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They come from just about every one of the fifty states and represent nearly every walk of life. They meet to share a common bond: a keen interest in the events and battles of the American Civil War. Traveling by bus, train, car, or plane, they join together in places such as Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas. Some are lawyers, teachers, and former soldiers. Others are mechanics, plumbers, and accountants. But for the next three days they will put aside their careers, turn their backs on their own time, and don the uniforms of the Confederate and Union armies. On the hallowed ground of Gettysburg National Military Park, they will march, drill, and reenact the highlights of the unforgettable battle that occurred there in July 1863. Dr. Russell Keaton, a general practitioner from the small town of Indian River, Massachusetts, had been fascinated with the Civil War since he’d first seen Gone With the Wind when he was nine. Although he’d been too young to comprehend the Scarlett-Ashley-Rhett love triangle, the scene where the wounded and dying rebel soldiers lay on the ground outside the Atlanta train station left a lasting impression on his fertile young mind. For weeks after he’d seen the movie he would pretend he was a Confederate soldier sent to help Dr. Meade tend to his wounded comrades. Glen Ackroyd, a history professor at Penn State University, had met Dr. Keaton several years before at a reenactment of the battle of Cold Harbor. Since that time the two men had met at many reenactments and had become good friends. “Hey, Doc,” Glen called when he saw Russell get out of his rental car. “Well, if it isn’t the absent-minded professor,” Russell replied. “I missed you at Antietam last month.” “I had to attend a wedding. Angela’s younger sister got married, and she wanted Angela to be the matron of honor. How’d it go down in Antietam?” “Pretty well. Of course, Antietam doesn’t draw as large a crowd as Gettysburg.”
The two men carried the doctor’s bags over
to the line of pitched tents. “Unless you’re from south of the Mason-Dixon Line,” Glen laughed. “Did you find out what unit we’re in?” “We got the prize this time, buddy: Pickett’s division.” “You’re kidding! I’ve always wanted to make that charge,” Russell said excitedly, like a child who was about to visit Disneyland. “Me too. Of course, charging up Cemetery Ridge in this heat, especially wearing a uniform and lugging a rifle and ammo could prove to be a little enervating.” “Look at the bright side, professor, unlike most of the men in the real Pickett’s division, we’ll make it back alive.”
Russell and Glen, both tired and hot after a day of drilling, parading, and participating in scaled down reenactments of the fighting at the Peach Orchard and Culp’s Hill, sat on the rocks at Devil’s Den eating their evening rations. “I don’t know about you, Doc, but I’d rather have walked over to Steinwehr Avenue and eaten at Pickett’s All You Can Eat Buffet.” “We’re supposed to eat what the Confederate troops ate. Complete authenticity is the key to a good reenactment.” “Well, just don’t expect me to take a Minie ball in the leg. There is a limit to how far even a dedicated history professor and confirmed Civil War buff will go.” “It’s getting cooler now. I think I’ll take a walk. Care to join me, professor?” “Can we walk past McDonalds?” asked Glen, who in the absence of a tempting buffet would be willing to settle for a double quarter-pounder with cheese. “I thought I’d take Taneytown Road and go up past the cemetery. But we can walk down Steinwehr and stop at McDonalds on the way back.” As they walked past Little Round Top and over Cemetery Ridge, Russell became more reflective. “Do you ever wonder why an educated and civilized man travels for hours and leaves the comfort of his home behind to put on a uniform and play soldier? Just think about it a minute. I’m a doctor and you’re a historian. We know better than most the terrible loss and suffering that occurred on this spot in 1863. Yet here we are, wanting to view the scenes of the carnage firsthand, trying to recreate the skirmishes where so many men lost their lives.” “Most people are fascinated by death and disaster: from the driver who rubbernecks at the scene of a bad accident, to the people who read true crime books, to those of us who travel to battlefields and war memorials. I see it in my classroom all the time. If I teach a lesson on Kennedy’s role in the Civil Rights movement or the Bay of Pigs scandal, half the students are doodling on their notepads or looking out the windows, but the day I discuss the assassination, they all follow my lecture with rapt attention.” “What do they do when you discuss the Warren Commission and the magic bullet theory?” “Just what you and I would do: they laugh.”
