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    For a second it looks like they’re winning. They’re actually driving the Yankees back. But one look over their heads and I see that the Yankees aren’t really retreating. They’re falling back into a storm of Union reinforcements who are marching right at us. A glance down our line tells me that we are about to be swamped.
    â€œFall back! To the hill, men!” cries Colonel Evans.
    Finally, an order I can live with. I jump to my feet and pick up the heavy musket. Everybody who is left turns and runs for a cover of trees at the top of a hill behind us. Everybody but that redheaded lunatic still waving the flag. He finally starts running with us when he realizes we aren’t coming back. The battle has only lasted about fifteen minutes and already I’m exhausted. But those trees look like safety and I run as fast as anyone.
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    â€œTake cover!” cries Colonel Evans. “Reload and prepare to hold the hill!” He gallops on to the edge of the trees, where I guess he can see what is happening.
    I don’t need to see. I already know. Unlike all the real soldiers here struggling to stay alive, I know everything that is going to happen today. As crazy as it sounds, all that worthless information my dad pumped into me is now actually useful.
    As I flop down beside some of the other men under the trees, I know that we are on Matthews Hill. General Bee will be here soon with some reinforcements, but they won’t be enough. We will fall back to Henry Hill and there will be my namesake, General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson—though he hasn’t gotten the nickname Stonewall yet. That’s coming up soon.
    I know that the battle is really just getting started. I know that by the end of the day, the Confederates will claim victory, but that almost a thousand men—maybe the men sitting next to me right now—will die.
    I even know that my great-great-great-great-uncle will get shot in the butt, if he hasn’t already.
    I also know that I’ve got to get the heck out of here.
    â€œBoy oh boy! Durn, this is something, ain’t it?” someone says.
    I look up. It’s the redheaded guy again. He must really like the word durn . But he’s grinning now. He has handed off the flag to someone in the color guard, and is reloading his gun while watching the Yankees at the bottom of the hill.
    â€œWhy did they make us retreat?” he mutters. “That was starting to get fun.”
    I look up at him. His red hair is fiery against the gray sky. Up close I see he’s only a few years older than me. I guess I just assumed all these soldiers were grown men, but this guy looks like he could be one of the high school kids who ride my bus. He’s leaner than me and much taller, but he’s still got a few pimples and could definitely use braces if not a whole new set of teeth, I notice, as he cracks a big, crazy smile while pouring powder down the gun’s long muzzle.
    Somehow knowing that he’s a kid too makes what happened on the battlefield even more embarrassing. “Thanks,” I say. “You know . . . for what you did.”
    He finishes loading and sights his musket. “You mean for saving your durn life?” He smiles. “Don’t mention it. You’d do the same for me. You’d better do the same for me or I’ll come back to life and kick your butt! Ha! Just joshing you, brother. That’d make a good story though. I got to write that down.” He drops his voice real low: “A man . . . haunted the rest of his life by the spirit of the man whose life he didn’t save. Oooooooooo. Double, double toil and trouble . Et tu, Brute? Yes, I’ve got to write that down. What regiment are you from anyway? Ain’t seen you before.”
    This dude is seriously off the wall. Talk about ADD. He could definitely use some of my Ritalin. It takes me a second to realize he’s asked me a