I'm a Civil War buff. My father is into military history. When I was a girl, we'd go on camping trips and wander battlefields. I've read dozens of books and visited every major battlefield in the East, and some in the West. This is one of my passions, as is Supernatural, and I'm incredibly excited to put them together.
You don't have to be a history expert to read this story. I'll do my best to keep things accessible. If I make a throw-away reference, chances are you won't need to understand it. I'll explain what matters. IF YOU READ ON AO3, I AM ANNOTATING THE STORY WITH ARTICLES, IMAGES, MAPS AND VIDEOS. However, I cannot do so on FF dot net. I'm sorry! If you want that content I highly recommend you go and read on there - you don't need an account. My username is Unforth, story title is the same (What Do I Stand For?) If you have questions about the historical events, please review or message me and I will explain (unless doing so gives spoilers for the story). I'll also post supporting material on my Tumblr (unforth-ninawaters).
The US Civil War is one of the defining conflicts of US History. Fought from 1861 to 1865, it began when the Southern states seceded in response to the election of Republican President Abraham Lincoln, whom Southerners feared would push anti-slavery legislation and other things they opposed (such as a Homestead Act). Asserting that the US Constitution was not a permanently binding contract, but rather an agreement that a state could opt out of, 13 states seceded, starting with South Carolina on December 20th, 1860. All thirteen had legal slavery.
Declaring secession unlawful, and that the seceding states were in open rebellion, Abraham Lincoln mobilized the remaining 20 states (four of which, called the Border States, had slaves - Kentucky, Missouri, Maryland and Delaware). The war began in South Carolina on April 12th, 1861, when Confederate forces opened fire on Fort Sumter after Federal troops refused to vacate the fortress located in Charleston Harbor.
By July, 1861, when this story begins, things were chaotic - it wasn't clear if the border states would secede, armies were facing off in Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, and all along the border between Virginia and Maryland. Confederate troops menaced the US capital in Washington DC. The Confederate capital was in Richmond, Virginia. Washington and Richmond are only 100 miles apart, and thus that area was obvious as a theater for war.
650,000 men died in the US Civil War - to put that in perspective, roughly 725,000 US soldiers have died in every other war the US has participated in COMBINED. The Civil War killed 2.4% of the entire US population. Roughly a third of all soldiers who served were casualties (casualty is defined as killed, wounded, captured, or missing in action). Individual battles had casualty rates as high as 40%. Compare to World War 2, where casualty rates for the armies - excluding civilian populations - were around 15%, and battles usually hovered around 10% casualties of the total men engaged.
Basically...the US Civil War bloody and brutal. I'm going to try to do that justice in this story...as such:
WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH. I'm fuzzy on the definition of "major"...but people are going to die, and people are going to get hurt, and it's going to get graphically violent.
I'm making an effort to keep this accurate, but I'm making some deliberate a-historical decisions. Feel free to point out that I've goofed something. If it's one of the things I've done intentionally, I'll let you know, and if not, I'll try to amend, but no promises. :)
There are three types of characters in this
1. Characters from Supernatural.
2. Historical figures. Abraham Lincoln is president,
3. "Replacements." A small number of Supernatural characters, I've "cast" as historical figures. For example, Bobby Singer is basically James Longstreet - there will be no Longstreet in this story.
Recent controversy on the Confederate Flag has, I've noticed, left a lot of people with the impression that the US Civil War was about "good Northern people" and "bad Southern people." This is a gross oversimplification. Most people on both sides were horribly racist by modern standards, and even President Lincoln declared that if he could end the war by leaving every single slave with their owners, he'd do so. Just because someone fought for the Confederates, that did not make them unsympathetic to the suffering of slaves. Both sides committed atrocities, both sides did noble deeds, there were men and women on both sides who did the "right thing," and plenty who didn't. This story is about exploring those shades of gray.
This is the most ambitious project I've written. I'll do my best to update regularly - I'm hoping for 3 chapters per week. I anticipate final word count between 200,000 and 300,000. I'm a little terrified of bringing it all together, but bear with me - I promise, if nothing else works, the smut will be hot. :)
Title is from Fun.'s song "Some Nights," I HIGHLY recommend you watch the music video on Youtube and see why - go to www dot youtube dot com, type this after: /watch?v=qQkBeOisNM0
Chapter 1: The Better Angels of Our Nature
Dearest Anna, July 14th, 1861
We are arrived in Washington with such fanfare that you'd think us the first Regiment on the scene, rather than one of dozens. There is nothing like unearned adulation to go to one's head, make one feel a hero simply for donning the uniform and waving the pennant. Fortunately, the officers of the 27th are wise men, and none of us have allowed the cheering to go to our heads. Or rather, some may when we left Elmira, when we were wined and dined by the ladies of Williamsport. However, when we passed through Baltimore, we were reminded vividly that it's not all "Union Forever, huzzah boys, huzzah!" It was the oddest experience in the world to listen to a crowd cheer "Jeff Davis and the Confederacy! No Union with traitors! No alliance with oppressors!" Do they not hear the irony of their words? Do they not see the contradiction? The oppression of 4 millions of our fellow men and women is an invisible crime, yet the installation of a legally elected president is the most heinous of villainy, simply because they do not agree with his political view. As if we have not been subjected to, forced to, practically enslaved to their political view for my lifetime and then some, yet have borne all tyranny and injustice with wise rhetoric and compromise! Now we see the fruits of our patience, the price of near a century of appeasement will be paid in blood.
Forgive me, I digress, and say nothing that you do not already know! I waste my paper and ink on a sympathetic audience. To matters on which I can actually edify you – the trains move most rapidly, and the countryside is beautiful. The men have behaved excellently and done New York proud. We passed through Pennsylvania and Maryland so quickly I can scarce believe it – I am recalled to when I last made this journey and rode the way to visit my brother, when it took weeks. Now, the same distances that once took a day seemed to pass between the time I closed my eyes to blink and when I opened them once more.
Given the late nights of our journey, our arrival last night near midnight, our lack of provision upon our finally marching into Camp Anderson, our early rousing today to the sound of trumpets and "to drill, to drill!" I should be exhausted, yet I find myself filled with energy and excited for what is to come. Rumor has it we will march on Richmond soon, and with God and the right on our side, can the outcome be in doubt? So says everyone, and yet I wonder, thinking on the Secessionists we passed in Maryland. Surely, they feel the same? Thus I ask you, darling – pray for us! Pray that the good in man overcomes the evil, that we can save this most glorious Union, protect it from rebels and fire eaters, and in so doing make this truly a country where it is self-evident that all men are created equal and entitled to life, liberty, and happiness. Yea, before you amend my statement, and women too! You know I stand with you, my love, in this as in all things.
Your, J.C. Novak
Sweltering heat marked mid-afternoon in the capital, weather unlike anything James was familiar with. Sweat soaked through his shirt and vest, made dark patches on his pale blue pants, and only the navy of his uniform jacket hid similar stains. If ever there was a place and a time unsuited to garments of thick felted wool, it was Washington DC in July. Liquid matted dark hair to his forehead, fortunately shielded from public view by his hat, and at least the brim provided his flushed face scant protection from the relentless sunlight. Looking over his troops, formed in battle lines before him, James saw his distress mirrored on nearly every face. Sergeant Bradbury looked so much like he was baking that James wondered that he did not smell the burning flesh, and Lieutenant Fitzgerald was so drenched that he might yet melt into a puddle on the flagstones. Only Lieutenant Henriksen, dark skin coated in a sheen, and Corporal Winchester, whose faint, cultured accent spoke of time spent in the South, seemed immune.
"March by the flank," bellowed Colonel Elkins. In the calm of Franklin Square, every soldier in all three assembled regiments could easily hear the command. Nevertheless, Elkins was a veteran and insisted that what was done on the parade ground was what would be replicated on the battlefield, and thus all must be done properly. Thus, James and every other officer present echoed the Colonel's commands at their loudest shouts.
"Right face!"
