The Battle of Bayport (2 page)

Teachers rarely get the recognition they deserve, while guys with big bucks and political pull like the Don hog the limelight, so it was cool seeing Mr. Lakin front and center at such a big event. He was really soaking up all the attention too and enjoying the chance to steal some of the Don's thunder. I could hear him call out to his men from across the line.

“Don't fire until you see the whites of Sterling's beady little eyes!” he shouted out from atop his horse, earning whoops and hollers from his troops.

Don Sterling heard him too, and from the look on his face you could tell these guys really didn't like each other. The Don drew his saber.

“I'll cut you down myself, you rebel scum!” he screamed.

He had dropped the bad accent, and it sounded like he'd happily make good on his threat if he thought he could get away with it. Okay, so maybe the two men most responsible for our new history museum weren't making the most professional impression on Bayport's visitors, but us locals sure were enjoying the show.

“Attack!” the Don yelled, and the battle began in earnest.

Across the line, I could hear our drama teacher, Mr. Carr, who was playing a Colonial sergeant, passionately ordering the militiamen to raise their muskets. The British officer next to me responded, shouting out the commands, “Make ready! Take aim!”

I shouldered my musket and took aim at a patch of grass a few feet in front of the football team's obnoxiously loudmouthed lineman Mikey Griffin. Unfortunately, Mikey was Jen's big brother. And by big, I don't just mean older. The guy was huge. Fortunately, Jen got her looks from a different part of the Griffin gene pool.

“Fire!” shouted the officer. I pulled the trigger. The gun's flint-tipped hammer struck metal, igniting a flash of sparks in a little pan filled with gunpowder, and . . .
BOOM
. Flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle. The recoil wasn't a joke. It jolted my hands and slammed the wooden stock back into my shoulder. Man, what a rush. I wondered if Frank was feeling the same thing firing his cannon.

The officer yelled the order to reload, and we went through the surprisingly complicated ritual of reloading the old flintlock muskets. This bad boy wasn't like your modern guns, with self-contained bullets and multiple rounds. Even if you were only firing blanks, every time you wanted to shoot, you still had to go through the entire process of tearing open a paper cartridge full of gunpowder with your teeth and loading it straight down the barrel with a ramrod.

The whole thing took almost a minute—not including all those hours of gun safety training we had to complete before the museum's intimidating weapons specialist, Bernie Blank, would even let us pick up a musket. The paper cartridges in the leather ammunition pouches we'd been given to wear on our belts were missing the .75 caliber musket balls, of course, so no one would get shot for real. But even without any bullets, standing there all out in the open like that without any cover, hurrying to reload my musket while the enemy fired away and the cannons boomed, I realized how brave those guys must have been to stand there without running and face what had to seem like certain death.

This wasn't like the first-person-shooter video games Frank and I like to play, racking up points by blowing away zombies and aliens from our comfy gaming chairs. This was about as close as you could get to the real thing without it being the real thing. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. Looking out across the field through the haze of smoke with the smell of black powder and war cries filling the air, it stopped feeling like a reenactment. It was like I was really there, and for a second I knew what it must have felt like for those soldiers all those years ago, a lot of them still just kids my age, fighting for their country on the field of battle. Sure, I like to joke around a lot, but this was really profound stuff. Uh-oh, I better be careful. I'm starting to sound like my brother!

I wasn't the only one getting swept up in the action.
Mr. Lakin stormed through the ranks on his horse, waving a long flintlock pistol over his head, screaming, “Charge!”

All of us Bayport High kids cheered at that one, even those of us on the opposite side. It's not often you get to see your history teacher dressed up like George Washington, leading a charge on horseback.

Not wanting to be upstaged, Don Sterling ran forward, waving his saber over his head and yelling something about treachery and king's pride. I couldn't really hear him over all the noise. The patriots fired a final volley of shots, and Mr. Lakin let loose with his pistol. It jumped in his hand, and he almost fell off his horse. What a show!

