Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run

by Sam Riddleburger

  Sutler’s Row is also the only place where civilians are allowed, as in normal people wearing normal clothes who come to reenactments for a couple of hours to “experience history” before going back to their air-conditioned homes and real food and TV.

  Up ahead of me is one family whose mother is fingering a quilt for sale while the father nudges a kid my age and points at me and my uniform. Like I’m some history lesson. The kid stares at me, I stare back, and I know both of us are thinking the same thing: Get me back to my PlayStation.

  I duck into the nearest tent. The name of the place is Millie’s Mercantile, even though some annoying guy in a beard and black hat works the cash register. The place sells all sorts of shirts, uniforms, and hats that, according to a sign over the counter, are “microscopically indistinguishable from the original items worn by the soldiers themselves!”

  Whatever. No bugles.

  The next tent has got the real touristy stuff. T-shirts with Rebel flags, muskets, pistols and cheap-looking swords, a bunch of knives, and some Civil War books. Gee, I’m surprised they don’t have the Civil War chess set from the Franklin Mint!

  No luck with the next sutler or the next, and I’m starting to wonder which would be worse, finding a bugle and wasting my money on it or not finding one and getting another round of crap from my parents.

  I reach the end of the row and am about to cross the lane to go down the other side when I hear a whoop of applause from a group of reenactors about twenty yards away to my left. They’re gathered under a dead, rotted-out oak tree. At first I can’t see what they’re clapping about because their backs are to me. But rising just above their heads, I see a Confederate battle flag and a wide-brimmed black hat.

  Now I hear the voice—low and shrill at the same time somehow. It can only be one man—Nathan Bedford Dupree.

  “Seven score years ago, our forefathers fought a brave and glorious fight to preserve a cherished way of life,” Dupree rumbles over the murmuring crowd. “It is fitting that we gather here today to pay homage to their struggle.”

  “Senator” Dupree, as a lot of reenactors call him, is this tall, sunburned lawyer who made a bundle suing my favorite restaurant, Burger Boy, because some loser (probably a reenactor) says he got fat from eating five Bonanza Burgers a week.

  Then he used that money to run two million annoying commercials on TV because he was trying to get elected to the state senate. Thankfully, he lost big-time.

  But my parents think he’s this great man who sticks up for the little guy even though it’s Dupree, not “the little guy,” driving the Mercedes.

  I should say drove the Mercedes, since he lost it all last year after the IRS busted him for tax fraud. These days, Dupree drives an old Ford pickup from one reenactment to the next saying the same nonsense every time about the evils of the federal government and the glory of the South while trying to raise money to run for office again.

  I’ve heard this speech a thousand times already. He starts it softly, sounding like your grandfather, making you listen hard to hear him. Not that I still do.

  “And yet I wonder what would have happened had our forefathers prevailed,” Dupree whispers loudly to the hushed crowd. “If instead of being forced at gunpoint back into that melting pot—boiling pot, if you ask me—of the United States of America, a new nation had been forged that shared a common language, faith, and heritage.”

  Here it comes—when the kind grandfather becomes the fiery preacher. I still can’t see him, but I know his red face turns to blood, and he’s about to pull out his latest prop. Sure enough, I see his black sleeve shoot up over the crowd. It’s holding a tattered Bible.

  “A country of decency, courtesy, and respect. Where our children had two parents—one man and one woman. Where they didn’t walk around in gangs with their baggy pants and rap music and bad morals.

  “But you and I, friends, we may come from all walks of life, but we are bound by a brotherhood. By the same proud heritage. We are a people of honor, our destinies bound to God and home and history. Yes, brothers. It is time to rise up. The fight for our heritage is upon us!”

  The crowd goes nuts, but I’m not impressed. What heritage? Uncle Cyrus got shot in the butt! And the history’s over, pal. And your side lost.

  Dupree continues, “I have several books and brochures for sale, including my recent The South is Rising Again! which irrefutably proves . . .”

  I turn away in disgust and walk right into someone who knocks my kepi over my eyes. All I see is the hem of a dress and a white apron. Right away I say, “Pardon, ma’am,” which I know sounds real corny, but now that the reenactment has officially started I’ve got to talk period-style too. Sound like fun yet?