With practiced precision, the soldiers of the 27th New York Volunteer Infantry, 12th New York, and 8th and 14th New York Militia turned to their right, half staying in place, the other half stepping broadly to their right amidst a rustle of fabric and a clatter of equipment. Rifles bobbled, tired arms strained under the weight that was still growing familiar despite near six weeks of drill in Elmira before leaving for Washington. Less encumbered with saber and revolver, James felt a lot of sympathy for his troops. None of them were used to this kind of heat and humidity, none of them were used to drilling for this many hours at a time, and certainly none of them were used to the august scrutiny of the assembled watchers. On a leisurely Sunday, many cityfolk had assembled to watch the soldiers of New York drill, and James thought the crowd must number in the hundreds. With pride, James watched as not a soul of his Company stepped out of place, forming four files where there had previously been two, at the ready and expectant for the next order in the sequence.
"Forward march!"
Drawing his saber, James took the lead before his men. The columns marched, more than 2,000 men, some companies in better order than others, tracing the square of streets surrounding the barracks built in the park. The audience oohed and aahed, some few scoffed audibly, and there was a smattering of applause. The dress of the civilians revealed many of the onlookers as among the first of Washington DC society. A familiar face caught James' attention as he tried to focus on maintaining a steady pace, his elder brother Zachariah giving him a wry smile and a wave. Beside him, Zachariah's wife Margaret made a gap in the line of spectators with her wide skirts, a lacy parasol dappling the sunlight over her dark hair and fair skin, watching without the least evident interest in the proceedings. James noted before forcing his gaze before him once more that Zachariah's brow was no less sweaty beneath his top hat, and that his black suit was effective at hiding his sweat, but the white shirt he wore beneath was not.
"Halt! Front!"
A simultaneous tromp of boots marked all four Regiments stopping, turning, and re-forming battle lines smoothly. To an outside observer, the maneuver looked easy, but it could only be executed if every single private, corporal, sergeant, lieutenant and captain knew precisely where to stand and how to move. If one person did not know their place, chaos erupted. It had taken a month of daily drill before the company had been able to execute the 20 or so formations that they now knew by rote. There was still much to learn. James despaired of everyone memorizing the bugle calls, especially Lt. Fitzgerald, who had proved completely tone deaf. In battle, when their voices might be drowned out, understanding the clear tone of a trumpet could spell life or death. Worst of all, though equipped with rifles, the Regiment had yet to be issued ammunition, and had never fired a single shot. At least they were slated for live drill the following day.
"At ease!"
For a breathless moment, no one moved, and then a cheer broke out among Company D, and the militia echoed it, and within moments pandemonium reined, the ordered lines of troops breaking into clusters of men congratulating each other. Bradbury was at his side in a moment, enthusiasm as bright as the sunburn on his youthful face as he scrubbed sweat from his bright red hair.
"We did good, sir, right?" he said, his voice the husky tenor of a boy trying desperately to sound older than he was. Whoever was responsible for the enlistments in Elmira had been especially lax in allowing in the under aged, and James despaired to think that at least 10 or 15 of the men under his command were younger than him by a decade, despite the theoretical requirement that all be 18. There was nothing to be done for it now – their names were on the roster, signed and notarized declaring themselves of age, and none to gainsay.
"Yes," James quirked a gentle smile at the boy. Raising his voice, he spoke to the company, "Excellent work today, everyone!"
"Way better than that unit we saw from Pennsylvania," Gallagher sneered loudly, turning the state name into an insult, earning a general whoop of agreement from his fellow privates.
"That is the wrong sort of competition," admonished James, raising his voice for all to hear. "We are all fighting for the Union, unity and peace. If one unit is under-prepared, it risks all of us. Instead of looking down on them, we must help them to reach our level."
"Yeah, yeah, Captain."
"Come on, you know we're better."
"Who needs Pennsylvania? New York can beat the whole damned Rebel army!"
"Don't even get me started on Boston."
"It's all fun and games until some blowhard gets us killed…"
"Our level?" Winchester seemed to appear at James' shoulder, a feat that should be impossible for a boy six feet tall and surely still growing. He spoke softly, and only James and perhaps those standing closest to him – Bradbury, Ashley, Alfie – could hear. "A single veteran unit would have three rounds off before we finished forming line of battle." His accent gave the words a gentle lilt.
"Then it's a good thing that, north and south, we're all green together," said James quellingly. Of course they had room for improvement, but the negative talk wouldn't help anything. Not for the first time, James wondered how the young man could speak about military matters with so much authority. Estimating generously, James thought Winchester might be 16, only his height and manly voice to belie that he needn't shave regularly, yet he spoke with confident knowledge, and there was something to his eyes that couldn't be doubted.
"A fine show," Zachariah strode across the parade grounds as the Company began to break up, a long line forming at the well pump as everyone sought to refill depleted canteens. With a frown, James' eldest brother wrinkled his nose at the antics of the soldiers as they laughed and passed around a kerchief with which to wipe their brows. "Up to a point, anyway."
"They've – we've – been working very hard," said James. "Would you care to meet my officers?"
" 'Your officers,' " mimicked Zachariah. "You're doing well, Cassie, you're doing very well."
James flushed at the nickname, and Bradbury cackled, his voice cracking. "Captain Cassie Novak!"
"Thanks, brother," muttered James. "Sergeant Bradbury, may I introduce you to my brother, Congressman Zachariah Novak?" Margaret trailed behind, eying the ground distastefully as she used a gloved hand to hold her white-trimmed blue skirts above the dust and browned grass. "And my sister-in-law, Mrs. Margaret Novak?"
"Congressman?" squeaked Bradbury. The smile vanished from his face, his eyes went wide and oddly frightened. James felt guilty, he didn't mean to embarrass the boy, merely to get him to never, ever repeat the nickname James' family had given him. "Well, uh, I'd better make sure everyone gets back to barracks."
"Thanks, Sergeant," James said calmly. His brother's watchful eye always made him nervous, a pointed reminder of how high his family's expectations were, but he suppressed his worries. Neither of his brother's had gone into the military. Now that he was in the army, there was no one to compare his achievements to except his father, and from that point of view, he was already doing well – Michael Novak had begun his service in the War of 1812 as a private, and ultimately won promotion to Colonel. All James had to do was replicate that accomplishment, all James had to do was leverage that success into political office, all he had to do was marry Anna Milton and produce a bevy of good Christian children, all he had to do was distinguish himself in every field he pursued. He let out a slow, measured breath.
Perhaps sensing the tension, Bradbury hesitated a moment, gave a decisive nod, and fled, waving for the other sergeants to join him, grabbing Winchester by the wrist and dragging him along. "Don't crowd, there," Bradbury shouted, voice breaking again. "Form a line, form a line!"
"You've already met Lieutenant Henriksen, I believe?" continued James, ignoring Margaret's look of affronted politeness. James gestured towards his senior Lieutenant, senior in truth, Henriksen probably had 20 years on James, and a lifetime of experiences as a slave and freed man. There was a solidity to Henriksen, a tendency to communicate with a single look exactly what he thought about the world around him, especially the racism and oppression he faced daily. Margaret's reply was a perfect example, her affront became a sneer, her nose wrinkled with disgust, and she rolled her eyes. It had taken all of what little clout James possessed to have Henriksen as his subordinate, and the way most people responded to seeing a black man in the uniform of the United States government sickened James.
"Yes," Zachariah's manners were superior to his wife's, as was his open-mindedness towards people of African descent. "Though I am surprised to see him in such a position of authority."
There wasn't a hint of surprise in his brother's voice, and their mother had undoubtedly written every detail of James' Captaincy in her frequent letters. James refused to dig for the subtext behind the pointed jibe. "Mr. Fitzgerald, of the Binghamton Fitzgeralds, is my other Lieutenant." Fitzgerald had taken up a position by the barracks door, staidly taking muster as the men returned to their bunks for a little rest before dinner and more drill as the cool of evening began to relieve the oppressive heat and humidity. The low door frame made Fitzgerald's height evident, he was usually self-effacing that he faded into the background even when giving commands, but his hat the wood, and nearly every man who walked by him was shorter him by noticeable inches.