Like we'd rehearsed, some of the soldiers on each side fell to the ground, pretending to be shot or wounded. The Don dropped to his knees with gusto, like he had really been shot. His hand groped for his heart, and he keeled over onto the ground. I hadn't remembered the British general getting shot during the rehearsal, or in the real battle for that matter, but overeager improvisation was one of the Don's calling cards as an amateur actor.

Following the Don's final flourish, the
Resolve
's cannons boomed one more time, signaling the conclusion of the reenactment, and everyone cheered. Little did we know that the show was just getting started . . . the battle's real climax was still to come.

N
OW, THAT WAS AWESOME. JOE
and I have had our share of adventures, but I've never gotten to experience anything quite like that before. It was like living history.

When the smoke cleared, everyone was milling around, talking excitedly and patting one another on the back. I saw Joe return his musket to Bernie Blank, who was collecting all the weapons to take back to the museum. Then he came over and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Man, I've got to give it to you, that was really amazing,” he said.

“Huh?” I said, and Joe reached up and pulled out the earplugs I'd forgotten were stuffed in my ears to protect them from the cannon fire. Oops.

“I said, that was amazing,” Joe repeated. “It really felt like I was there.”

I rubbed my ears. They were still ringing a little even after using the earplugs.

“Told you,” I said with a grin. “Keep listening to me and we might be able to stop your brain from atrophying after all.”

“I think I liked you better when you couldn't hear,” he quipped, stuffing the earplugs back in my ears as we both laughed.

“Hey, guys,” Jen Griffin called out from behind us, and I could have sworn I saw Joe blush. That was a new one. He was usually the smooth one when it came to talking to girls.

“Oh, hey, Jen,” Joe said, turning around as she and her friend Daphne walked up with their long Colonial-style dresses swishing over their ankles.

Yup, that was a blush. Jen must have really gotten to him, but she had a way of doing that, what with her combination of girl-next-door prettiness and the kind of unassuming sweetness that made everyone she talked to feel like they were special. Her friend Daphne was pretty cute too, not that she paid much attention to me. Dating was one subject where Joe always scored a lot higher than I did. Apparently, girls don't really appreciate detailed discourses on the origins of forensic anthropology or the ramifications of Southern trade route disruptions prior to the Second Continental Congress. Oh well.

“Hey, Frank,” Jen said, being nice and making a point
to include me. Daphne, on the other hand, just raised an indifferent eyebrow and busied herself examining her freshly painted fingernails.

“Hey, Jen, Daphne. So what did you guys think of the reenactment?” I asked, trying to pick up Joe's uncharacteristic conversational slack.

“It was really cool. It felt like we were watching the real thing,” Jen said, looking at Joe.

“Hey, that's what we were just saying, right, Joe?” I prodded my brother.

“Um, yeah,” he mumbled. Oh man, he had it bad.

“We've got to get over to the
Resolve
,” Jen said. “Daphne and I are playing soldiers' wives greeting the ship.”

Daphne's mom was on the city council, and she had been pretty involved helping out with the reenactment.

“Okay, cool,” I said. “We'll see you guys over there.”

“Maybe we can all go out to the diner after,” Jen suggested, looking at Joe in a way that made it clear the invitation was meant mostly for him.

I subtly elbowed Joe, who still hadn't untied his tongue. “Um, yeah, that would be really great,” he said, rather lamely in my opinion, but at least it was better than a blank stare. Jen smiled and started to leave before turning back to Joe.

“I really like your hat,” she said playfully. “I think it looks cute on you.”

Joe grinned. The compliment seemed to miraculously revive his confidence.

“And you look like the loveliest girl in all the king's colonies,” he replied in what I think he meant to sound like a James Bond accent.

Sure, it was corny and the accent was terrible, but it got a big giggle out of Jen. It was good to see Joe regain his form.

“Till we meet again, milady,” he said, then removed the silly red tricorn hat and swept it forward, bowing dramatically.

Jen curtsied in her Colonial dress, her eyes crinkling with a smile, and walked off laughing with Daphne, who, of course, didn't bother to say good-bye. That was okay. I knew Joe really liked Jen, so I didn't mind taking one for the team and being his wingman on a dubious double date with Daphne that night. That didn't mean I couldn't give him a hard time now, though.

