One night, just a few weeks before major Confederate military operations were to begin, all the Rebel generals met to discuss strategy over a fine southern meal. Present at this meeting were names South Carolina Public School history textbooks are made out of: Johnston, Smith, Lee, Johnston, Bragg, Hardee, Polk, Pemberton, Dorn, Loring, Wise, Floyd, Smith, Johnston, Breckinridge, Sibley, Garnett, Jackson, Loring, Johnson, Magruder, Hill, Johnston, Bragg, French, Hardee, Hill, Hood, Johnston, Taylor, Forrest, Hindman, Smith, Early, Dorn, McCown, Maury, Price, and last but not least…

Beauregard.

“I must say suh, this is one fine meal you’ve provided for us here.”

“On the contrary, it was not I who delegated the preparation,” said Commanding General Lee, wiping grease from his snow-white mustache, “It was an up-an-coming officer named Lieutenant Sanders, who’s a member of my hand-picked personal troop. He’s surprisingly good with a pot and pan—so much so that my cook is worried about his job!”

Courtesy laughs sprung up here and there, and after the last awkward moment died, Lee donned a look of deathly seriousness.

“In any case, let’s consider our situation, gentleman. Is there any new information concerning our plans to defend the inevitable attack from Washington?”

General Johnston spoke up first, “Suh, there is good reason to believe, considering the strategic locale of the place, with the railroad lines an’ such, that the town of Manassas is a probable location for the Union’s first major push through our borduh.”

Lee pondered for a moment, stroking his beard while developing a map of Manassas in his mind.

“I believe that you are correct in terms of locale, Johnston, but you are missing the crucial point. The primary danger with a Union occupation of Manassas is, however, that it provides a stepping-stone to the capital itself.”

General Maury jumped from his seat with clenched fists, “Which would be uh stab to all ah hearts if that wuh to happen tuh us…”

Awkward silence pervaded the dining room once again, but Lee broke it, saying, “Actually, it would be a shot to our heads—more than likely.”

General Maury was ignored for the remainder of the meeting.

“In any case, Johnston, would you happen to know the total number of men the Union currently has under command around the Washington area?”

“Ovuh 45,000, suh—split into three different groups.”

“All greenhorns?”

“All greenhawns. Scouts and spies have obsuhved them playing chess tournaments as paht of basic training.”

“I see… still, over 45,000 seems like a tall bill to fill, even if they think they’re heading off for a picnic. Once they realize we don’t intend to play their games—things will become serious,” Lee sighed, wiped his wrinkled brow with a napkin, and leaned forward dramatically with his hands on the dining room table, “From this and other intelligence I have acquired, there is a very good chance any engagement we have with the Washington force could turn catastrophic. Settle down, Maury.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suh, there is still more.”

“What is it, Johnston?”

Johnston let out a knowing grin.

“Beauregawd has just hitched his hawse to your front porch.”

The room erupted with subdued excited clamor, the gray-clad strategists whispering in each other’s ears.

“Beauregawd?”

“That young buck ended up cuhmin’ anyway…”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s thuh most decorated new General in recent history!”

“You’ve nevah met General Boohregard?”

“I’ve nevah evuhn heard uhve the man!”

“Why, that’s an insult!”

“I demand satisfacshun upon the ‘onruble name of General Boohregard!”

“Settle down, Maury,” said Lee, “Even I, personally, haven’t ever met the man. I have heard, however, of his decorated history and the greatness expected of him in upcoming campaigns. If my esteemed colleagues here before me believe that General Beauregard can make a difference at Manassas, then I am also obliged to trust their collective judgment and appoint General Beauregard to lead the defensive against—”

This moment is when most people now suspect Robert E. Lee, Commander of the Confederate Army, went insane.

General Beauregard had arrived.

“What in the blazes is that?” yelled General Lee.

General Loring chimed in, “Why, suh, it’s the ‘onruble General Boohregard!”

A cry of “hip, hip, hooray!” was on its second “hip,” when Lee interjected, “Gentleman, now is hardly the time to pull an elaborate ruse upon your commanding officer. Give up on this foolishness, and come back to the task at hand. Afterwards, tell me how you managed to create that giant chicken.”

A collective incredulous gasp burst from every last man in the room, save Lee and the giant chicken.

“Why, suh! Why would you say such an insulting remark!”

“What do you mean by this, General Lee?”

“Why, General Beauregawd is one of the most courageous men I’ve ever known—hardly a, ‘giant chicken,’ suh!”

“Buh-Buh-Buhgawk!” said the giant chicken, pecking at a piece of bread accidentally dropped on the floor.

“Ya, see, General! Now you’ve made him upset—completely ungentlemanly like, General Lee.”

“We apologize General Boohregard; the General hasn’t evuh acted like this befaw.”

After a moment’s silence, Lee started laughing like a jackal.

“Even though this is completely uncalled for, I have to commend the thoroughness of your joke, gentlemen! Now, enough with this frivolity, bring out the real General Beauregard and I’ll brief him. I’m sure that he’s currently laughing harder than I am. It will be quite a way to meet the man, right after a giant chicken, wearing an oversized Confederate Officer’s uniform, is introduced to me under his name and title!”

As he continued laughing, jaws were dropping all around him, except that of the giant chicken, as it was swallowing a loaf of bread at the time.

“General Lee… is there… somethin’ wrong?”

“Yeah, are you feelin’ well?”

“This isn’t like you hat all…”

“I wonder if he has thuh cholerah?”

“Maybe.”

“Bwawwk… Buh-Gawk!” said the giant chicken.

“That’s very forgiving of you, General Beauregawd.”

“Nothin but civilized behavior from that man, theah.”

There was a new glint in Lee’s eyes, one only his enemies in battle had seen before that night.

“You all aren’t… serious, am I not correct?” the general stammered with a slight stutter. “You have taken this far enough. It is becoming more than just unwise to carry on the joke. You are attempting to force-feed a ruse down your commanding officer’s throat, one appointed by Jefferson Davis himself. That isn’t a good idea, gentlemen. I would advise you to cease and desist.”

General Pemberton stepped forward, “General, ah believe that it is you who should sease thuh ruse.”

“Bwawwk-Buh-Buh-Buh-Buh-Gawk!” said the giant chicken.

“Well put, General Boohregawd!”

And so, things escalated from there. I’ve decided not to describe that particular passage of time, as it isn’t pleasurable to put the slowly flowing poison of insanity down in ink—no matter how many fans Poe has.

In any case, later that night, after Lee was sent to the medical ward, General Maury discovered that Beauregard was, in fact, a giant chicken—as he was allergic to chicken feathers. As you could imagine, if one already reacts to normal sized chickens, the effects of a giant chicken, well, wouldn’t be desirable. It was a week before General Maury woke up, and by that time, “General Boohregawd” had already rode out with over 10,000 Confederate troops to hold Union Brigadier General McDowell’s massive force at Manassas.

It’s been told that Abraham Lincoln had fried chicken put on the Presidential menu for the next two months.

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Possibly the weirdest thing I've ever written and the only Local Color piece I've ever attempted. Also, this was inspired by a cartoon within a cartoon--the reference is so vague and niched that it doesn't really qualify as Fan-Fiction.

If you guess it... then, a warm handshake I shall give ye.

Oh, and BTW, I was born and raised in South Carolina.