The cool breeze they’d felt while sitting in Devil’s Den had been growing steadily stronger, and the sky was getting darker, much too dark for this early in the evening. “I think we’re in for some rain. I guess the Weather Channel’s wrong again,” Russell remarked. “Just how badly do you want that hamburger?” Before Glen could respond, a bolt of lightning seemed to split the sky, followed by the ominous growl of thunder. Within seconds of its final echo, the rain started to fall. “Let’s run up to the visitors’ center until this passes over,” Glen suggested, already sprinting over the freshly mowed green lawn. Another bolt of lightning struck: it’s brightness momentarily blinded them. The two men, who had been running through the downpour with their heads down, now looked up. “Professor, do you see what I see?” Russell asked with amazement. “Yeah, Doc,” Glen replied nervously, “absolutely nothing.” The visitors’ center, the national cemetery, the Cyclorama Battle Theater and dozens of commemorative monuments had all disappeared. Gone, too, were Taneytown Road and Steinwehr Avenue along with the motels, restaurants, museums, and gift shops located on those busy streets. Glen and Russell found themselves alone on a dirt road with the sun shining brightly overhead as though it were near the noon hour. “Halt or I’ll fire!” They heard a voice call out from the cover of a group of trees to their right. A man in a tattered gray uniform walked into the clearing, his rifle aimed at the two friends. “Who are you and what company are you with?” the man demanded to know. Glen laughed - this fellow was taking authenticity to a new level. “We’re in Pickett’s division. We were on our way to McDonalds. I hate to charge on an empty stomach.” “I asked you what company you’re with.” Obviously the man had no sense of humor. “I’m Dr. Russell Keaton from Massachusetts, and this is Professor Glen Ackroyd of Penn State University. We came to Gettysburg to take part in the battle reenactment.” “Gettysburg? That’s a few days’ march from here.” The man seemed highly suspicious of anyone from the state of Massachusetts wearing a Confederate uniform. “I’m taking you back to camp. You two walk ahead and don’t make any sudden moves. I’ll have my rifle aimed at your backs the whole time.” “What the hell’s going on?” Glen complained. “I can take a joke as well as the next guy, but I just don’t get the punch line here.” “Shut up and walk!” The man accentuated his order with a hard shove to Glen’s back. “Hey, watch…” Glen started to object, but Russell cautioned his friend. “I don’t think we should argue with a man carrying a loaded gun.” The look on Russell’s face warned the professor not to anger their captor. Whatever was going on, it was obviously no joke.
The three men walked almost a mile and a half before reaching the encampment. “There’s something very wrong here, Doc,” Glen whispered. “Just look at this place.” It was unlike any camp they’d ever constructed on the Civil War’s famed battlefields, and the men they saw were no reenactors. Many were malnourished, sick or wounded. All of them were unwashed and unshaven, dressed in uniforms torn and bloodstained by real battles. “Just where the hell are we?” Russell muttered. It was Glen, the scholar, who first perceived their predicament. “Not where, Doc, but when.” It was not a question of what place they were in so much what time they were in. Since that second bolt of lightning had struck, Glen had neither seen nor heard any sign of the marvels of modern man. Not one airplane had flown overhead. There were no distant sounds of cars, chainsaws or lawnmowers and no utility poles, telephone lines or paved roads. A young Confederate lieutenant came out of the mess tent to speak to Glen and Russell. He suspiciously eyed the two freshly laundered and pressed uniforms, which showed no sign of wear. “Empty your pockets.” The lieutenant stared in amazement at the driver’s licenses, credit cards, and photographs in the men’s wallets, and he closely examined the currency he found in the billfolds. “It’s Lincoln,” he said looking at a five-dollar bill. Then he picked up the coins and noticed the dates: 1978, 1987, 1993. “Bartlett,” the lieutenant called to one of his men. “I’m taking these two to see the General. You come along with a group of guards and keep an eye on them. They may try to escape.”