“Your British accent is almost as bad as the Don's,” I said, which reminded me, “What's up with your general anyway? The Don really seems to be getting into the reenactment.”

Now that the smoke had cleared, all the “wounded” soldiers had gotten up, brushed themselves off, and joined the celebration. All of them except Don Sterling. The Don hadn't budged. The battle was over and he was still playing dead on the other side of the field. He seemed to be taking the whole thing very seriously.

“Yeah, he still hasn't broken character. That's some impressive method acting.” Joe laughed.

“For the Don, at least,” I added.

“He's a regular Don-iel Day-Lewis,” Joe cracked, and I
groaned. Some of my brother's jokes are better than others.

“Wow, he really went all out, he even used squibs,” Joe observed, referring to the exploding blood packs they use in movies to simulate gunshot wounds. Sure enough, a dark circle had appeared over his chest.

“Mr. Lakin isn't going to be thrilled about him ruining one of the museum's best uniforms,” I said, and as if on cue, Mr. Lakin walked up.

“Greetings, boys. I'd say our little reenactment was quite a success,” he proclaimed.

“That was some fancy riding, Mr. Lakin,” Joe said, barely containing a sly smile. Joe was a pro at tweaking teachers without them knowing it, but Mr. Lakin was onto him. It's a good thing the reenactment had General Lakin in a good mood.

“Ha!” he laughed. “I nearly broke my neck. We would have had to add a new chapter to the history book about the bumbling American general who fell off his horse mid-battle. I think I'm going to be sore for a week.”

Mr. Lakin rubbed his backside, getting a good laugh out of Joe and me. Victory had our hardest teacher in a light mood.

“Speaking of rewriting history,” he said, and turned his attention to Don Sterling, who was still lying on his side, apparently reveling in his unscripted role as a fallen British general.

“Get up and stop showing off, Don,” Mr. Lakin called out. “We've got to get over to the ship for the dedication.”

Mr. Lakin made his way over to Don Sterling. “It's bad enough we have to suffer through your performances onstage. Now come on, we're going to be late for our own party. The whole world doesn't stop for you, you know.”

Mr. Lakin gave the Don's boot a kick. The Don didn't move.

Joe and I exchanged a glance. Something was definitely not right. Joe knelt down and put his fingers on Don Sterling's neck like we'd been taught in our first aid course.

“I don't think he's acting,” Joe said after a moment. “It's hard to fake not having a pulse.”

A
ND JUST LIKE THAT, THE
make-believe battlefield turned into a real crime scene.

“Oh my God, he had a heart attack,” someone yelled, and people started to panic.

Mr. Lakin, used to managing disorderly assemblies as a high school teacher, quickly started trying to calm down the onlookers. Another one of the redcoats was an off-duty paramedic, but it was already too late. The Don was gone.

Thankfully, most of the reenactors and the crowd had already headed over to the
Resolve
for the ship's rededication, so the scene was less chaotic than it could have been.

Frank and I have a kind of silent shorthand, and we can usually read each other's thoughts pretty well, which comes
in handy at times like this. We looked at each other, and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. A heart attack during the reenactment may have seemed like a logical conclusion. With all the noise and excitement of the reenacted battle, it followed that his heart could have stopped and no one would have noticed until it was too late. Or . . . I looked down at the red blotch on Sterling's shirt above his heart where his coat had fallen open, the one I had first assumed came from a stuntman's trick blood pack. Frank and I exchanged another look.

“It's not a squib,” he said in a hushed voice.

“It's a bullet wound,” I finished the thought.

“Or a musket ball wound,” Frank amended.

Frank pulled out a pen and used it to gently lift the lapel of the Don's red coat so as not to contaminate any evidence. (Leave it to Frank to always carry a pen even while dressed as an eighteenth-century soldier.) Sure enough, there was a hole the size of a .75 caliber musket ball in the fabric above the Don's heart. Don Sterling's unscripted collapse from enemy fire hadn't been an act, and it hadn't been a heart attack or any other natural cause. Someone had really shot the Don through the heart!