Crossing the Deadline Read Free Page A

shows two groups of men in a clearing, facing each other in rows. Their lines stretch across the open field. Those clustered near the bottom of the picture have fixed bayonets ready for hand-to-hand combat. Thick smoke billowing from cannons blocks much of the center of the scene. Two men carry a fallen comrade past a dead horse.
    Peckham continues. “There was one place where bullets flew so thick, we called it the Hornet’s Nest.” He leans forward and taps one man on the arm several times. “Imagine if you take a piece of hickory and whack a hundred wasp hives. Then try to fight off every last one of ’em with that stick.” He pauses for a couple seconds and in a low, serious voice adds, “That’s what it sounded like. Angry hornets. We thought it’d never end.” Peckham rubs the upper part of his right thigh.“That’s when Johnny Rebel’s minié ball found my leg.”
    The man with the pipe says, “Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.”
    â€œThere was a small pond near a peach orchard,” Peckham continues. “Not large at all, maybe as wide as from here to across the road out there. After the battle, when both sides were claiming their dead, the water in the pond looked like a pot of stewed tomatoes.”
    â€œAt least it was another Union win,” a man with a red beard says. “That’s what counts.”
    â€œI don’t know ’bout that,” I correct him. “The Union had thirteen thousand men wounded, dead, or missing, while the Butternuts only lost eleven thousand.”
    â€œYou’re pretty young to know so much about the war,” the man says.
    â€œThat’s more than the War of 1812 and the Revolutionary War put together in just two days of battle,” I say, looking again at the worn page from the newspaper. “A copy of Harper’s Weekly ’bout a year ago showed the eleven generals who were at Shiloh. Sherman, Buell, and there, square in the center of ’em all, was Ulysses S. Grant. ‘The Heroes of the Battle’ the paper called them.”
    Peckham nods. “Stephen’s right. Grant was there.”
    I hand the picture back to Peckham. “Thank you, sir, for letting me take a look at it.”
    â€œYour brother served at Shiloh when Peckham was there?” the man with the pipe asks.
    â€œNo,” Peckham and I say at the same time.
    â€œHe’s with General Grant now at Vicksburg. Last we heard.” As I walk back to my chair, all the talk about soldiers killed in the war reminds me how much I miss my brother. I remember how Robert teased me about girls and how, late at night, Mom yelled for us to “quiet down up there so you’ll be worth something to the world in the morning.” That only made us laugh harder.
    The paper called the generals “Heroes of the Battle,” and Grant gets his likeness put in papers all the time. But I know what a real hero is, and it’s not the generals. Robert’s a hero.

CHAPTER THREE

    September 28, 1863
    The first frost of the year coated the ground last night, so it’s cold as I set out for the train depot. “On your way to play for the governor?” Miss Amanda Gates calls from her porch. She and Margaret Peckham are rocking and tying American flags onto thin cedar rods. “I see you have your horn.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I reply while pushing open her gate. “Mr. Wilson gave me a solo to play. We’ll see if all my practice pays off.”
    Margaret drops a flag into a large wicker basket as I place one foot onto the top step. “You’ll do fine, Stephen. I have no doubt,” she says. She pulls her quilt tighter around her waist. “Late September has brought a chill to the air.”
    â€œYes, it has,” I reply. “That’s a lot of flags you’ve made for the recruitment rally.”
    â€œWe’ve collected scraps for weeks,” Miss