Culpepper's Cannon (3 page)

Amos's sweatshirt was still over his head. He was lying on the floor, and the floor appeared to be covered with gravel. “Don't they ever clean this place?” he said out loud. He tried to sit up, but his sense of balance was off and he fell over again. He stayed on the floor, breathing heavily, until his head stopped spinning.

As soon as his mind cleared, he sat up and pulled his sweatshirt back down. Immediately he sensed that somehow he wasn't where he was supposed to be. For one thing, the store wasn't there anymore,
and the floor wasn't dirty because the floor wasn't there anymore, either. The floor had turned into a gravel courtyard, and the store had turned into a large open area with stone buildings on all four sides and a tall stone pillar right in the middle. He looked up and saw stars shining down. He looked around him and saw horses and men in gray uniforms and cannons, cannons everywhere. Dunc wasn't there, either. Dunc got him into this mess, and when Dunc got him into a mess, Dunc was supposed to be there to get him out. Dunc wasn't anywhere to be seen.

“Dunc, where are you?”

No one answered. Men were rushing about, some with beards and some with long moustaches and some not old enough to have either, but none of them were Dunc and none of them paid him any more attention than a quick, curious glance. He stood up, a little wobbly at first.

“Dunc, where are you?”

Again no one answered. He started walking around the courtyard, looking at the faces of the men busy at work, trying to find
one that he recognized. He didn't. He began to feel panic tighten up his chest.

“Dunc, where are you? Dunc!”

“Quit your shouting, boy.” Amos looked behind him. Two men were standing against the wall of a dry goods store watching him. One was tall with a pot belly, and the other was short, and when he moved, his movements were quick, like a bird's. “Get over here, boy, out of the way.” Amos obeyed.

“Boy, what are you dressed so funny for?” the tall one said. Amos looked down at his clothes. He was still wearing his favorite sweatshirt, a pair of blue jeans, and his white cross trainers with the orange stripes down the sides. He didn't think he was dressed funny at all.

“I—I—”

“What's your name, boy?” the tall one asked.

“Amos. Amos Binder.”

“Good name,” the tall one said. “A good southern name.”

“Good southern name,” the little one echoed.

“Where am I?” Amos asked.

“Where are you?” The tall one laughed and nudged the little one with his elbow. “He asked where he was.”

“Where he was,” the little one repeated, giggling.

“Well?” Amos was getting impatient.

The tall one eyed Amos suspiciously. “You don't know where you are?” he asked.

“I'm not sure.”

“Where are you from, boy?”

“From?” the little one repeated.

“I'm from here,” Amos said, “I guess.”

The tall one spat on the ground. “I've lived here all my life, and I've never seen you. How come I've never seen you?”

“Seen you?” the little one said, eyeing Amos as suspiciously as the tall one did.

Amos thought for a moment. “Well, I'm from here, but I'm not from here. Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” the tall one said. He rubbed his chin. The little one did, too. “If you're from around here, then you should know what happened here today. What happened here today?”

“Today?” the little one asked. They were both eyeing him and rubbing their chins.

Amos thought. He had never been much good at American history. He looked around and saw the men in their gray uniforms and the cannons. He had to assume he was in the Civil War. He hated the Civil War. The Civil War was like water through a funnel to him—he couldn't remember anything about it.

The two men were still watching him, even more suspicious than before, and Amos saw that he would have to think fast. He didn't know what to say. He took a shot in the dark.

“A battle was fought here.” He tried to sound as if he know what he was talking about. He didn't think he succeeded.

The tall one smiled and nodded his head proudly. He nudged the little one. “I told you he knew.”

“He knew,” the little one said. He tried to nod his head proudly, too, but his movements were too jerky for that. His head vibrated like a ringing bell.

“A battle, a great battle,” the tall one
said. “Fought by our valiant ship, the
Virginia
. She went out and whipped on those Yankees like a stepmother whips a wayward child. It was a grand thing to see. Long live the South!” He stood up straight and saluted, beaming proudly.

“The South!” the little one said. He mimicked his friend. His head was still vibrating. After a respectful silence, they both slumped against the wall again.

Amos couldn't believe his luck. The
Virginia
was one of the few things he remembered about the Civil War, one of the few things that had stayed in the funnel. It was originally named the
Merrimack
. The South had renamed it and armed it with iron plates, the first ship to have armor. She sank several Union wooden ships the day before she met the Union's armored ship, named the
Monitor
. This must be the day before.

“It was a grand thing to see, wasn't it?” Amos said confidently. “A really grand thing to see on a March 8, 1862.” The
Merrimack
had fought the
Monitor
on March ninth. Today had to be the eighth.

“A grand thing to see,” the tall one repeated. Evidently Amos had gotten the date right.

The tall one leaned over again. “But I hear tell that the Yankees have a metal ship, too,” he whispered. His eyes darted back and forth as if he expected to find someone eavesdropping.

“They do,” Amos said. “It's called the
Monitor
. It will be here tomorrow.”

“How do you know that?” The tall one was suspicious again, but Amos was too proud of the one bit of history he knew to notice it.

“Know that?” the little one repeated.

“Because today is March 8, 1862, and that makes tomorrow March ninth. The
Merrimack
and the
Monitor
fought each other on March ninth.”

