Gunfire rings in my ears.
“Second line…Fire!” Major Helston, our commanding officer, yells above the noise.
I squeeze the trigger of my musket and…nothing happens. I try again.
Poof. Gunpowder bursts in my face. A rotten-egg smell stings my nose.
“Flash in the pan,” my cousin Sean says near my ear. Trust him to know the 1812 name for a gun misfire.
According to the rules for this phony battle, a soldier whose gun doesn’t fire is a dead soldier. I glance behind me, hoping Major Helston hasn’t noticed my firing fail. But there he is, stepping out of the smoke like a devil in his red British officer’s uniform. His rust-colored cheek whiskers flare out like flames on either side of his face.
“Soldier!” He lifts a beefy finger and points right at me. “You’re dead!”
I clutch at my chest as if I’ve been shot and drop to the ground. This is so lame. Sean steps over my body as his line advances. I groan as if I’m not quite dead yet and shift position, trying to trip him. Instead, I snag his foot, and he kicks me in the ribs.
“Serves you right,” he says as he marches on without me.
I lie on the field as the rest of my battalion marches forward. Musket smoke rises around me, and I can’t see if there’s anyone else on the ground. I’m sweating in this hot uniform. There’s no shade, and it’s got to be ninety degrees out here. The grass under my cheek is dry and prickly, and a rock jabs into my hip. I think an ant is crawling up my pant leg. Why did I let Sean talk me into this?
When Sean invited me camping with him in Canada this summer, reenactment camp was not what I had in mind. His family has an RV, so I thought we’d be at one of those big campgrounds with a swimming pool and miniature golf…and girls. And showers. And Internet access and electricity for recharging my phone. Although it doesn’t matter that we have no electricity and no Internet, since Major Hell Storm confiscated all our phones and devices. Because, of course, soldiers in 1812 did not have electronics.
There wasn’t much I could do once I got to my aunt and uncle’s place in Toronto and found out where Sean planned to drag me. I couldn’t turn around and go back to Syracuse. My parents had already left for Switzerland and their big European cruise.
“It’ll be fun, Jason,” Sean had said. “Like laser tag, but with muskets.”
Right. At least with laser tag the guns work. And I’ve never had to spend the whole game lying on the ground dressed like an idiot and sweating like a pig. Sean didn’t mention the War of 1812 soldier uniforms until after his dad dropped us off at Old Fort Erie, and it was too late for me to back out. We don’t even get to wear the proper red coats (for the British and Canadian soldiers) or blue coats (for the Americans) until the big battle at the end of the week. Instead, we’ve all got baggy white shirts and white pants with suspenders. They call the pants breeches, and instead of a zipper, they have a flap with buttons. Kind of like the style pirates wore, I guess. But without the cool factor.
I peer through the smoke, trying to make out the lines of play soldiers. Something bumps my foot. I look up past a pair of black officer’s boots and see a long tanned hand reach down through the smoke.
“On your feet, soldier,” orders Lieutenant Gunner, our second in command.