Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run by Sam Riddleburger

our ranks. With him are two other officers—the two officers that Dupree has been talking to! They seem to be plotting strategy, but before they’re within earshot, they salute General Jackson and gallop away.
    But no one watches them go. All eyes are on General Jackson as he canters by. He looks beyond us to the line of Union soldiers stretching from either side of Mrs. Henry’s house. Their line seems to lengthen every minute as more reinforcements extend it.
    As if he’s solved a puzzle, General Jackson nods and turns his attention to us. He scans every soldier in his sight. His eyes hit mine and a chill rushes over me. With his fierce blue eyes and wild black beard, he’s so scary I can’t believe he’s somehow going to become the hippy dude I met last night.
    He wheels his horse around.
    â€œMen!” he cries. “The fate of our new nation hangs on this hill! If we lose this hill, we lose our country! If we hold it, we gain our freedom!”
    He pauses and the field is silent, as if the Yankees also wait for his words.
    â€œWhat will it be?” General Jackson at last declares.
    â€œFreedom!” the soldiers yell. Their red, grimy faces are twisted in pain or pleasure, I can’t tell which as I study them. Everyone, that is, except Senator Dupree. I spy his blackhatted self down the line, stroking his goatee and nodding at the manic men on either side of him.
    Now General Jackson nods too. “Then let us defend it.”
    As if the Yankees have heard all they want, a voice erupts from across the field.
    â€œCharge!”
    A drum beats, a bugle blows, and the Union line begins its advance. Behind them, their artillery continues blasting shells over their heads and into our line.
    At once, orders from General Jackson’s officers ripple down the army. The men around us begin to pepper the Yankees with cannon and musket shot. This checks their momentum, but they don’t retreat. They don’t duck for cover or hide behind trees either, while they shoot. They simply stand in line and open fire on our line, which is also standing, unprotected, and firing at them.
    I’ve seen reenactors do this before—stand in formation as they aim their muskets at the reenacted enemy, fire, reload, aim, and fire again.
    But this . . . good God! How do they just stand there, taking turns being the hunter and hunted? These men may be untrained, but the bullets whizzing by their heads might as well be flies. I try to shield myself behind this beast of a dude, his shoulders as wide as a refrigerator. Cyrus is to his right. He’s reloading and looks over his shoulder at me. I act like I’m reloading too, even though I haven’t even fired a shot yet. He just shakes his head at me, takes aim, and fires again.
    I know who the winner will be, but it doesn’t seem obvious from where I’m standing. Peeking around the refrigerator’s side, I see the Union line growing longer on either end. I look to my left, to the end of our line. The Yankees have more men there. It’s only a matter of time before they surround us.
    Suddenly I see the familiar dark goatee and big hat of General Bee. On his horse, he motions with his sword for his brigade to get in a battle line. He scans the men on both sides of him and raises his sword. The odds are long, but he is going to attack the Yankees before they get the chance to encircle us.
    I can’t hear his voice over the chaos of the battle, but as his sword drops the troops charge.
    â€œRally, men!” someone close to me shouts. It’s a Confederate officer, a tall, thin guy with a pale face and circles around his eyes. I recognize him as one of the officers who Dupree was talking to. Sure enough, in a flash Dupree is at his side, his eyes darting from the soldiers who are gathering around the officer to a piece of paper in his hand. I work my way next to Dupree and see him look from the paper to a hill about a