"Perhaps we shouldn't disturb him, he appears busy," Zachariah said smoothly, arresting James as he began to walk towards the building. "If all goes as planned, we will have the opportunity to meet him this evening, anyway."
"Oh?" James asked.
"We'd like to extend an invitation to you," Margaret spoke with all the languid indolence of false good breeding. "To Lieutenant Fitzgerald, as well, and any of your other officers whom you deem…appropriate." James repressed a scowl, at Henriksen's being pointedly excluded, at the disgusting wording that would drop the crime at James' feet – Henriksen's omission was entirely deliberate, but if James called Margaret on it, she would proclaim her innocence and suggest that James was the racist, for not deeming his inclusion "appropriate." God save James from a marriage of expediency!
"We're hosting supper this evening," Zachariah's smile was nearly as false as his wife's tone. Another source for troubled thoughts, James reflected sadly. Every year, his brother became further integrated into Washington's culture, less genuine, more unctuous.
"I'm not sure I can be spared from my duties," objected James. It wasn't exactly a lie. The Regiment could manage perfectly well without him for an evening, but he was an officer and it was his responsibility to set an example, to be assiduous in seeing to his command, to attend drill and share the hardships of his men. If that meant skipping supper, as he had the night before, so be it. If they could endure it, he could endure it. The idea of spending the evening in a parlor while the troops spent it drilling and retiring to pallets, feasting on delicacies while they ate hardtack and salt pork, was distasteful.
"Cassie, I can't imagine you being dilatory to even the slightest degree," said Zachariah dismissively. "It is important for the men of the military to be seen as members of society, of high society, not merely as ruffians and common-folk. A man such as yourself, at a table such as mine, can set an example for all of Washington society." James quirked a skeptical eyebrow. "And I'd like to spend an evening with my baby brother." The confession sounded forced, and Margaret's lips flat-lined disdainfully at the reminder that her husband might have some humanity left beneath his die-hard Republican exterior.
"I'll attend," James gave Zachariah a faint smile, and got a triumphant one in return. "I doubt I'll be able to bring Lieutenant Fitzgerald or the other officers, though depending on the hour they might be spared. It's possible that Colonel Elkins could attend, as well."
"We're counting on it," Margaret said with what James hoped was an unintentional air of sarcasm. "He will be family, after all."
"Indeed," James shook his head. "It took me an hour to convince Hannah not to accompany us to Washington, as if an army of rough men was any place for her!"
"Are you sure you convinced her?" Genuine warmth came to Zachariah's voice for the first time. "I wouldn't put it past her to agree to your face while secretly forming a plan of her own. Think of the scandal were she to come alone, and them not yet married! She is as stubborn as our mother, with none of mother's manners to council restraint." Family could still bring Zachariah back to himself. James prayed that it was always so. While James understood the importance of politics, the necessity and prestige of having members of the family among Washington's elite, how critical it was to build alliances in order to effect meaningful change in the nation, James regretted how interacting with such people seemed to alter – he was loathe to use the word that sprang to mind, corrupt, with all it implied about sin and filth – Zachariah's behavior and mind-set.
"She wouldn't," said James with more confidence than he felt. "She—"
"My love," Margaret interrupted dispassionately. "We must speak with the Colonel. You will have opportunity to speak with Captain Novak later."
"Captain Novak," echoed Zachariah with a disingenuous smirk that set James' teeth on edge. "Excellent, excellent – you will do us proud, I'm sure." There was a whisper of you'd better, as if James had ever considered shirking his responsibilities. He was spared having to make a reply as Margaret raised her broad skirts once more and crossed the park towards the Colonel, automatically turning her parasol to block the dazzling sunshine. Zachariah followed with casual haste, an impressive show of not hurrying in her wake while still managing to stay just behind her swaying flounces. Though distance and the hubbub of the troops drowned out the words, James watched with detached interest as Margaret greeted Elkins far more graciously than she'd ever treated James. It confused him, on the one hand – wouldn't it be more appropriate to be polite to one's family members? – yet he was actually relieved that the political nuances of her behavior were beyond him. Michael Novak had high hopes that all of his sons would be successful in all walks of life, distinguishing themselves in politics, war, and business. James had no head for politics, though he had a knack for the law he'd taken up after graduating from Union College. If he could excel at war, and return to his growing practice after, it would have to be enough prestige to satisfy his father.
Thus far, he'd been surprised how appealing he found his military role. The organizational aspects of the work appealed to him, and the prospect of leading men in the cause of right, liberty, and to defend the United States of America fired his blood. With a spring in his step, he joined his lieutenants as they ordered the men to a brief afternoon rest, sending Sergeant Reidy to check on the status of their rations for supper. There was an endless amount to do. Some of the company still did not have hats, not a soldier had an actual sheath for his scabbard, some 15 had been given cartridge boxes with the bottoms out, and no one had ammunition for the Harpers Ferry muskets they'd been issued. The list went on, essential equipment that some or all of his troops lack. James had planned to spend the evening pestering the quartermaster that Colonel Walrath of the 12th had introduced him to at services that morning, but Zachariah's invitation meant he'd not have time, so instead, he scrounged up paper, ink and pen and began to assemble a list, tracking down each of his officers in turn to ask their opinion, his thoughts entirely absorbed elsewhere.
There were great wrongs to be corrected, as he'd written Anna, a chance to finally rectify that which was terribly compromised when the nation was founded. It had to end, the rebellious spirit had to be quelled, the concepts of "secession" and "nullification" need forever expunged from the national lexicon. There were no rights for the states save those granted by the federal government, and there could be no great country if every sway of public opinion could lead this state or that to cry, 'nay, we object, we withdraw!' Further, there could be no justice for all while there were so many denied even basic rights of citizenship. There was Henriksen, chastising Zeddmore and Spangler for horseplay, uniformed and prepared to die for the country of his birth, denied the basic protections of the law, denied the right to vote for those in whom his fate reposed, denied even the possibility of citizenship no matter how long he might dwell upon free soil, denied the right to do as Moses once did for the Jews and lead his wife and child to the promised land. Henriksen was denied humanity because of his skin color, because of the servitude into which he was involuntarily born. It was a crime, a national stain, and James was elated that the time for it to end had come in his lifetime.
I have no purpose, directly or indirectly, to interfere with the institution of slavery in the States where it exists.
So President Lincoln said in his inaugural, but James didn't believe it for an instant. Already, there was talk of drafting a bill for compensated emancipation in the District of Columbia, and it would not end there. Was this not the same man who said,
I hope the lamp of liberty will burn in our bosoms until there shall no longer be a doubt that all men are created free and equal.
Had he not declared,
This Government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved – I do not expect the house to fall – but I do expect it will cease to be divided.
Those were not the words of a man who personally believed that slavery should stand as an institution. The words of Lincoln's inaugural were, even to James' unkeen eye, those of political necessity, a desperate last attempt to avert the War that the South had no desire to avoid. Lincoln had avowed repeatedly that slavery was a moral, social and political evil – James had read such sentiments in speech after speech, had believed in them whole-heartedly as he'd helped his father campaign for Lincoln in Wayne County. James didn't think it optimism in supposing that slavery's abolition would be a condition of welcoming back the states in rebellion. Indeed, he found it impossible to suppose how else things might end.
"Sir?"
Corporal Winchester's quiet voice broke through James' thoughts, and James came back to his task to find that he'd jammed the metal nib of his pen through the paper, bending it on the board beneath that he used as a writing surface, splattering his neatly ordered list with ink. Smiling shyly, Winchester met James' eyes for a moment, hazel shadowed.
"I brought the list for my squad," Winchester proffered a slip of paper to James. On it, in a fine, almost feminine hand, the Corporal had listed every missing item his squad lacked from the expected accoutrement, and how many of each would be needed to bring the men up to muster. Winchester flicked a suggestive look at the inventory that James had just ruined, and James chuckled despite his frustration.
"This is good work," James said. Winchester beamed under the praise, sweeping back long, sweaty locks from his forehead as he lowered his gaze to hide a faint flush. "Perhaps you could integrate your list with mine? And rewrite them?"
