Black River

THREE

Jack Jordan felt as if he’d prepared for this exact moment most of his life. After all of the research, after all of the long weekends of heat and rain — and mosquitoes, after the hundreds of battlefield reenactments, this felt about as real as it gets. He proudly wore a Confederate uniform, authentic from the gray slouch hat down to the black cavalry boots. A week’s worth of burgundy whiskers sprouted from his tanned, lanky face. He felt his pulse quicken, waiting for the director to start the scene.

Jack glanced down at the replica of the Smithfield rifle he held in his hands. He looked up across the landscape of pine trees and scrub oak and took a deep breath. A mockingbird called out from a dead, leafless cypress tree. Jack could smell the wood smoke beyond the pines, hear the snort of the horses behind him, and almost see the Union soldiers slipping through the forest.

A young private looked up at Jack and whispered, “You ready, Sergeant?” the private’s cheekbones smeared with charcoal dust, his Confederate cap pulled down to his blond eyebrows.

“I’ve been ready for this all my life. Feels damn good. Let’s defend the South.”

“Quiet on the set!” came the command through a loud speaker. “And roll cameras.”

“Speeding,” came a voice through a walkie-talkie held by an assistant director standing below a motion picture camera, one of five, mounted on a crane.

“Action!”

Platoons of men, both Union and Confederate soldiers, all wearing sweat-stained Civil War uniforms, charged. Cannons fired. Stuntmen, dressed as soldiers, fell and tumbled near the ground where the earth exploded in dirt, fire, and dust. Men ran through the smoke. Trumpets sounded. Soldiers on horseback cut through the smoldering battlefield, firing pistols.

Jack, and three dozen of his men, ran forward, rifles firing blanks, white smoke billing from the end of the barrels. “Let’s move!” Jack yelled, the troops picking up speed — shooting and reloading. A seventeen-year-old recruit ran behind the first flank, gripping a wooden pole carrying the Confederate flag as the southern forces advanced closer to the Union army.

Jack reloaded, packing the black powder into the barrel of his rifle. His young private looked up and nodded. “This one’s for Shiloh!”

“Atta boy, Johnny. Keep shooting! Advance men!” Jack held his rifle in both his hands, moving stealth-like, stepping around the wounded men, blood capsules oozing red dye through the ragtag uniforms. He fired his rifle and stood to reload powder and paper. He stared through the smoldering battlefield, remembering the instructions the director had given him and the other actors. Jack wondered if he could hear the director yell “cut” over the noise of gunfire.

That was Jack Jordan’s last thought.

A Minié ball slammed through the center of his forehead, the heavy lead bullet blowing the back of his skull off. Blood and brain tissue splattered across the horrified face and chest of the young soldier carrying the Confederate flag. Directly in front of him, Jack Jordan fell dead.

“And cut! Brilliant! Great scene. Let’s reset cameras.”

The young soldier looked up and vomited in the muddy field.

An assistant director stared through the rising smoke. “Oh my God,” he said running around the film crew and actors. “Somebody call nine-one-one!”