In a flash, Tom is at my side. “Whoa, son,” I hear him say. He catches me with his good arm and helps me into his tent. He sits me down on his folding chair. Its coolness revives me. I open my eyes. Tom gives me a nice smile, a sympathetic smile.

  He takes the bugle from my fingers.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that to you, Hinkleman, but I’m too old to go back and so are most of these reenactors. I needed somebody smart, somebody who might pass for a regular soldier, and somebody who knew the stakes.”

  It takes a second for this to sink in.

  “So you knew what the bugle would do?” Now I’m not feeling faint. I’m feeling mad. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have been killed! I could have . . .”

  “I know,” says Tom. He actually looks a little ashamed as he stares down at the bugle. In the lantern light, I see that the bugle has lost its shine. Once again, it’s just a dirty, dented horn. “I’m sorry. But you seemed like a smart kid who could keep out of trouble.”

  I pull my T-shirt up to show him the gash on my chest from Dupree’s bayonet. I hold out my hands so he can see the bloody bandages over my palms. “It’s not so easy keeping out of trouble in the middle of a freaking CIVIL WAR!” I yell at him. “I’m lucky I’m not dead.”

  Tom puts down the bugle, reaches back into the old trunk, and takes out a small plastic box with a big red cross on it. A first aid kit.

  Even with just one arm, he easily unwraps my nasty bandages and pops open the kit.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask, still ticked off.

  He tears open an alcohol swab with his teeth. “One thing I do know about is wounds,” he says. “Hold on, this’ll hurt.”

  The alcohol burns like crazy. And this is just for a couple of scrapes on my hand. Now I know why Cyrus passed out. But Tom doesn’t seem to notice. In just a few seconds, I’ve got antibiotic ointment and sterile bandages over my cuts.

  “Probably could have used some stitches earlier,” he says, “but too late now. You’ll have some nice scars.”

  He looks up at my face. “And it looks like you got off better than Dupree. Ambulance showed up a couple of hours ago and took him away.”

  I can’t help but grin a little. “Yeah, Cyrus did that!”

  “Who?” Tom asks.

  I picture Cyrus being carried into the barn, and just as quick my smile fades away.

  “My kin,” I tell Tom.

  Tom pats my leg. “You’d better start from the beginning. Tell me everything that happened, especially everything that involves Dupree.”

  Tom listens to my story. I tell him everything—about Cyrus and Big Jim and Elmer. About everything Dupree did and didn’t do, and everything he wanted to do. I tell him about how I came across an unexpected ally in Ashby.

  “So that’s who was with Dupree in the ambulance,” Tom interrupts. He strokes his beard. “Yes, that makes sense now. Ashby . . . as in Turner Ashby—very possibly the craziest officer I ever ran into. But don’t you see, Stonewall? Too many people think this war was just something that happened in the past. But it’s not just the past. It is our present too, and our future. It marks all of us today as clearly as you two are marked by your names—Stonewall and Ashby.”

  He gives me a wink. “And you certainly could have found a worse-looking ally.”

  I’m glad it’s dark in the tent, because I feel my face blush. I go on with my story, about the captured cannons and Mrs. Henry and Mr. Robinson and Jacob. I mention General Bee and notice that Tom tears up. He completely believes the whole story. I know every other person alive would think I’m crazy, but he’s actually smiling when I finish.

  “Well done, young Stonewall. I knew you could do it. I knew you’d be smart enough to stop him.”

  “But don’t you think I messed things up? I mean, I wasn’t supposed to be there. I could have changed history!” Jacob comes into my mind. I bow my head and whisper, “I did change history.”

  Tom looks genuinely upset. “You mean Jacob?”

  I nod.

  Tom is silent for a moment.

  “This is war, Stonewall. And there’s always sacrifice in war. Perhaps you did change history. Perhaps for the better. Perhaps for the worse. I remember that after the battle several slaves were shot while trying to escape. Maybe one was your Jacob. Maybe you saved his life.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve never read anything about that before.”