Russell and Glen waited outside with the guards while Lt. Morgan went into the general’s tent. When Morgan eventually invited the two of them inside, they were confronted with positive proof of their journey back in time. For the tired looking man sitting behind a makeshift desk was none other than Lieutenant General James Longstreet, commander of the First Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia. “My lieutenant claims that you two men are Federal spies,” Longstreet said. “I assure you, sir, we’re not spies,” Russell stated emphatically. “Well, you certainly don’t look like soldiers. Who are you and what are you doing in those uniforms?” Glen spoke up before Russell could answer. “We’re actors. These uniforms are our costumes. We travel through the South acting out Confederate victories for both the troops and the folks back home. We’ve found it does a lot to improve morale, sir.” “What about this money they found on you? And these things?” Longstreet held up their drivers’ licenses and credit cards. “They appear to be some type of official documents. This one says that you are from Massachusetts and that you were born in October 1952.” “That’s correct, sir,” answered Russell. “Those papers are only meant as a joke, though,” Glen lied. “Courtesy of a printer in Charleston with a strange sense of humor.” Longstreet ignored the professor and stared into the doctor’s face, waiting for him to explain. “I was born on October 17, 1952 in Boston. I’m a medical doctor with a private practice in Indian River, Massachusetts. Those photographs are of my wife, Angela, and our sons, Tom and Robert. This morning, I left Boston and traveled to Gettysburg.” Lt. Morgan spoke up, “That’s impossible! Even the fastest train couldn’t travel from Boston to Pennsylvania in one day.” “In your time it was impossible, but not in mine.” “Exactly when is your time, doctor?” Longstreet asked. “I live in the year 2001.” Lt. Morgan scoffed at the idea and demanded that Russell stop wasting their time and confess the truth. Longstreet remained silent, however. “If you are from the future,” he finally asked, “what are you doing in those uniforms? Is this bloody war to continue for another 140 years?” “No. My friend was somewhat correct when he said that we’re actors. There are groups of men in my time who have a great interest in the War Between the States. We meet on old battlefields, wearing the uniforms of both the North and South, and we act out important engagements of the war in front of crowds of spectators.” “Then what were you doing in Gettysburg?” “Russ!” Morgan, Keaton, and Longstreet were surprised by the urgency in Glen’s voice. “I think you’ve already explained who and what we are. You don’t want to take up the General’s valuable time with a lot of boring details about a bunch of grown men playing soldiers.” “I beg to disagree with you, Mr. Ackroyd. I want to hear all about Dr. Keaton’s activities in Gettysburg.” Longstreet turned back to Russell. “If what you’ve told me is true, then you must know the outcome of this war.” “I do,” Russell said sadly. “For God’s sake, Russell, don’t say any more,” Glen pleaded. “Don’t you realize the danger here? If you tell him what’s going to happen in his immediate future, theoretically it could have a disastrous impact upon our own time.” “Why be so pessimistic, Glen? We might change history for the better. By telling him what we know, we might be able to save thousand of lives.” “It might just as easily cause thousands of deaths. The events of this war and of the next 138 years, however tragic some may have been, gave birth to who and what we are in the year 2001. We can’t take the risk of altering the course of history.” Longstreet angrily slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t want to hear your theories and speculations, sir. I don’t give a damn about what happens in the year 2001. My only concern is for my men and what may be ahead of them. Now I demand you tell me what you were doing in Gettysburg.” Russell looked at Glen, his eyes apologizing for what he was about to do. “I’m a doctor. I swore an oath to save lives.” Glen shook his head in weary resignation as Russell turned back to Longstreet. “On July first, second, and third of 1863, Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia will fight General George Meade and the Army of the Potomac in Gettysburg.” “Meade? Joe Hooker commands the Army of the Potomac.” “Hooker resigned on June 28, and Lincoln appointed Meade to take command.” Longstreet seemed to be considering the plausibility of this information. He knew firsthand that Hooker had been indecisive at Chancellorsville and that Lincoln wanted a general who would take the offensive. “Go on.” “It will be the bloodiest battle ever fought on American soil. There will be close to 50,000 casualties. After two days of heavy fighting, Lee will make a daring move. George Pickett will lead a valiant charge across a mile of open field straight into enemy fire, but he will be repulsed by the Union troops who hold the high ground.” “Will it be the end of the war?” “No. But it will mark the turning point for the South. Lee will retreat to Virginia and never attempt another invasion of the North. On July fourth, Vicksburg will surrender to General Ulysses S. Grant. The North will thus gain control of the Mississippi River, and the Confederacy will be split in two. In 1864, Grant will be put in charge of all Union forces. He’ll invade Virginia and capture Richmond in 1865. General William Sherman will capture Atlanta and march toward Savannah, leaving destruction in his wake. Finally, on April ninth, 1865, General Lee will surrender to Grant at Appomattox Court House in Virginia.” Lt. Morgan, his rebel pride unable to admit even the remotest possibility of defeat, bellowed at Russell, “You goddamned Yankee spy, how dare you stand there and suggest that Bobby Lee will surrender and that the South will be defeated? We whupped you blue bellies at Bull Run, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and we’ll whup you in Pennsylvania. General Lee won’t quit until he’s sent that no-good abolitionist in the White House back to Illinois where he belongs!” “That will be enough, Morgan. You may return to your duties now,” Longstreet said firmly. He then turned to Glen, “One of my men will accompany you to the mess tent. You can have something to eat while your friend and I have a talk with General Lee.” But for the first time in his life, Glen Ackroyd wasn’t hungry.
