CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

TIM

 

 

FINALLY, it was happening.

We were lined up in a place called Bull’s Run. Row upon row upon row, all of us overheating in our crazy blue jackets, loaded down with ammunition, sweat lines dripping down our dirty faces. I spit out the fine Virginia dust that I breathed in through my mouth.

Canons were lined up to our left and right. The Cavalry was spread out between us. We numbered in the thousands, like a small city.

My heart raced as the general rode his horse along the front row, yelling who knew what. I totally understood the need for guys like Joseph now, and I pictured him somewhere near the back crapping his pants as he prepared to blow the signal to fire.

My rifle was ready, and I held it up to my shoulder with slippery hands. The Confederate Army was lined up in a similar fashion, maybe a half-mile away, waiting like we were. Everyone was so polite in this war. I wondered who’d be the first to call it.

“This is déjà vu,” the guy beside me said. “I fought in the first battle of Bull’s Run last year. We lost that one. I hope we do better this time.”

The rat-a-tat-tat of the snare drums reverberated across the meadow and my nerves shot off. The bugle sounded and some poor guy who had the unfortunate job of flag runner sprinted towards the enemy line with nothing but the Union flag in his hand. He was yelling his head off as he went, and I wondered how long it would take for him to be shot dead.

It went from zero to sixty in two seconds flat.

I fired off my musket, and the adrenaline rush almost flattened me. It took so long between shots to reload, I was certain to be hit before I could get off another. The air filled with gunpowder haze, and it burned my nostrils. My heart beat faster than the marching drums. Plumes of smoke rose up in indiscriminate places, and cannon balls landed and exploded, shaking the ground beneath our feet.

Men were yelling and screaming everywhere on both sides–pure chaos. If someone was in charge of this mess, you’d be hard pressed to tell who. Guys were falling to the ground, crying and bloodied. Those who were too close to be shot at were stabbed with bayonets.

I hurried to prep my rifle for another shot, my hand shaking as I poured gunpowder into the barrel, along with the wrapper and musket. I couldn’t beat it down with the ramrod fast enough. Right beside me the guy who’d had the déjà vu took a bullet to the head. Red drops of blood splattered outward, and his body crumbled to the ground like a heap of dirty laundry.

I shot off another plug, before I could puke, hitting someone who yelled out in agony before falling to the ground. I couldn’t be sure it was a Confederate man. The uniforms were too similar in color to tell, and the smoke and gunpowder blast made it hard to see.

James raced by me and I was tempted to grab his arm and pull him back, but his zeal to fight was stronger than my desire to save him.

Everywhere there were bodies on the ground. I pressed forward with the rest of them when another piece of Civil War trivia came to mind.

We lost this one, too.

I stepped over guys on the ground, not wanting to trample on anyone, dead or alive. But especially dead. Casey had been right, this wasn’t a game.

I got off another shot just as a man stormed at me, his bayonet aimed at my chest. I dodged him impulsively, the desire to live suddenly loud and strong, but I lost my footing.

Henry came out of nowhere, bursting through the smoke, and impaled my attacker just in time.

“Thanks, man,” I said, but he’d already disappeared into the fray again.

I tried to load my gun, but my hands shook too violently. I had to get a grip, or I’d be shot. And there was one thing I was sure of now: I didn’t want to die here.

I spotted a familiar form lying in front of me with a leg twisted unnaturally and a red blotch growing on his chest.

James.

I dropped to the ground and crawled to his side to see if he was alive. Just minutes ago he passed me full of passion and drive. Now he lay dead in the mud his gray eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

I turned around to vomit.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and then got to work reloading my rifle. I pulled myself to my feet, but my legs felt like rubber. My tongue was like a thick cotton ball in my mouth and I knew I was dehydrated. I couldn’t even tell what direction to shoot. Before I could regain my bearings, immense pain exploded in my leg, and I fell to the ground.

I yelled out as I pulled off my belt. I was smart enough to know that I needed to stop the flow of blood if I didn’t want to bleed to death and that it had to be done before I passed out.

I pulled it tight above the wound, crying openly. For the first time I considered that defying Casey back at Camp Cameron was the stupidest thing I’d ever done and that maybe her theory was wrong. I might actually die here.

The thought terrified me.