"Absolutely!" said Winchester enthusiastically, practically grabbing the board, page and pen from James. "I mean, yes sir, Captain Novak!"
"You may use the desk in my office," James offered. It was not nearly so generous an offer as it sounded, his "office" was the glorified name for the closet that had been assigned to him in the barracks. That it had flimsy walls and a curtain serving as a door afforded him more privacy than anyone else in Company B had, and it had space enough for a narrow cot, a stool, and a writing surface so small that it could most rightly be called a lectern, based on its shape. Best of all, he could stand, dress and shave in private, provided he did not attempt to turn around, for doing so would certainly tumble him on to the cot, promptly collapsing it. As a bastion of solitude, it was the height of luxury. In the entire regiment, only the Colonel had more space. The accommodations for the 27th New York were unusually sumptuous, from what James heard. Several regiments were sleeping on the hard stone of the floor of the unfinished Capitol building, and the night before, marching from the train, they'd passed hundreds sleeping on the ground, and had heard of others sleeping four to a tent meant to accommodate 2, officers and men crowded alike.
"I'll let the Lieutenants know to bring their tallies to you," added James. "And Corporal – I expect I could use a clerk in the future, if that is a position that interests you."
"Aren't you supposed to give orders, sir?" The challenge was back in Winchester's eyes, his intelligence gleaming brightly despite his attempt to appear demure. Curiosity flickered once more, leaving James to wonder how a teenaged boy could so effortlessly portray such confidence and experience.
"Are you questioning me?" James said sternly. Winchester's lips quirked in a smile, chestnut hair falling free again. "I order you to serve as my clerk, Corporal."
"Yes sir!"
Scurrying away, Winchester attempted to slip past Fitzgerald into the barracks, and instead nearly split his forehead on the door frame. James snorted on a laugh. Winchester might be an old soul, but there were many reminders that he was yet an ungainly colt, unused to his height and growing body, entirely capable of forgetting that he was no longer small enough to share a doorway with a grown man, even one as lean as Lieutenant Fitzgerald.
The last of the men retired to the shade and stillness of the barracks as James approached Fitzgerald, and a moment later they were joined by a scowling Henriksen.
"I've named Corporal Winchester my clerk," James informed them. "Get him the requisition lists, he'll compile them. Henriksen, if you would take the list to the quartermaster when he's done?"
"Are you sure you don't want Fitzgerald to do it?" Henriksen, bit off the name like a swear word. Fitzgerald tugged his hat off, stirred limp, damp hair around, and tugged it back on obliviously. James watched the exchange, troubled. So far, none of his men had given Henriksen any problems that he'd noticed, but he wasn't always around.
"I asked you to do it," James said mildly. Henriksen's scowl deepened. "Lieutenants, is there a problem?"
"Every man present and accounted for," Fitzgerald answered cheerfully, passing James the Company roster he'd been using to take attendance. For a moment, Henriksen looked even more affronted, and then he sighed and deflated.
"No, sir," said Henriksen.
"It is important that we be able to work together," insisted James.
"It has been my experience," Henriksen forced out in clipped tones, "that the government officials with whom we deal would respond better to a different officer."
"You're my first lieutenant," James practically barked. He wasn't angry at Henriksen, he was angry at every single damned person in Washington who saw the color of a man's skin before the color of his uniform. "If you are unable to execute your duties, I will relieve you and name someone else. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Henriksen snapped to attention, back rigid, heels of his brogans making a crack of leather on leather. "I will speak with the quartermaster, sir."
"If anyone disrespects your authority, they disrespect mine, and that of Colonel Elkins, and that of Governor Morgan when he authorized your position as an officer, and thus cast aspersion on the entire state of New York," James continued. Fitzgerald gave him a lopsided, encouraging grin, and Henriksen's eyes caught the sunlight and gleamed fire and pride. "Feel free to tell them I said so."
"I will, sir."
"If that's settled?" James gave them each a stern look, and earned a crisp nod from Henriksen and a lazy bobbing of the head from Fitzgerald. "Excellent. Excuse me."
Stepping into the barracks was like stepping into an oven. The flimsy wooden walls absorbed the heat, there was not a window to allow in air, and the dirt floor radiated fire through the soles of James' boots. The high spirits that had briefly reigned with the end of the drill session were muted to groans and sour mumbling as the members of the company braved the inferno, most lying with unbuttoned jackets and rucked-up shirts, canteens pressed to foreheads or stomachs to bask in the short-lived, relative coolness of the lukewarm water drawn from the deep. Bradbury had his hat and boots off, sweat-darkened hair sticking out in all directions, and had convinced Alfie, Milligan, Ashley, and Reznick to some kind of card game. Gallagher lay back on a cot staring blankly at an open bible. Mondale leaned against a wall, hunched over his lap writing a letter frantically and chewing anxiously on the butt of his pen. The Benders stood together in a group, joined by several others as Jared Bender read extracts from Friday's newspaper, his young sister – one of the only camp followers in the Company – ghosted among the troops gathering up laundry. Thursten played a haunting melody on a Jew's harp, which James recognized, and beside him, Ellicott sang softly, off-key, "the rebels out in Maryland they madly raved and swore, they'd let none of our Union troops pass through Baltimore." Others talked quietly, or wrote letters, or simply lay, dozing or awake, the exhaustion of the journey from New York finally telling on men who had thus far done duty bravely and well. A surge of pride brought a fierce smile to James as he paused within the doorway, before the heat drove him on to the task at hand.
James' room was on the far end of the barracks, and he strode down the central aisle rapidly, hard-packed dirt absorbing the sound of his steps. The curtain that granted him scant privacy was pushed aside, and Samuel Winchester's tall form looked amusingly large in the small space, perched on the rickety stool, hunched over the writing tablet. His sodden hat rested on the cot, and sweat matted his hair to his head and neck, curled tendrils around his ears. The faint, rapid scratching of the pen was the only sound as he worked, table spread with scraps of paper that he glanced at only for an instant before returning his attention to his main ledger.
"When you're done with that, might you copy over this roster?" James said, thrusting the company roster journal into Winchester's view. The boy started and jerked his pen from the page, breathing hard, and shot a frightened look at James, took a carefully controlled breath and visibly calmed himself.
"Yes, sir," Winchester murmured, reaching over and taking the book, leaning it against the wall at his feet.
Awkwardly, James leaned over Winchester's back and strained to reach down the wall, where he'd mounted two curved wires that he generously termed hooks and which bore his spare shirt and coat. "Pardon," he said apologetically, concerned that he'd startled the boy so badly when he came through the curtain. Grabbing the garments, James leaned out of the doorway. For a moment, he considered changing on the spot, but thought better of it. The goal was to not appear a sweaty mess at his brother's dinner, and if he changed in the confines of the barracks, he'd soak through his only extra shirt in moments. It was a wonder there was any liquid left in him. He'd change when he arrived for dinner.
"Captain," Sergeant Reidy gave him a crisp salute by way of greeting the moment James turned around, startling him.
"Sergeant."
"There's an issue with the men's rations…"
With a sigh, James' tossed the clothing over Winchester's back and onto his cot, straightened his coat, and listened as the Sergeant explained that the wives and daughters of the men of the 14th New York Militia refused to cook for an entire additional Regiment. James tracked down Colonel Fowler, the red pants of his uniform stained to crimson by moisture, to remedy the situation and bring the gaudily-clad soldiers from Brooklyn into amity with their neighbors from Upstate. The issue was that the women couldn't be forced to do anything, as they were not under anyone's formal command, anymore than James could make Missy Bender wash Henriksen's laundry. Only promising to lump the 14th's supply requisition list in with his own unit's prompted a compromise, and led James back across Franklin Square to deliver a new pile of papers to Corporal Winchester.
The youth had scarce moved since James last saw him, though now he worked assiduously on the roster, flipping back and forth between the front pages and the one on which he wrote, copying over each name. James explained the addition to his workload, reached over Winchester to grab his coat, and even managed to lay a hand on it before Bradbury was at his shoulder.
"Message for you, sir!" He pressed a slip of paper into James' hand.