Russell repeated his story in front of Robert E. Lee, one of the greatest military commanders in history. Lee listened carefully to everything he said, not batting an eye even when Russell told him about Appomattox and the end of the Confederacy. “The old South will fade into history, but a new South will be born. The United States will grow; our country will extend from the Atlantic to the Pacific and will include Alaska and Hawaii, too. In a century from now, America will be the most powerful country in the world. We’ll even send men and women into outer space. In fact, an American named Neil Armstrong will be the first man to walk on the surface of the moon.” “Thank you, Dr. Keaton,” Lee said quietly. He then instructed two of his men, “You may show the good doctor out now.” After Russell was gone, Lee went to examine his war-torn map of Pennsylvania. “General Longstreet, I do believe our enemy hopes to keep us away from Gettysburg with this preposterous story. What do you think is so important about Gettysburg that they would go to all this trouble?” “General, I don’t think this is a scheme. I know the doctor’s story is hard to believe, but his passion and conviction are so real. I have the distinct feeling that he’s telling us the truth.” “I’m told the insane have a good deal of passion and conviction, too.”
Russell joined Glen, under guard, in the mess tent. “Well, you don’t have to worry about the course of history. I don’t think Lee believed me. In fact, he looked at me as if I were a raving lunatic about to foam at the mouth.” “I wonder what they’ll do with us now.” Glen asked. “If we don’t get back to our own time soon, they’ll probably send you to a military prison and drag me off to an asylum.” “Uh oh! Here they come,” Glen said when he spied a group of soldiers headed their way. “General Longstreet wants to see you, Doctor,” a young private announced and then escorted Russell back to Longstreet’s tent. “General Lee doesn’t believe your story. He thinks you and your friend were sent by the Federal army to keep us away from Gettysburg. He suspects there’s good reason behind it.” “But you believe me, don’t you, General?” “Yes. This morning we were headed for Carlisle to join forces with General Ewell. Then we were to continue on to Harrisburg. But now Lee’s ordered us to reverse our direction: we’re going to march to Gettysburg.” The two men were silent for some time, both troubled by their own thoughts. “Dr. Keaton, I have a personal question to ask, and I’d like a truthful answer. Will I survive the battle at Gettysburg?” “Both the battle and the war, General Longstreet. When this is all over, you’ll take part in building that new government I spoke of, and you’ll live to a ripe old age.” Longstreet smiled and extended his hand to Russell. “Thank you. I must tell you I came to the conclusion some time ago that the South would eventually be defeated. But I was determined to fight to the end nevertheless. Now, I only wish we could avoid another two years of senseless bloodshed. But I guess this great country you spoke of is worth the sacrifice.” The sky darkened, and the winds began to blow. “This is the same type of storm that had preceded our journey back to 1863. Maybe now is the time for us to go back to our own time. Please general, may I go to my friend?” Lee had wanted them kept under guard, to be available for further questioning if necessary. But Longstreet could see no point in keeping these two men prisoners of time. “Yes, you’re free to go,” he said, countermanding Lee’s order. “And good luck to you both, Doctor.” “Thank you, General. I’d just like to say that it’s been an honor meeting you, sir. Do you have any other questions before I go?” Russell asked as the two men shook hands. “As a matter of fact I do. Just how did you get from Boston to Pennsylvania in only one day?” “I flew.” Russell laughed at the dumbfounded look on Longstreet’s face.