  Tom shrugs. “It’s not in any books. I’ve just got a pretty good memory.”

  I try to take comfort in this. Maybe the Confederates on the stone bridge would have shot Jacob as he ran toward the Yankees. It’s tough to say. Tough all around.

  “Believe me, Stonewall, all people—be they from my century or your century or the century of Jesus Christ himself—have at least one regret for something they’ve done in the past. I know I do. After seeing all I’ve seen, what this country has become and what it could have become had the war turned out differently—Dupree’s way, if you will—I regret I took up arms against the country I had sworn before God to defend. But I’m lucky too. With your help, I actually have a chance to redeem myself. And my country.”

  “There are things in the present worth fighting for in the past,” I say.

  Tom nods. “You at least understood that much.”

  He takes a lemon from his pocket, holds it in his mouth, and with his good hand flicks open a knife and cuts the fruit in two. He offers me half and this time I take it. The sourness floods my mouth.

  “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would you have believed?”

  “Good point,” I agree. “But why me?”

  Tom spits out some pulp and tosses the rind to the ground. He looks at me, cocks his head, and gives me another wink.

  “Let’s just say I recognized you.”

  “But I’ve never seen you at another reenactment.”

  “You’re right about that,” Tom says with a grin. “It wasn’t at a reenactment. It was somewhere a bit more . . . ah, authentic, shall we say.”

  It takes a second, but when it hits me I almost gag on the lemon. “You mean from the war! From the battle! You remember me from the real battle!”

  He holds the smile for a second, but it fades and his eyes go hazy. He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. Finally he whispers, “I told you I had a pretty good memory.”

  I feel my face go hot again. “I made such a fool of myself.”

  Just as quick his blue eyes light up. “Don’t you ever say that again! You did good. Real good. As good as any man I ever commanded.”

  We stand in silence for a moment.

  “Thanks, Tom,” I say. “I mean, uh, Stonewall.”

  Now Tom looks down. “I’d rather you call me Tom,” he says. “I’ve always hated the name Stonewall.”

  Ditto that.

  “So the question is, my young conscript . . .” Tom says.<
br />
  “So I’m still a conscript?”

  He holds out the bugle.

  “Not anymore. You’re a soldier now. The question is, will you fight again if our country calls?”

  The morning is bright and warm as my parents and I pile into the car to ride home. I immediately lay my head against the back window and close my eyes. But I still can’t go to sleep.

  I couldn’t sleep at all last night after coming back, even though the moonshine-drinking yahoos at the next campsite were passed out before midnight. Events from the day kept playing in my mind. Finally, I grabbed a flashlight and spent the rest of the night retracing my journey through the Battle of Bull Run. Here is where I met Cyrus. Here is Mrs. Henry’s house. Here are replicas of the Union cannons we captured. Here is the foundation of Mr. Robinson’s house. Here is the stone bridge.

  At least now I don’t have to ask my father where Uncle Cyrus got shot. Last night, I stood where it happened, and wondered if Cyrus survived.

  I wonder that still.

  Trying not to sound too sarcastic or strange, I ask Dad, “What happened to our uncle Cyrus after Bull Run?”

  He looks at me through the rearview mirror with this curious expression on his face. It’s like he’s waiting for a wisecrack, so I try to stare back as innocently as I can—something I don’t have much practice at.

  “Like we’ve told you a dozen times before, he’s cited for bravery in the Official Records by none other than your namesake, Stonewall Jackson himself!”

  “Right,” I say. “For the Battle of Bull Run.”

  “Bull Run?” Dad says. “You sure you’re feeling all right? You mean the Battle of Antietam?”

  Antietam! That was in 1862 . . . a year after Bull Run!

  “Yes, sir,” Dad says. As if reading aloud, he says, “ ‘Sergeant Hinkleman assumed command of the company and staunched the enemy’s advance until the arrival of reinforcements . . .’”