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Wednesday, April 4

Blog #2: Bull Run

Patrick Greer

Blog #2: The Battle of Bull Run

18 year-old Harold Sanders was running for his life.

The Confederacy’s comeback had risen out of nothing. A few minutes ago, he had been wandering around, dazed from the “completed” battle. His fellow combatants were shaking each other’s hands, picking up rifle shells and even snacking on bread. Amongst all of the hubbub, no one had noticed the Rebels advancing once again…and now he was running through an unfamiliar forest. He didn’t care about desertion or how infuriated his commander would become when he heard of Harold’s crime.

But Harold didn’t care. It was a bloodbath back there, and he was not a child fit for war. He was only a simple city boy, born and raised in a rich family. He didn’t belong there. Harold halted, thinking he had been running for an exceptional time and it was getting dark, so sat down to get a drink of water. I will run back to Mother and Father and get them to protect me, Harold thought. He didn’t see his conscription as fair; how could the government even-


            “Who’s that?” Harold involuntarily screamed. “Who’s out there…” He surveyed the area around him, but saw nothing. “Hearing things again…,” he muttered to himself, assuring his mind there was no one watching him. Surely the Confederates couldn’t have taken the time to follow him, could they? But even so…Harold wasn’t going to take any chances. He rose up and began speed-walking out of the small clearing. The walk broke into a jog. The jog turned into a wild, uncontrolled sprint. I don’t want to die, Harold screamed in his head. He couldn’t die. He wanted to live his life. “Don’t kill me! Don’t shoot!” he cried to the darkness. “Go away!” Harold had seen what death was like in the past few hours, and he had had enough blood. No more death, no more, please, God save me, he thought. He abruptly fell flat to the ground and quieted down. Maybe if I use the darkness as a blanket, the Rebels will give up and go away, he reassured himself. He held his breath and listened.


            Harold waited for a couple minutes more, and finally decided he was imagining all these things. The horrors of earlier that day were just popping back into his head and playing with his consciousness. He slowly began creeping along the ground and looked up…to the barrel of a rifle.


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