“Glen?” Russell shouted for his friend over the howling wind. “Russ, I’m over here!” “I think the storm is a signal that we’re going to go home.” “I hope so. Much as I love history, I don’t relish the idea of becoming a permanent part of it.” Lightning ripped across the sky like a rocket, and the thunder sounded like cannon fire. “I’m scared, Russ. What if we’re stuck here? We’ll never see our families again.” The rain came down like sleet. “Maybe we should run for cover, Doc.” “I don’t think that’s necessary.” He held his breath, waiting for the next flash of lightning. Before it struck, temporarily blinding them both, Russell saw General James Longstreet wave goodbye from the opening of his tent. People driving down Taneytown Road stared at the sight of two grown men in Confederate uniforms jumping up and down in the pouring rain, laughing and hugging each other, on the lawn in front of the visitors’ center. “We’re back!” shouted Glen, who actually bent down and kissed the ground of the battlefield. “Look at all that traffic. What a beautiful sight!” The rain was letting up, and the sun began to peek through the clouds. “Hey, professor, why don’t we walk down to McDonalds and I’ll treat you to a quarter-pounder?” “Make it a double quarter-pounder with cheese and super size it, and you’ve got a deal.” Russell shook his head and laughed, “As a doctor and a friend, I’ve got to ask you: don’t you ever worry about your cholesterol level?” “I adhere to the same philosophy as Scarlett O’Hara: ‘I’ll go crazy if I think about it today; I’ll think about it tomorrow.’”
Glen bit into his long-awaited hamburger while Russell opened his shaker salad. But the doctor couldn’t eat. His throat was tightening and unshed tears were stinging his eyes. “What’s wrong, Doc?” “I honestly thought I might help end the war and thus prevent the battles at Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Spotsylvania, Chattanooga, and Cold Harbor.” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Do you know what Longstreet told me? He said Lee was headed north to Harrisburg. It was only after he’d talked to me that he decided to go east towards Gettysburg. Glen, do you think that in trying to stop the bloodshed I actually became the cause of it?” “Well, as a history professor I see two possible explanations. One is that history cannot be changed, regardless of how we may interfere. In that case, if you hadn’t been there, something else would have happened to send Lee to Gettysburg. History books offer different theories as to why Lee marched on Gettysburg. Some historians think Longstreet’s scout, Harrison, passed on information that influenced Lee. Others think Lee didn’t want to spread his army so thin in enemy territory. After all, Gordon and his troops were in York, Ewell was in Carlisle, Imboden’s cavalry was in Hanover, and nobody knew where Jeb Stuart was. If Lee continued on to Harrisburg, he’d be endangering his rear.” “And the other one?” Russell asked after Glen had finally finished his quarter-pounder. “Other what?” “You said you had two possible explanations. What’s the second one?” “Maybe what happened today was no freak occurrence, no atmospheric anomaly. Maybe time isn’t a one-way street like we assume. Perhaps there are intersections and overpasses where one time overlaps another.” “I don’t follow you.” “Your being taken before Longstreet and Lee might not have been a deviation from the actual events of 1863 at all. You could have been as much a part of the course of history as Stonewall Jackson, General Sherman, or Abraham Lincoln. Like I said, they’re only possible explanations, theories without proof, a history professor’s educated guesses. But there’s one thing I’m sure of: you’re not responsible for anyone’s death. It was a long, bloody war, and almost 500,000 men died on both sides. But where do we lay the blame? Who can we point to and say, ‘He’s the one who’s responsible’? Lincoln? The slave owners? The abolitionists? And what about the two world wars, Korea or Vietnam? It takes more than a handful of evil men to wage war. Hordes of people with good intentions get caught up in the political propaganda. They wave their flags and march off to battle singing hymns and chanting patriotic slogans. It’s only after they’ve had their fill of dying and destruction and have finally seen through all the political bullshit, that they hold out the olive branch and talk peace.” Russell watched silently as Glen attacked his French fries. Then with the weight of guilt gone from his shoulders, Dr. Russell Keaton picked up his plastic fork and started eating his salad. “You know what, professor?” “What’s that, Doc?” “You’ve sure got a way with words. Some day I’m going to pay a surprise visit to your classroom. I’d love to hear your lecture on the Kennedy assassination.” “Nah, it’s the one on the Warren Commission you don’t want to miss. That’s the one that leaves them rolling in the aisles.”
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