In a nigh-illegible familiar scrawl, James read that his school friend Bartholomew Boyle was in Washington, serving as a Lieutenant of the 6th Massachusetts, quartered on the floor of the senate. Boyle suggested they meet imminently, though James couldn't decipher precisely why, so he grabbed his spare uniform and made for the National Mall. He'd scarce gone a block when Sergeant Ashley came running up behind him, breathing hard, scraggly beard a strange contrast to the long hair covering the collar of his sack coat.
"Horses, sir," gasped out the Sergeant. As far as James had been able to tell since he met Ashley in May, the only southern thing about the man was his accent; he'd been born and raised in Buffalo and spent much of his life in Boston.
"What's that?" James asked blankly.
"The quartermaster…sent someone…to talk to Colonel Elkins…about horses…for the officers," Sergeant Ashley bent double, clutching his knees as he drew air in roughly, then let out a vocal, "woo-ee, it is hot!" Patiently, James waited for the rest of the message, and the silence stretched out. "What're you standing around here for?"
"I was on my way to the Capitol," James trailed off hesitantly, unsure what someone speaking to Elkins about horses had to do with him.
"Unless you want to walk to Richmond, you get back to barracks," Ashley said firmly.
"You'll be walking to Richmond."
"Captain needs to ride," Ashley actually had the confidence to grab James' arm and give him a firm pull back towards Franklin Square. "For the honor of the unit!"
It took a ludicrous amount of time to sort out the horse situation, and before they were done James had been tapped on the shoulder three more times by members of his company asking this question and that, complaining about the food provided by the 14th New York, asking how to send mail, wondering where to procure an ointment to deal with boils, one nervous Corporal inquiring about their free time at night, all manner of questions, many of which they should have known better than to expect James to know the answer to. The sun was a fiery orb on the horizon by the time James escaped – at least he'd have a horse the next day, though he'd had to produce the funds to pay the for the mount. His pay would cover it, but the Regiment hadn't been paid yet, another issue to be sorted out, James made a mental note to investigate the paymaster to get his men two months back pay. When the conversation ended, Henriksen stole the man from the quartermaster department, Elkins turned to deal with something else, and for a wild-eyed moment James looked around, unable to conceive that no one else needed to speak with him. Seeing the way clear – Fitzgerald was hollering orders to assemble for evening drill – James escaped, bolting for Twelfth and Avenue H. Only when a screen of low buildings completely hid the small park did he slow, breathe, and make his way towards the Capitol Mall.
The streets of the city were mobbed as he walked south. Normally, Sunday with dusk approaching should have been quiet, families settling in for supper, much of Congress returned to their home states to escape the oppressive mugginess of summer in the glorified swamp that was the District of Columbia. With the advent of war – merely thinking the word sent a thrill of combined excitement and fear through James – everything was different. Off-duty soldiers made knots on street corners or formed rough, brash groups striding confidently down the streets, uniforms mostly blue, though some in reds, grays, greens, khaki, he even saw one group swaggering by in kilts and speaking in brogue. Civilians were scattered among the soldiers. Barefoot youth scampered back and forth or stopped to ogle the strange variety of "foreigners." Families of distinction made small parties on the sidewalk, gentlemen talking, women herding their better-born children to prevent them sprinting after their low-born counterparts. Slaves worked diligently bearing loaded baskets or packages with their eyes fixed towards the horizon. Working women walked boldly down the street, hawking hand pies or wrinkled apples or tin utensils or sewing kits or Holloway's Ointment or anything else they thought soldiers would buy, many doing a brisk trade. Apparently, some had found the paymaster, and the lucky few could apparently think of nothing better to do with their funds than spend them as quickly as possible on whatever caught their fancy.
Outside the vast, poritcoed patent office, a large crowd had gathered to listen to a man on a raised platform. "No siree, you will not find a finer product, let no imitators tempt your eye, let no tom foolery distract you, for this – this is the real deal!" A dull thrum followed the word, and James caught a glimpse of a sculpture of a torso – no, a breast plate, in classic Medieval fashion! – as the fellow rapped a knuckle against it. "I would give you a demonstration except the ricochet of the bullet might kill any one of you fine people – it's that effective! No bullet, smoothbore or rifled, can pierce Elliot's Bullet Proof Vest, not pistol nor rifle neither! This vest will save your life, and all it will cost you is a mere $5 dollars." James turned a choked-off exclamation into a cough. The amount was ludicrous, nearly half what a soldier made in a month. The crowd, on the other hand, seemed rapt, rumbling with quiet noise. "And if you'll just line up over here, I've got enough to armor every man jack of you! The rebels have not cast the bullet that can pierce this steel!"
The patter continued, but James hurried on. Dusk was shadowing the streets now that he was amidst the majestic, marble government buildings. Leaning against the post office, a woman gave James a suggestive look that he refused to assign a meaning to, her jacket unbuttoned to reveal her smudged collar. "Hey soldier," she called. The moment he had passed, a pair of privates walked going the other direction. "Hey, soldiers." The two men laughed, low and coarse, and James was glad to leave them behind before the liaison could progress.
James had anticipated escape to the Mall to be an escape, but he hadn't factored on the changes that mobilization had brought to the capital. The tree-lined expanse had once been green, but the heat and the activity had left it barren and brown. Long barracks, nearly identical to those at Franklin Square though equipped with the luxury of windows, stretched in neat lines alongside Columbia Armory, and towards the stump of the Washington monument, an impromptu supply depot bustled with activity, dozens of wagons and horses moving to and fro, men packing and unpacking supplies to the accompaniment of creaking wood, shouts, and whinnies. Watching them, a dozen ideas for things they needed sprang to James' – good Lord, the men didn't even have tents, what would they do for shelter if they marched out of the city? – but he pushed the thoughts away, intent on his destination.
After the near-frantic activity of the city streets and the Mall, the approach to the Capitol building was quiet, a peace James had thought to welcome but instead found disconcerting by contrast. On the weekend, there were no workmen arrayed around the unfinished dome, no politicians or journalists hanging about the steps to escape the heat within. Long slivers of sunlight painted the marble façade incandescent orange and yellow. A single company of soldiers stood in perfect parade ground formation before the steps, an officer in front wearing a grim, impassive expression, every man standing firm despite the wilting heat.
"State your business," the Captain asked boredly.
"Captain James Castiel Novak, Company B, 27th New York Infantry, here to see Bartholomew Boyle, Lieutenant, 6th Massachusetts."
"Go ahead," the man gestured vaguely. "Senate is to your left after you go in."
Nodding, James hurried up the stairs, through the enormous doors, and into the wide Rotunda. Within was dim with early evening darkness, no lamps to light the way. Scaffolding was arrayed all around, reaching towards the high temporary ceiling, and men lounged about the floor, laying on blankets strewn directly over the hard stone. A pall of smoke filled the air from the number of lit cigars and cigarettes, and men read, talked quietly, played at dice, all the pastimes that soldiers found to pass the endless hours. In one corner a man picked at a banjo, and the eerie sound echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber, notes distorting and distending as James crossed to the senate.
Though he'd visited the House of Representatives while it was in session to watch Zachariah make a speech on the Kansas-Nebraska controversy when he visited in '56, James had not had opportunity to see the Senate in session. Today brought a strange contrast, for soldiers were encamped within the building, and the senators would convene in the morning. The main lectern was prepared for business and the men kept worshipfully clear of it, but the desks and seats for the elected officials were stacked neatly against one wall, and in their place were perfectly ordered rows of men settling down for the evening amidst hushed chatter. The contrast was awe-inspiring, the reminder that even amidst the flames of disunion and war, the democracy of the United States continued to function, laws continued to be debated and passed, free elections would yet be held. True to the founding fathers and the Constitution, there would be no cessation of the normal function of government, no turn to despotism. However the rebels and Democrats might decry some of the policies Lincoln had implemented since his inauguration, this was yet a Republic of the people, by the people, for the people. Those principals were so deeply ingrained that even this most august center of law-making, this space that had echoed with the words of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, now accommodated the whispered voices of the men of Boston, the accents of everyman.
