Fog billowed around the pines. To his left and right, the ground seemed to be sloping upward.
The valley.
South of Hobson’s Corner, the woods led to a wide valley between two low-lying mountain ranges.
Wrong way, you fool.
Or was it?
He looked for the mountain silhouettes, but the distance was swallowed up in the gathering darkness.
No.
Not all of it.
To his left. A bright patch. The outline of a building.
Shelter.
Jake ran with his bike, tripping over roots, pushing aside branches.
A clearing became visible. Just beyond it, a small hill.
And halfway up the hill, a run-down, wood-shingled hut. Lopsided and windowless. Standing on four stout wooden corner posts.
Jake ditched his bike at the clearing’s edge and ran to the hut. The door was secured by a huge rusted padlock. The windows were boarded up.
He slid under the hut, in the space formed by the posts.
The ground was cold but dry. A salamander skittered away, vanishing under a rock.
Jake pulled back his hair. Rivulets of water cascaded down his neck.
Another boom sounded. Loud. Close. Shaking the ground. But this time Jake saw no flash of light.
Weird.
He lay on his stomach and gazed back into the clearing.
A ring of tall pines surrounded the area.
Tall dead pines.
SSSSNNNNNNNNNAPP!
A flash.
An explosion.
A falling tree.
And a shuddering shock wave of heat that seemed to rip across the ground, traveling through the moisture, searing the soil.
Electricity.
It was Jake’s last thought before he blacked out.
4
CRACK!
CRACK!
Musket shots.
Ambush.
Man the cannons.
Shoot first, ask questions later.
Don’t worry, Colonel Weymouth. I’m here.
You won’t lose this time.
You can’t.
CRRRRRAAAACKKK!
The sound pierced Jake’s consciousness.
Close. Loud.
Too loud.
He jolted upward.
His head smashed against something hard. Wooden.
Ow.
His body ached all over. He felt as if he’d been slammed against a rock. His fingers twitched uncontrollably.
Electrocution.
I should be dead.
With a groan, Jake pulled himself out from under the hut.
He stood on shaky legs and leaned against the wall.
He tried to focus. Blurred, gray-blue images swam before his eyes.
Grass.
Pine trees.
Through their spindly top branches, the sun was attempting to break through.
The rain was now a drizzle. The ground had dried a bit.
A fallen tree lay across the clearing. The tree’s stump jutted out of the ground, jagged and white-brown.
A swath of scorched, blackened earth led from the stump to the hut. On a straight line to where Jake had been lying. Like a shadow that had remained after the tree had fallen.
The lightning hit the tree, then traveled toward me through the wet ground.
And I lived.
How much time had passed since then? An afternoon? A week? A year?
Jake glanced at his watch. Three-seventeen. An hour and a half. That was all.
Leave.
Byron doesn’t know where you are.
CRACK.
He froze.
The sound again.
The shot.
Not a dream.
Real.
Coming from behind him. From beyond the ridge.
He looked over his shoulder. A puff of bluish-gray smoke rose in the distance.
Go ahead. Just a peek.
He turned, then began to climb.
Toward the top he began hearing voices. A faint whinny of a horse. The clanking of metal. Another shot.
He dropped to his knees and peered over the ridge.
Below him lay a broad valley, dotted with scrub brush. In its midst was a sight that made Jake’s jaw drop.
It was a vast encampment with clusters of canvas tents arranged around log cabins. Men swarmed about, carrying crates, grooming horses, cleaning muskets.
Men in blue uniforms.
Dead Man’s Trace.
This is it.
The movie set.
To the left, across the valley, a line of soldiers took turns shooting at a metal can on a distant tree stump. Directly below Jake, a group of soldiers sat around a campfire, cleaning muskets. Laughing. Relaxing.
From behind one of the tents a burly guy emerged, wearing a stained white apron and dragging a bloody hunk of meat about three feet long.
“Steak tonight, Cook?” one of the soldiers shouted.
“Last one,” the man grunted. “Tomorrow we starve.”
Exactly right.
Every detail.
Just like the drawings and photographs.
Better than any Civil War reenactment. Ever.
Jake looked around for cameras. Power lines. Lighting equipment.
Nothing.
Which meant they weren’t even shooting film yet. So this had to be a setup. A practice.
Nothing modern to take away from the reality.
Jake grinned.
The feeling.
It was here. Everything — the smells, the sounds, the guts and glory of war.
This was no ordinary movie.
This was perfect.
This was
Heaven.
He stood up. Wide-eyed, he crested the ridge and began to walk down into the valley.
“HEY!”
A commotion. The men around the campfire were scrambling for their weapons.
Amazing.
These actors are incredible.
“Hi!” Jake shouted.
“HALT RIGHT THERE!”
Beyond the men, at the right edge of the camp, a sentry was pointing a musket straight at Jake.
Ask for Kozaar.
Jake dug his hands into his pockets. “Uh, I’m looking for Mr. — ”
CRRRRRRRACK!
A puff of smoke.
A whizzing sound.
A sudden loud snap.
“Hey !”
Jake ducked.
He felt a shower of splinters land in his hair. Behind him, a tree branch had been shot clean off.