  “It’s cool,” I hear. “No big deal.”

  I push my cap up to see who’s the farby. Standing there is a girl about my age with a Confederate nurse’s hat covering her bushy brown hair. She has these dark brown eyes, a lot of freckles, and a big smile. Oh crap, it’s the girl! The one I’ve been talking about, the one I’m afraid to talk to.

  I feel a nervous twist in my stomach. She is by far the coolest thing I’ve seen at a reenactment in a long time. And so what do I say to her?

  “Sorry, I was looking for a place to puke,” I mutter.

  It was on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t help it. But she doesn’t seem to mind.

  “You mean because of that guy?”

  “Yeah, I hate him,” I whisper.

  “At least you’re not related to him,” she says. “Like I am.”

  “You don’t mean you’re related to Dupree,” I say.

  She nods. “Yep, that’s my dad, the Rebel without a brain.”

  And I thought my dad was bad. We watch as the crowd presses in on Dupree to buy his booklets.

  “He hasn’t always been this bad,” the girl says quietly to me. She unties and ties the apron strings around her waist. “You’ve read all the stuff about him in the papers?”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t know how to answer her, which is an answer itself, I guess. Even though she’s not looking at me but down at her apron, she nods.

  “So you know,” she says. “He used to be an okay guy . . . sure, an obnoxious lawyer but a decent dad. But after the tax stuff and jail . . . ”

  “Jail?” I say loud enough for one sutler to turn our way.

  I immediately regret it. The girl shrugs, but her eyes glisten. Perfect. Finally I’ve found a girl willing to talk to me and I’m making her cry!

  “Only thirty days,” she says. “But he came out changed somehow. Angrier. Meaner. Not to me and Mom too much, but to the world. I mean, he’s always been a Civil War buff, but he started spending a lot of time on his computer surfing these Heritage Not Hate websites and visiting these old museums and researching his genealogy like he’s some descendant of Robert E. Lee. He even started his own blog, The Rebel Yell, where he and all these other nut jobs go on and on about the federal government and if only the South had won the war and Yankees this and blacks that.”

  I whistle.

  “You’re telling me,” she says. “I can’t even bring Maria, who’s like my best friend at school, home anymore because she’s black and he’s got all these Confederate flags and junk hanging all over the place. And you wouldn’t believe what he puts in those booklets.”

  “So now he’s got you coming to reenactments,” I say.

  “I want to come,” she says. “To keep an eye on him. I’m worried about him.”

  Man, she is really messed up. I don’t say anything for a second, trying to think of some way to make her smile again, not cry.

  “Let me ask you something,” I finally say. “Do reenactments bite as hard as I think they do or am I just a big whiner?”

  She cracks a smile and just as quick her big brown eyes dry up.

  “Well, I’m getting the impression that, yes, you are a big whiner. But reenactments certainly do bite. My friends are all at Barnes and Noble right now drinking
Chococinnos. When I get back they’ll all have new clothes or boyfriends or they’ll have all seen some movie together and won’t be able to shut up about it. And I’ll be like, ‘Duh, I watched a guy pretend to shoot another guy.’”

  At last! A sane person at a reenactment. A beautiful sane person. I think I’m falling in love.

  It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve been talking to this beautiful girl longer than I’ve talked to any girl in a long time. But on one side of the lane I notice a sutler packing up for the night, and I still haven’t found what I came here to get.

  “Uh, I gotta go get a bugle,” I say.

  “Oh, are you a bugle boy?” she asks.

  Oh man, that hurts! I feel my face get hot. “Kinda,” I say.

  But she’s not laughing. “And you can play it?”

  I shrug. “Good enough if you don’t mind taps sounding exactly like the Hokey Pokey.”

  She laughs and touches my arm. No girl ever touches my arm! No girl ever laughs at my jokes! I know I’m in love.

  “Ashby!”

  We look to the crowd and there’s Dupree, waving and yelling at her. “Ashby!”

  The girl turns to look at him. “I’d better go,” she says.