“Why are you talking like tomorrow's already happened?” the tall one asked. “And why did you call the good ship
Virginia
a stinking Yankee name like the
Merrimack?
Are you a spy?”

“A spy?” Amos asked. He realized he had overplayed his hand.

The tall one grabbed his shoulder. “You are a spy, aren't you? A spy!”

“A spy!” the little one shouted.

“Sergeant!” the tall one called. “We've caught ourselves a spy!”

“A spy!” the little one shouted again.

A big man the size of a small economy car turned his head and looked at them. He had a huge red handlebar moustache that made it look like his lip had burst into flame. “What's that?” he called.

“A spy! We've caught ourselves a spy!”

“A spy!” the little one said again.

Amos saw the sergeant start to walk toward him. He was so big that every time he took a step, Amos thought he could feel the ground tremble. He tried to shake himself free of the tall man, but he had a stronger grip than he looked like he should have had.

Before Amos could get away, the sergeant had a hold on his shoulder, and he quit struggling. He knew he would never get away from the sergeant. He knew he would never get away from a grip like that. It was like a vise.

“A spy, eh?” The sergeant's voice was as
strong as his grip was. He looked at Amos with startling blue eyes. “You're right,” he said. “He's a spy.”

“I'm not a spy,” Amos protested.

“Right. That's what the other one said, too.”

“The other one?” Amos asked. “There's another one?”

“There's another one,” the sergeant said, “and he's dressed just like you.”

•
5

“He's a spy, sir,” the sergeant said. “He was talking about the
Virginia
, and he called it the Yankee name.”

Amos was standing in a canvas tent in front of a captain of the Army of the Confederacy. The captain was an older man with a bald head. He had a fringe of white hair and gold-rimmed glasses with little round lenses. He sweated and continually dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Did he now?” The captain leaned over his desk and looked at Amos. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I'm not a spy,” Amos said. “I live here.”

“Well, fine,” the captain said. “That should be easy to verify. We'll just talk to your mother.”

Amos swallowed loudly. “Well, you can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because she's not from here. Well, she is, but she isn't. She isn't
yet
.” The captain stared at him blankly. “It's kind of hard to explain.”

The captain left the question hanging in the air. He pointed at Amos's sweatshirt. “What is that?” he asked.

Amos looked down. He was wearing a sweatshirt that his parents had bought him when they visited Gettysburg National Military Park the year before. There was a picture of a cannon and a grave and two crossed flags, one the Union's and one the Confederacy's. He looked back up. He didn't know what to say.

“It's a shirt,” he said.

“I can see that. What's it say on it?”

“Gettysburg, sir.”

“That's what I thought it said.” The captain
dabbed at his forehead. “Sergeant Bremish.”

Amos looked at the sergeant. “Your name is Bremish?”

“Yeah. So?” Amos looked at him but didn't say anything.

“Sergeant Bremish,” the captain repeated, “have you ever heard of a Gettysburg?”

“I believe there's a town up north called that, sir.”

“Where at?”

“Pennsylvania, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, I thought so. Do you suppose this lad is from there?”

“Probably, sir.”

“And that would make him a spy, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, I thought so.” The captain took off his glasses, tried to clean them with his sweaty handkerchief, and put them back on.

Amos swallowed again. “What do you do with spies?” he asked.

“Generally, we shoot them,” the captain said. “Isn't that what we do, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, I thought that's what we did with them.” The captain dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

“I'm not a spy, I swear,” Amos said. “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

“Oh, we could do that, too,” the captain said. “We could, couldn't we, Sergeant?”

“If you want to, sir.”

“Yes, if I want to. I thought so. I don't think I want to. Too gruesome.” He shuddered and dabbed at his forehead. He looked at Amos. “Now why don't you tell us about this?” He unfolded a piece of notebook paper and laid it on the table in front of him. “Your friend was carrying this when we arrested him. Unfortunately, he escaped.” He dabbed at his forehead again. “You wouldn't do that, would you?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Good. That's a good boy. It's so nice to deal with good boys.” He tapped the paper with his finger. “Now what about this?”

Amos leaned over and read the paper. It was in Dunc's handwriting. “I got through, Amos,” it read, “and I'm assuming you did, too. Pretty neat, huh? I'm going to have a look around. Try to meet up with me half a football field west of the monument in the middle of the plaza. If I can't meet you there, I'll leave a note. Dunc. P.S. Did you notice the pulsing light when you went through? I wonder what it means? Keep your eyes open for something valuable. Like money.”

Right
, Amos thought.
I should look for money. They're going to blow me away, and I should look for money
.

“What,” asked the captain, “is a football field?”

“It's a field you play a game called football on,” Amos answered. “You wouldn't know anything about it.”

“Then why don't you explain it to me? How long is a football field?”

“One hundred y—”

“Yes?”

“Miles. One hundred miles.”

The captain's eyes popped wide open.
“My goodness,” he said, “that must be quite a game. You play that in Pennsylvania?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“It's rather new,” Amos said.

“I imagine.” The captain leaned over his desk and peered at Amos through his little round lenses. “You wouldn't be lying to me, now would you?”

Amos mustered up a shocked expression on his face. “No, sir.”

The captain settled back in his chair. “Good. It's so nice to deal with boys who don't lie. Lying makes everything so difficult.” He nodded his head at Bremish. “Prepare a party to intercept the other spy, Sergeant. Give them the fastest horses, and send them west.”