"Novak!" Boyle's bright voice, echoing dully, pulled James from his reverie. The tall, handsome Lieutenant hurried down the narrow aisle between the blankets and extending a hand. "Glad you made it! We leave tomorrow, you know."
"Does the army march?" asked James, breathless with excitement at the prospect. The imagined boom of cannon and march of thousands of feet whispered through his thoughts, a vision of fleeing men in gray disappearing into the streets of a fantasy of a burning Richmond.
"Don't know about that," shrugged Boyle. "But we do – we're to Baltimore in the morning to guard the railway lines, and back home by the end of the month. We're nearly done!"
"Done?" James said blankly.
"Yes, done! 90 days, Novak," Boyle laughed. "But did you hear what happened to us?"
"Of course, though I'd not a clue you were involved," said James. "If I'd known…well, I'd have done nothing differently, I suppose, I was already getting fitted for a uniform by the time the news reached us. But – I must to my brother's for the evening. Won't you come? I'm sure you'd be welcome." Boyle should fit his sister's high standards for culture, his family had a history in Boston dating to the Tea Party and before, and his uncle Wightman was mayor.
"Which of your brothers? Gabriel or Zachariah?" Despite the question, Boyle showed not the least hesitation, accepting James' gestured suggestion that Boyle proceed him through the door and striding confidently across the Rotunda. James followed on his heel, easily keeping pace, adjusting his hold on his spare jacket.
"Zachariah," clarified James. "Though I've hopes Gabriel might be in attendance, as, last he wrote, he was in the city."
"Splendid," Boyle glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "I'll have at least one other person to talk to!"
"So, Baltimore! What happened? What was it like?" James was alight with curiosity.
"Indescribable," confessed Boyle as the stepped out of the building. "You'll learn something like eventually, I'm sure." James took the lead, down the stairs and into the streets behind the Capitol, towards the house Zachariah rented each year. "People everywhere, and the noise, you can't even imagine the chaos, or how loud a volley is when fired from 500 muskets! A sergeant was killed right beside me, took a brick to the head, and the way it looked…" Boyle's face went a little green. "I thought we were all going to die, honestly, every man jack, beaten to death by Secessionist devils. We rallied, though, showed those cowards what Boston is made of. I shot one myself – at least, I think I did – no, I'm certain – so many of us fired at once it was hard to say for sure, but I aimed and down he went, so it must have been me, right?" There was a quickness to Boyle's words that seemed off, and James looked at him again to see his pallor face despite the slowly dropping temperatures, an unnatural sheen to his skin that had nothing to do with the infrequent gas lights spreading pools of yellow in the lowering darkness.
"It must have been something, to have a chance to prove your mettle so soon," James couldn't keep a trace of envy from his voice, finding Boyle's emotions unreadable.
"You'll understand when you see the elephant," Boyle's usual calm restored quickly, the color returned to his cheeks, the lamps making his skin ruddy from sunburn and the heat. "A raw recruit such as yourself cannot possibly understand what it means to be a veteran."
"I believe it," James said dryly. "Unless goes horribly awry, I'll be among your ranks soon enough. The 27th signed two year papers, none of your 'ninety days and home' for us."
"Nonsense," Boyle waved dismissively at the air by his head. "You'll be home days after I am, you'll see. The rebels in Baltimore crumbled as soon as we fought back. The rabble gathered across the Potomac will be just the same. Confident to a tee when they can attack a man with a cane, shoot a man in the back or break his skull with a stone, but confront them with the uniform and the bayonet and hot lead, they'll be running after the first volley."
"Would we run after the first volley?" James asked pensively, eying the tree-cloaked buildings along the street as he searched for the right address. It had been several years since he'd last been to visit, and even in that brief time the landmarks that had once been familiar were all changed and in the darkness he struggled to find his way.
"Of course not!"
"Why should they be different?" A tree caught his eye, cleft by lightning and regrown neatly despite being nearly severed in twain, and he smiled in recognition and hurried on to a side street.
Boyle snorted. "If you'd seen what I saw, you'd not ask such an absurd question. Poverty stricken farmers or spoiled rich boys, none worth a lick. I'd like to set the lot of them against our Southies, that'd be a prize fight for the ages. Or not, bet it'd be over before it scarce began."
The confidence in Boyle's tone was a strange contrast to the inexplicable concern that had brought pallor to Boyle's face as he'd described the 6th already-legendary journey through Baltimore, but before James could question his friend further, they came upon the open porch of the modest home that the Novaks kept, surrounded by fragrant rose bushes and shaded by trees. Two flickering flames in sparkling glass sconces illuminated the entryway and cast lurid shadows over Boyle's face.
"Speaking of prize fights," Boyle laughed as James reached for the ornate brass knocker. Though the house wasn't large, it was rich, the paint fresh and bright lavender trimmed in a dark shade of blue. "I hope both your brothers are here. It's been far too long since I've had the chance to watch them go at each other."
James gave a sad shake of his head. That was in no way a sentiment he could enter in to. Watching Gabriel and Zachariah argue always pained him, especially since they so often were actually saying the same things, simply from a different point of view. Before he could think on it further, a dark-skinned servant – certainly a free woman, no Novak would own a slave – opened the door and bobbed a courtesy. She wordlessly accepted James intelligence that they were invited and expected, and he hastily dashed up the stairs, ducked into the guest room that had once been his. Fumbling out of his coat and vest, James tossed his suspenders aside, tugged his damp shirt over his head, and tossing the sodden items on the bed, dressing rapidly again. With no spare vest, the garment made a clammy wet layer between a wonderfully dry jacket and shirt, but there was no help for it. He was downstairs again in moments, a bemused Boyle blinking after him as the servant waited incuriously.
The house was modest, the first floor containing two parlors and a large dining room, the upstairs four bedrooms. A second building behind housed the kitchens and the stables, James knew from his prior visit. The walls were white washed and mounted with tasteful, generic paintings of flowers and landscapes. Gleaming polished furniture in dark woods accented the entry hallway, a side table topped with a rose-filled vase, a narrow chest of drawers topped with an elegant lace runner and a fine porcelain vase. As with the outside, there was not a thing out of place, every feature spoke to luxury and wealth on modest display. Zachariah stood as the primary inheritor for the fortune that their father had made in rents and mining, and while there were many wealthier families, the Novaks did not want for anything. Good taste ruled the day within the rental, though occasional flourishes spoke to Margaret's less restrained influence. The clink of fine china and crystal glasses tinkled from the table of plentitude that awaited them in the dining room, and Boyle gave a mocking formal bow and made a flourish to suggest that James lead the way.
A chandelier spread gleaming light over the dining room, reflected and enhanced by two large mirrors. Dark mahogany made a fine dining set, hutch and glass-fronted cupboard and sideboard, and an enormous table sat around with elegant chairs upholstered in red. More than a dozen finely dressed men and women turned towards James and Boyle as they stepped in the door. James flushed under the attention, adjusting his hat to hide the pathetic mess of his hair that he was suddenly uncomfortably aware of. Zachariah had the head of the table in a well-fit evening suit, and Margaret sat at the foot, a lace concoction edged in silken flowers closely fitted around her corseted top, draped in gathered layer upon layer around her hoop skirt, so wide James marveled that she could sit at all. The sides of the tables were lined with guests, some known to James, others not. Gabriel was in attendance, his wife at his side, her presence making James wish he'd had the nerve to invite Henriksen after all, so Raphael would not be the only dark face invited to join at the supper table. Unsurprisingly, his sister Rachel sat with her husband, Frederick Seward, serving as Assistant Secretary of State under his father William Seward; she lived in Washington year round, and they owned a mansion northwest of the city. Colonel Elkins had beaten James there easily, and was the only person who didn't pin James with a surprised stare, too intent on his beefsteak and potatoes to care. None of the others were known to James, though some were familiar, such as the pocked older man sitting at Margaret's right hand.
"James!" exclaimed Gabriel excitedly. "Just the man, just the man. Welcome to Washington, brother! I hope you'll not stay long!" Setting aside his silverware with a clatter, Gabriel reached over the head of a clean shaven man in a tailored tan suit who sported a smile that showed perfect white teeth. The man grimaced for an instant, then returned to dancing attendance on the youthful blonde sitting beside him, coyly hiding most of her face behind a fan that could not hide her shrewd eyes., ignoring the glower that touched nothing but his dark eyes.