Is it —?
I don’t know.
He’s not prepared for this.
But the rules…
They’re not our rules
anymore.
This, my friends, is war.
5
JAKE STARED AT THE smoking, jagged stub of the branch.
How did they do that?
“Who are you?” a voice called.
“North or South?” asked another.
“Show yourself!”
This is cool.
This is SO cool.
The branch was rigged.
Had to be. A little explosive was strapped to it. Someone set it off by remote control. This is a movie. The gunshot was a blank.
Totally, way unbelievably awesome.
Okay.
Stand up. Play along.
Jake rose slowly. He reached into his pockets, feeling around for something he could use as a white flag. Folded up against his green steno book was a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf paper. A note written to him by his friend Pete.
He waved the sheet and walked down. “I — I come in peace.”
But the sentry kept his musket sight trained on Jake. “Who the hell are you?” he growled.
“Jake Branford? Here to see Mr. Kozaar?”
“Ain’t nobody here by that name.” He cocked the trigger.
Jake jumped at the sound. “Look, I don’t — ”
<
br /> “Hold your fire, Harrington!”
An officer was walking toward them briskly from the opposite side of the camp. Scowling. Older than the rest. Heavyset. Thick brush mustache. Big teeth, bucked and grayish-yellow.
Jake held back a laugh.
What do you expect? No orthodontists back then.
Harrington slowly lowered his musket. The other men gathered around Jake, looking at him oddly.
“Where’re you from, boy?” asked one of the soldiers, gap-toothed and pock-faced. “The moon?”
Keep. A. Straight. Face.
“Uh … Hobson’s Corner?” Jake replied.
The officer stood face-to-face with Jake. His brow was lined with sweat. His eyes darted nervously up to the ridge. “Who sent you?”
Jake nearly passed out from the man’s breath.
“Mr. Kozaar?” he said, backing away.
“Who?”
“Your director?”
Silence.
Blank, baffled stares. As if Jake were speaking Greek.
And it suddenly dawned on him why he was here.
The real reason.
Duh.
“Is this an audition?” he said. “Because I’m no actor. I just want to get this stuff your set designers took from my house — ”
“WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”
Jake stumbled backward at the putrid blast.
They weren’t going to give.
Not an inch.
“Okay, I get it!” Jake said. “You can’t break character. Cool. I’ll try, all right? Just give me a minute.”
Feel it.
In your bones.
In your soul.
The way it feels in the attic.
You can do it here, easy. Open your eyes. Breathe.
The smell of wood smoke and gunpowder. Of sweat and horse manure. The creaking of wagon wheels and the snap of a holstered pistol against a uniformed leg.
It was all around him.
Not just in his mind.
Jake stood tall. He breathed deep.
He inhaled war.
Yes.
You’re where you want to be, Jake.
Where you belong.
And.
You.
Love it.
“Jake — uh, Jacob Branford. Reporting for war duty. Sir!” Jake shouted.
Two of the men broke out laughing.
“WHO TOLD YOU THIS WAS FUNNY?” the mustached man bellowed.
“No one did, Sergeant Edmonds,” muttered one of the men sullenly.
“What’s this, Branford?” Sergeant Edmonds suddenly grabbed the note from Jake’s hand and peered at it. ‘“Red button twice for turbo firepower, explode glowing brick to reach nitro depot… ’?”
Code. For Pete’s computer game. “I need that!” Jake said. “It’s just … code.”
“Code?” Sergeant Edmonds began to circle Jake. “How old are you?”
“Fourt—” You fool. Wrong answer. Too young for the army. “Fort … Sumter! What a mistake, huh? Broke my heart. I would have reinforced it more aggressively, sir. It was wide open. Biggest insult to the North in the whole war, sir!”
“IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR HEARING? I ASKED YOUR AGE!”
Lie.
“Seventeen!” Jake shot back. “Just thought you might want to hear my fighting experience, sir.”
“Fighting experience?” Edmonds leaned closer. Jake held his breath. “Branford, I don’t trust you. You’re dressed like something from a theatrical show, you sound like a fool, and you’re carrying what’s either a child’s scrawl or secret Rebel code. I’m betting it’s the former, so I’ll give you a chance. On the condition that Colonel Weymouth agrees with me, after he reads it.”
“Cool beans.” No no no no. “I mean, I’ll eat anything — cool beans, hot beans, whatever.” Concentrate, Jake. FEEL IT. “Seriously, Sergeant Edmonds, you made the right choice. I can fight with the best of them. Maybe I can help the colonel. I know everything about the war — strategy and tactics and combat and — ”
“Just show me you can tie your own shoes and lift a bucket of slops. We’ll go one step at a time.” Edmonds pointed to a nearby cabin. “Pick up a proper uniform in there and report to me afterward. By then, I’ll have talked to the colonel.”
Shoulders back, Jake walked to the cabin.
He felt ten feet tall.
Yes.
This isn’t bad.
It’s fun.
But it could be better.
Okay. Plan it out.
Number one. No slang.
Number two. Don’t act like a kid.
Number three. Get rid of anything that didn’t exist in the 1860s.