  “Wait a second,” I say. “Your name is Ashby? As in Turner Ashby? The Civil War general?”

  She sighs. “I told you my dad has always been a Civil War buff. But if you would, please call me Ash.”

  “Gladly,” I say. “Ash, you’re not going to believe this . . . ” For the first time in my life I’m glad to say it. “My name is Stonewall.”

  “No freaking way!”

  Before I know it, she’s gone.

  I look around and see that most of the sutlers have packed up by now.

  But I see one tent with the flap open. Standing in the opening is a big guy who, believe it or not, looks just like a real Civil War general. Bushy beard, wrinkled, sunburned face, and fierce blue eyes.

  He’s kind of scary, but I don’t have many options left. I walk over to ask him about a bugle, but he starts talking first.

  “Whew, I’m glad that big-mouthed poltroon Dupree finally shut up,” the big guy says.

  “Yeah, somebody really ought to do something about him,” I say.

  The big guy stares right at me with his scary eyes and says, “How about you, soldier?”

  “Uh, I meant somebody else like, uh, I don’t know,” I babble. It’s hard to think with this guy staring at me. I feel like I’m being inspected or something. “Are you still open?”

  “For you I am.”

  “Oh good, uh, thanks, sir.”

  “Sir,” he says softly and wrinkles his nose like he’s sniffing the word. “I like that. But you really don’t know who I am?”

  I know you’re a weirdo, I think. But I glance over at the phony-looking sutler sign on his tent. It says Tom’s Emporium .

  “I’m guessing you’re Tom.”

  “At your service.”

  He sweeps aside the tent flap with one arm. That’s when I realize that he’s only got one arm. His other arm is not there at all and his sleeve is pinned to his shirt.

  He catches me staring at it. “Old war wound,” he says.

  “I bet that hurt,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Being shot is not the worst thing that can happen to you,” he says.

  But the missing arm isn’t as surprising as his clothes. No Civil War costume for this guy. He wears shorts, tube socks, flip-flops, and a faded, ripped tie-dyed T-shirt. Trust me, you don’t see a lot of tie-dye at Civil War reenactments.

  “C’mon in,” he says. “I’ve been waiting on you.”

  Did he just say what I think he said? What is he, Count Dracula or something? That sounds like a signal for me to run for my life, but instead I find myself standing there like Victim #1.

  “C’mon,” he says, “I’ve got a sale on bugles.”

  Did I tell him I was looking for a bugle? That sounds like another signal for me to get out of here, but I’m herded inside before I can run screaming.

  Right away, I notice that Tom’s Emporium seems bigger than the other sutlers’ tents even though from the outside his tent looks the same size. It’s airier. I almost expect my voice to echo. When he drops the tent flap behind me, all other noises are silenced, like I’ve just shoved cotton balls in my ears. I hear the grass crunch beneath my feet as I walk around the tent.

  Canteens and packs hang from tent poles. Uniforms and hats line one wall. Muskets and real sabers line another. He’s got some old medical equipment displayed in a glass case. And there before me in the middle of the tent is a table filled with musical instruments. Drums, piccolos and fifes, a banjo, and several bugles.

  No price tag of course. These people never seem to put prices on anything. They’re probably ashamed of how much they’re ripping you off.

  “How much are the bugles?”

  By now Tom is reclining in a metal folding chair in the corner. He’s holding a lemon in his mouth and with a knife in his one hand, he cuts the fruit in two. He offers me half but I shake my head. He shrugs and starts sucking on it.

  “You shouldn’t choose an instrument by the price tag, son.”

  I explain how I already have a perfectly good bugle at home, but I forgot it and my dad is making me buy a new one, so I’m looking for the cheapest thing I can find.

  “It’s surprising. You’re a real conscript, aren’t you?” he says, laughing. But it’s a friendly laugh and I actually smile. I kind of like Tom. He says weird stuff, but he doesn’t seem as phony as most of these sutlers and reenactors.

  “What do you mean by conscript?” I ask.