"Hello, brother," James restrained his smile, though he was just as pleased to see Gabriel, happily shaking his hand. "I wasn't sure how long you'd stay in the city, your last letter was some time ago."
"I told you to write," Raphael's words were chastising, but her smile was gentle. Gabriel shrugged and gave James' hand a squeeze.
"Our brother has turned lobbyist," Zachariah said with disgust that James dared hope was feigned. "He is petitioning congress for a Confiscation Act."
Gabriel turned withdrawing his hand into a grand gesture that took in the entire table. "Butler's precedent stands," insisted Gabriel, his tone the well-rehearsed voice of one rehashing a familiar argument. "The southern states have spent near a century insisting that slaves are property, and not people. By their own logic, it is therefore entirely as legitimate to seize slaves in reclaimed territory as it would be to seize cattle or bales of hay or rifles." Around the table, mouths opened, expressions darkening, especially on the face of the older man sitting beside Margaret and anon-descript man with fine sideburns, dangling meaninglessly on the arm of a beautiful, slim brown-haired woman in a bodice of bright red trimmed in black, skirts hidden beneath the table, her neck dangling with ostentatious gemmed jewelry glittering in the candlelight. With single-minded determination, Gabriel pressed on. "Every single black man, woman and child who we leave under the hold of traitors aids the rebellion against the rightful government of—"
"Gentlemen!" interrupted Margaret sharply. "Politics at my dinner table!"
Scowling, Gabriel snapped his mouth shut with a click and inclined his head to hide the utter lack of gracious surrender on his face. Raphael managed a much better approximation contriteness, dark eyes lighting with a smile, lips curled in a gentle smile. "My apologies for my husband's manners," she said in a rich voice. James resisted the urge to shake his head in wonder. For all that Raphael pretended to modesty, anyone who knew Margaret would know that the show of polite manners by the black woman, such a contrast to the rudeness of Margaret's interjection, would only incite the hostess further. James chanced a glance at Boyle to see him grinning broadly. This was exactly the kind of battle he'd hoped to witness, and that James had hoped to avoid.
"Everyone, may I introduce my brother and his school friend?" Zachariah cut in with unctuous smoothness before any of the range of bemused, puzzled, affronted, or indifferent expressions arrayed around the table could turn in to uncomfortable or impolite words. "Tracy, would you set two more places at the table?"
"Yes, sir," the servant girl said demurely, catching James' eye with a vague gesture that she'd like to pass by, if that were possible. He stepped out of the doorway and she hurried into the room, grabbing chairs from where they were pushed against the wall, placing one between Gabriel and the woman in the absurd jewelry, and then hauling the other around the table to place it facing the first, between the beautiful blonde and James' sister Rachel. That done, she left, and Zachariah gestured impatiently for them to take their seats.
"Captain James Castiel Novak and Sergeant—"
"Lieutenant," corrected Boyle.
"Lieutenant Bartholomew Boyle," Zachariah explained as they each sat, James settling in gratefully beside Gabriel. Perhaps, when normal conversation resumed, they'd have a chance to speak, though James was less than optimistic. It was not a setting in the least conducive towards catching up with his middle brother. "Around the table we have Richard Roman, Miss Joanna Harvelle." He skipped Rachel, Frederick, and Colonel Elkins. "General A. Z. Blaine." That was the man with the skin roughened by exposure and age, and James recognized the name – Zachariah's father-in-law, Margaret's father, and apparently made general through some trick of influence, for he was certainly no military man. Instead, he was a Westerner and a Democrat, both groups to be courted in these times of politics mingling with war, and surely it was to that he owed commission. "My beautiful wife, of course – Mr. Balthazar Freeley of her Majesty's Royal Army, Miss Ruby Cassidy, and on your other side, James, are Mr. and Mrs. Talbot."
"How d'ya dos" and "pleasure" were exchanged all around, and the other guests resumed eating as Tracy returned with place settings for James and Boyle. Suddenly ravenous, James filled his plate with cuts of roast bird – turkey, he thought – and baked sweet potato as everyone fell quiet, once more intent upon their supper. The fastest eaters were nearly done, though, and as they finished and Tracy cleared plates, conversation resumed. Quite sure that the sum total of what Zachariah and Margaret wished of him were that he to sit straight, look good in his blue uniform with its polished golden buttons, and demonstrate excellent table etiquette, James contented himself to enjoy his meal and let the talk flow around him, catching bits and pieces without inserting his opinion where it was likely undesired.
Mr. Talbot was utterly silent, but Mrs. Talbot, in a distinct British lilt, was engaged in a conversation with Zachariah, clearly resuming a topic interrupted by the arrival of food. The matter at hand was manufacturing, and Mrs. Talbot intently described the merits of certain business ventures as sound investments, as evidenced by the fact that Mr. Talbot had shares in them. Though she said all that was proper and right for a woman, still she dominated the conversation, Mr. Talbot occasionally offering inarticulate support for her assertions. From across the table, Mr. Roman listened avidly to every word Mrs. Talbot said, interjecting occasionally with questions or comments that made it clear he was a man of considerable means, and without appearing to consciously think about it he interacted with Ms. Harvelle, who simpered and flirted from behind her fan while her intelligent gaze flagrantly absorbed every detail of what happened around her, including sparing an assessing look for James.
Rachel, with every ounce of her excellent manners, made small talk with Boyle, and Mr. Seward joined in as needed, speaking with her and Boyle on the one hand and Elkins on the other. General Blaine and Mr. Freeley were engaged in a lively discussion about what Blaine considered to be the merits of Popular Sovereignty, the older man, his brown eyes gleaming almost yellow in the lamp light, striving to override Mr. Freeley's determination to argue against the political philosophy. Despite Margaret's earlier admonishments regarding appropriate mealtime discourse, she did nothing to deter her father even as he grew louder and more insistent that, had not slave state agitators interfered, the entire question of slave or free could have been solved in Kansas and Nebraska through a vote of the legal immigrants to the states, and that such could have been further extended to the entire country. It was a tired argument, and one that brought a sour taste to James' mouth, for those who wished to see Kansas free soil had been as guilty of agitation as those who wished to see it a new land of plantations, and the pipe dream of Popular Sovereignty had done nothing but serve as further appeasement at a time when a hard line had been needed. Ruby Cassidy hung on every word Mr. Freeley said, and Margaret hung on every word her father said, and Mr. Freeley blankly refused to understand that General Blaine made even a single valid point while disdainfully attempting to disengage from an increasingly argumentative general, and the whole was so uncomfortable to listen to that James returned his focus to Mrs. Talbot.
The realization that much of what she proposed amounted to war profiteering did little to make him feel better.
"Truly, I'm glad you're here, brother," Gabriel said softly as the increasingly boisterous General Blaine grew louder, thus rendering it much easier to engage in private conversation.
"Will you be in Washington long?" James asked.
"As long as we can stand it," Gabriel replied, rolling his eyes as Margaret laughed over-loud at something her father said. "Longer than you, I'm sure. On to Richmond!" He managed to make the common rallying cry sound wry and sarcastic.
"Do be careful," added Raphael.
"Extremely careful," seconded Gabriel. "Don't get shot, Cassie. Father expects you to be a hero, but I'm sure he'll be satisfied if you simply strut about behind the lines and then come home. As long as you can put on the appearance of being distinguished, he won't care of if you actually do anything to distinguish yourself." James frowned but spared himself from answering by taking a fork-full of potatoes. The suggestion was anathema. An officer who would not share in the hardships of his men, to the point of risking a bullet as surely as they did, was no kind of man and had no right to command. "And once your done, I could use your help, and Anna's as well. Already there are nigh on two thousand runaways living in an appalling camp north of Washington, and dozens more arrive every day. They need help, support, aid in traveling further north to find work, education, even food and clean water and clothing, not to mention the medical aid. The scars some bear would sicken you."