Byron will be so jealous.
Jake quickly undid his watch and slipped it into his pocket. Then he pulled open the cabin door.
A man barged out, nearly knocking Jake over.
“Whoa. Sorry,” Jake said. “Are you, like, the costume guy?”
The man’s face was the color and texture of rare roast beef. A scar ran from his left eyebrow to the back of his left ear. Orange-red hair, slick from sweat, stuck out from under his cap.
“Corporal Rademacher to you, lassie.”
“Lassie?” Please. “I mean, I guess that’s authentic, but it is so incredibly sexist — ”
SHHHHHINK.
Rademacher drew his dagger. His face was reddening more, his lips drawing back over his teeth. “Are you funnin’ me, yard dog?”
Totally deranged.
Jake swallowed.
Don’t push him, Jake. You never know.
Lincoln was killed by an actor.
“Uh, no, sir. I — ”
“Where are you from, anyway?”
“Hobson’s Corner.”
“Like hell. What are you doing here?”
“Getting my uniform, that’s all — ”
Rademacher’s voice was a low rasp. “I smell grits on your breath.”
“Uh, well, I think it’s Cap’n Crunch, but they’re both made of corn — ” Cap’n Crunch? Stay in character.
A flash of steel.
Jake lurched backward.
He felt the cool blade of Rademacher’s knife against his cheek.
We’ve sighted our man.
Then get him. Now. Before he does any more damage.
6
“DROP THAT, CORPORAL RADEMACHER!”
Edmonds.
Calling from across the camp.
Jake started to turn. Pain.
A stinging sensation on his cheek. Sudden. Sharp.
Warm.
He touched his face and felt wetness.
Blood.
His fingers were coated with it.
He cut me.
I’m bleeding.
I’m actually bleeding.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Jake said.
Rademacher wiped off his dagger and stuck it in its sheath. “It’s a U. For Union. Just so everyone knows what side you’re on.”
“Corporal Rademacher!” Edmonds shouted.
Rademacher’s face blanched as he looked toward Edmonds.
Jake turned, pressing his hand to his cheek.
Edmonds was with a woman. She wore a black hoop-skirted dress of thick velvet that swept the ground as she walked. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back in a plain black bow, setting off the silken paleness of her skin and the blue of her eyes. She was staring at Jake with intense concern.
“Are you all right?” she asked, reaching toward Jake’s cheek. “What did that barbarian do to you?”
“Mighty sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean it,” Rademacher said. “I was cleaning my knife and the boy moved in the wrong direction — ”
“You were not cleaning your — ” Yeow. Talking made the wound bleed even more.
“Isn’t anyone helping the boy?” Edmonds asked. “Colonel Weymouth authorized me to let him enlist.”
“I’ll help him,” the woman said.
; Rademacher slid by her, smiling sheepishly. “Pardon me, Missus Stoughton … Jacob. Dress that wound ’fore it festers, now. Hear?”
As the woman led Jake inside, he could hear Edmonds berating Rademacher outside.
The cabin was dark and crammed full of supplies. Ammunition boxes were stacked head-high against the walls, along with piles of blue uniforms. Jake staggered over toward a canvas chair, his cut dripping a trail of red that streaked across his shirt. He stepped around muskets, bridles, currycombs, feed bags, canvas chairs, benches, old boots, cigar boxes, broken bayonet blades, wagon wheels, and scores of cans, bottles, and crates.
At the other end, three men were sitting on boxes, playing cards on the top of a wooden barrel.
They scrambled to attention when they saw Mrs. Stoughton. Shoving their cards into their pockets, they stepped in front of the barrel and grinned guiltily.
“Which one of you fine gentlemen will be the first to break out of your tableau and locate a dressing for this young man’s wound?” Mrs. Stoughton asked.
One of the men scurried across the room, his too-big boots clomping loudly, his thin frame lurching from side to side. He picked up a wooden crate that was marked BANDIGES in childlike handwriting.
Limping back toward Jake and Mrs. Stoughton, he grinned nervously. The few teeth in his mouth were yellow and doomed.
Jake stared at the mouth. How on earth did they do that?
Mrs. Stoughton picked the cleanest-looking handkerchief out of the box and began daubing the cut.
“YEOOWWW!” Jake shouted.
“It’s not too deep, thank goodness.” Mrs. Stoughton moved quickly and efficiently, cleaning the blood and applying a bandage. “I was trained as a nurse. Belle Stoughton is my name. I live in Hobson’s Corner.”
“Jacob Branford,” Jake muttered, moving his jaw as little as possible. “From Hobson’s Corner, too.”
“Lovely village. I only moved there … recently.” Mrs. Stoughton’s face darkened. “After my dear husband passed away.”
A tear trembled on the edge of her eyelid.
Jake felt a tug of sadness.
She’s good.
The best actor on the whole set.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Well. I suppose the show must go on, mustn’t it?” Mrs. Stoughton forced a smile. “Look here, the bleeding is already easing up. You sit here for a while and keep your head elevated. I must go home now, but Orvis here will change the dressing and give you a uniform while I’m gone.”
The skinny, pale, nearly toothless man nodded eagerly.