  “Well, a conscript was a soldier who didn’t want to be a soldier. But they couldn’t pay the bounty to get out of the army, so they had to go. Their hearts weren’t in it. Like yours isn’t, and you’d be glad to desert if you got the chance.”

  Conscript. Now that’s a word I could appreciate. “My parents make me come. I think the Civil War is stupid and replaying it is twice as stupid.”

  “Hmmm,” says Tom. He dumps the lemon rind in a can, stands, and walks to the table. He picks up one of his bugles. It’s a real shiny one and I can see Tom’s warped reflection in the brass. “Replaying it. Some would say we aren’t replaying it at all, some would say it is still being played.”

  Suddenly Tom isn’t so cool. Now he’s sounding like my dad, getting all mystic about the past. I reach out and take the bugle from him and blow a feeble Charge!

  “This one works,” I say. I take out my father’s money. “How much?”

  But Tom gives me another hard look.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re a pretty lousy bugle boy.”

  “That about sums it up,” I say, “so I’ll take your lousiest, cheapest bugle.”

  He laughs again. You know how some people laugh and you can tell they’re dumb? Well, when Tom laughs I can tell he’s smart. Real smart.

  “Just a moment,” he says.

  He walks to the corner of his tent. On the floor is an old trunk. Unlike Tom’s outfit, this trunk looks like the real thing. He opens it and digs around. I can’t see what’s inside because his body is blocking me. But when he stands and turns around, he is holding an old bugle with a tattered leather strap. At least it looks pretty old—a couple of dents, tarnished, dirty.

  “I tell you what,” he says. “Doesn’t seem right that a conscript should have to pay his own way. How about I loan you this for the weekend. No charge, but you’ve got to promise to bring it back. And be careful with it. It’s a valuable instrument.”

  “Really?” I say. “That’s awesome, ’cause I’m saving up for my own TV.”

  “I guess that’s good,” says Tom, looking confused.

  He hands me the bugle. I bring it up to my lips and blow Charge! It sounds even crappier than on mine at home. Dad’s going to love this. But at least it’s free.

  Tom smiles. “I bet it’ll sound a whole lot better tomorr
ow. Oh and look, I’ve got some instructions for it.”

  He turns back to the trunk.

  “I really don’t think I’ll need the instructions,” I say. “I already know how . . . ”

  He turns back around with a big ratty book. He pulls out some folded-up papers that were stuck in there like a book-mark.

  “Good, because these instructions are old and a bit fragile too, so don’t bother with them unless you really need them. Just keep ’em in your pocket.”

  And he shoves the paper into the breast pocket of my uniform. Whatever. For a free bugle, I guess I can play along with whatever this guy’s delusion is.

  I thank him a lot and promise to take good care of it.

  “I’m not real worried about the bugle,” says Tom, now sounding really serious. “Make sure you take care of yourself.”

  I turn and open the tent flap and there again is Senator Dupree’s voice. He’s back to being a grandfather, silky and smooth, as he shakes the hands of the people in the crowd—my beaming parents among them now, I see.

  “And watch out for that guy,” Tom says.

  CHAPTER THREE

  OH YEAH, did I mention that the food sucks? For supper we have some terrible soup with half-raw vegetables my mom cooked in a black pot over the fire. After I barely sleep all night because the ground is rocky and the yahoos at the next campfire drink moonshine and whoop Rebel yells all night, we have leftover soup for breakfast. Luckily I’ve smuggled in some Pop-Tarts.

  I now find myself hunkered down in a field with my dad and a whole herd of Confederate reenactors. It’s early morning and the sun has just cleared the trees—a time most kids my age are still asleep or watching SpongeBob reruns in their pajamas. The grass is dewy and my pants are so damp I feel like I’ve peed myself. I seriously wish I was watching the SpongeBob reruns.

  We are waiting for the Yankee reenactors to make their charge. They are about a hundred yards away from us across a small stream.

  Both sides are in the exact positions they were on July 21, 1861, when the real battle began, but I doubt the Confederates back then were as out of shape as Dad’s friends. And I don’t think they would have patiently waited for half an hour for the Yankees—who seem to be in even worse shape—to waddle into formation. Whoopee! History comes alive!