Swallowing hard, James nodded, stomach turning. The rich food didn't sit well when he knew how much others lacked, and he didn't need to imagine what the raised ridges on a whipped back looked like when they healed, for he'd seen the damage first hand on escaped slaves who'd used the Novak home as a stop on the Underground Railroad, one of their last layovers before reaching Canada and freedom. If only such images were more widely spread, James couldn't believe any right-thinking man in the country could support slavery. That such sights must surely be common in the South was proof that the Devil was loose in the nation, that He wore a mask of righteousness, that blood and fire and bravery and the might of the free North could affect the change that diplomacy and compromise had been unable to touch. Grimacing, James forced the last few bites of food necessary to clear his plate, unwilling to waste while others wanted, but the flavor was as ash.
"I think I can better help where I am," he answered softly as Gabriel opened his mouth to surely give voice to another impassioned plea. "There are two thousand fled from plantations in Virginia and Maryland and from private homes here in Washington. How many more toil yet in Alabama and Mississippi, unaware that freedom is even an option, languishing in hopeless misery, separated from wives and children? We need men and women who do as you both, but we also need soldiers to serve in this war. I've not your way with words, Raphael, nor your stubbornness, brother – leave me to my duty, and I'll leave you to yours. When I next write to Anna, I can broach the topic to her, however."
"Marry that woman, brother," Gabriel grinned. "It's a travesty you didn't do so before you came south. If you're not careful, she'll yet pull a Hester, and, as our sister did, Ms. Milton will realize that she has no need for any man to make her way in the world."
"I'd prefer to wed when the family can be in attendance," James gave Tracy a gentle smile as she took his plate, but she completely ignored the gesture. "When the war is over – this fall, I hope."
"May we be so lucky!" said Gabriel fervently.
"I'll drink to that," Boyle's voice cut loudly through the hubbub of conversation, catching James' eye. He hadn't even realized his friend was listening.
"Hear hear!" agreed Freeley. "What are we drinking to?"
"A rapid, victorious end to the war!" Boyle declared. Zachariah made an urgent gesture towards Tracy, who hurriedly retrieved a decanter from the sideboard and circled the table, pouring dark liquid – port, James suspected – into glasses.
"Confusion to Jeff Davis," Blaine added. Tracy finished her rapid circuit, and everyone raised their glasses, crystal chiming as neighbors traded strikes before sipping.
"Freedom to the enslaved," said Gabriel, staring a challenge at Margaret, but she didn't naysay it, and the company took a third sip.
"And success to the Republican party!" concluded Zachariah hastily, and glasses were tipped and emptied.
The alcohol gave James a warm glow, fuzzed his thoughts just enough that the table conversation ceased to concern him. Over a dessert of cheese and dried fruit, he leaned back and let the words wash over him meaninglessly. Freeley and Gabriel discovered they had a great deal in common, and spoke of education and teaching. Blaine turned his officious attentions to Colonel Elkins, who bore all with the plastered-on look of one long accustomed to suffering peaceably through whatever nonsense a superior might see fit to spew without risking an accusation of insubordination. Boyle spoke earnestly with Ms. Harvelle. Roman and Mrs. Talbot were engaged in a serious conversation about machine shops, and Zachariah looked over all with a smile as a king surveying his subjects. As much as it troubled him, what Zachariah did was every bit as important as what Gabriel did, what James was doing. The war was not merely on one front, it required political and social action as much as military. Each brother was doing his part. The idea brought a pleased smile. Each had found their niche, and each would excel, and the Novak family would stand proud among those leading the North towards a more perfect union than the Founding Fathers had ever dared strive for. Surely, that would satisfy their parents.
Interlude
Singer, June 1st, 1861
It's a far cry from Chapultepec when Virginia secedes from the Union and we have word of it on the frontier within days. I'm not to fight myself – there is something I must do – but my eldest has declared his intentions to join the Cause, and I'm inclined to let him fight and die for his country. That had always been my hope for him, for both boys, but Dean's a dullard, and Sam's declared he's never for West Point, and I'm glad Mary's not lived to see it. I'm sure my angel watches down from Heaven and shakes her head in remorse to see what they've come to.
Dean's not good for much, but I thought if anyone could find a place for him, it would be you, old friend. Thus, I'm sending him your way. Make him a scullery for all I care, he's gotten good at laundry the last few years, though if you ask me, he's for the cavalry. I've not been able to get him off horseback in two years, and he's as brave as any three men. That's about all he has going for him, so might as well make the most of it. He doesn't cook too badly, either. Judge for yourself, and if you've no use for him, shove a musket in his hands and push him towards the front, he'll aim the right way and shoot straight and true, guaranteed.
If you hear word of my younger, I'd appreciate a letter to that effect. Send it by way of Kate Milligan, of Deposit, New York. She'll know how to get it to me.
Your Obedient Servant, Jno Winchester
Endnote:
Some notes on rank and military organization:
At the start of the US Civil War, the standing army of the United States was less than 20,000 men. Within the first few months, several hundred thousand men were mobilized, and by the end of the war, more than 2 million people served in the armies. While it's not essential to understand the structure of the army to understand the story, I do NOT intend to explain it in text (cause seriously what a boring info dump...) and I think it might help ya'll understand stuff.
The building block of the army was the Company. Companies had between 50 and 100 men when they were founded (casualties reduced this throughout the war; a quirk of the army structure caused by state rivalries and politics was that depleted units were not "restocked," instead they were allowed to shrink while new units were created).
A Captain had command of a Company. Beneath him were two to three lieutenants, each responsible for roughly 25 men (a platoon). Beneath them, four to six sergeants each had charge of a squad (roughly a dozen men). Corporals helped the sergeants, and there were roughly the same number of corporals as sergeants. Every other soldier in the unit was a private. Theoretically, corporals and sergeants were "non-commissioned" and not considered officers, whereas lieutenants and captains were "commissioned." In practice, it was extremely common for *all* of these people to be civilians during the Civil War. Generally, Captains were political appointments, and they'd either name their lieutenants or the lieutenants would also be political appointments. Sergeants and corporals were usually elected by the privates in the unit. As the war progressed and officers died, it was common for competent sergeants and corporals to be promoted to lieutenant, captain, or even higher ranks.
Roughly 10 Companies were organized into Regiments, roughly 800 men. These companies would be given letter designations (A through K; J was skipped for being too similar to I). The commander of a Regiment was called a Colonel. Each state was responsible for raising a certain number of regiments, and the states organized and equipped their regiments (with exceptions - and it varied somewhat North and South, the South was more rigid about "each state cares for their own," as a side effect of the states rights obsession). Every Regiment was given a numerical designation (Starting at 1 and counting up). Regiments were referred to by their number, state and branch of military - the 101st New York Infantry, the 56th Ohio Volunteer Militia, the 6th North Carolina Artillery, the 14th Tennessee Cavalry. Regiments were the primary command unit - the functional unit of battle.
Regiments were organized into Brigades, composed of between 2 to 5 regiments, or roughly 2,500 soldiers. Brigadier Generals had the command of Brigades.
Brigades were organized into divisions, roughly 8,000 soldiers (2 to 4 brigades) under the command of a Major General. At the time when this Chapter is set, this was the largest organizational unit.
As the armies grew bigger, in 1862 they were divided into Corps, composed of 2 to 3 divisions (around 25,000 troops - or around 30 Regiments, or 300 companies!) and commanded by a Major General.
Political appointments were common at *every single level* of the command structure; being a general in NO way required that the officer was a veteran, had attended West Point (the primary source of military training in the US at the time), or knew anything about war at all - in fact, it often simply meant they had influence among an important electoral that was being courted (for example, Benjamin Butler was retained as an officer despite incompetence in the field until right after the 1864 election, because his influence among Democrats was considered essential for keeping the North in the war). Even among the career military men, politics was critical in gaining promotion and holding position - if William T. Sherman's brother hadn't been a senator, he never could have burned Atlanta, for example. Seniority played a lesser role - since failure meant thousands of deaths, those who gained command were, surprisingly often, those most capable. But not always - often with tragic results.