"Congratulations Major Whitlock." General Ireland praised stiffly. Handing over my uniform gingerly into my still shock frozen hands. "It's charisma Jasper. You'll go heights that you only dreamt of." My father's promised rang back into my mind from over four years ago. The youngest of any Major in the Confederate army at eighteen years of age in 1861. Yet another year of war. The recruiting age having been lower to eighteen , we had new arrivals almost daily in our tiny base camp in Northern Texas.

"Major?" The general asked cautiously. Seeing that I still stood frozen in thought with my uniform barely teetering on the very tips of my fingers. Shaking myself back to attention, I smiled graciously at the man that really was the hardest to gain the respect of. There were many ways in which I was thankful that it was Ireland and not another to award me the title of just barely his under. A great compliment to any man's perspective.

"Thank you general." I murmur. My voice just barely more than a whisper. Something that is usually frowned upon. Ireland did nothing but smirk. "Get dressed soldier." He whisper with something close to pride in his gravelly voice. Long had he served the Confederate, long would he..

Giving only the slightest of stiff nods to acknowledge what it is that he had said. Turning on my heel wordlessly , I walk briskly back to base camp. A new feeling of confidence glowing within me.

I shake my head with something close to panic as another shot was fired. Another body falling to rest, never to wake. I brush the memory off as quickly as it had come. Fingers fumbling clumsily over the nose of my gun. Blond hair falling down in front of my eyes as I shoved what was left of my gunpowder down the thin tube and into the instrument. Two years in Hell is what this tiny vial had lasted me.

"Whitlock, get up." The gravelly voice of General Ireland came from just over the top of the small hill. I get up slowly, finally loaded gun strong in hand. Just in time to see Ireland stumble over the hill, in full support of another man's weight. The gaping hole in his abdomen made it clear that whatever plan his dedicated comrade had in mind was in vain. His heartbeats were numbered.

I have not a moment's hesitation running to the side of our fallen comrade. Helping Ireland heave him up over the what remained of the hill, far enough so that he was out of reach of the musket balls. His weight was more than what was expected on my already weakened from food and sleep deprived body.

Ireland dropped his half with none of the grace in which I had meant him with. Leaving me supporting the entire weight of the young man, whom was beginning to gurgle an uninspiring wet noise. Symbolizing his minutes were few. Biting my lip, I begin lowering the man to the ground slowly. Halfway through this, another gurgle came from the man, who had one foot in death's door. This one slightly louder than previously. This one bringing actually blood with it. For those that have not witnessed this every day for the past two years? It would be one of the most horrific imagery on this cruel Earth. I allowed the man's body to fall freely the rest of the short distance to the ground. Knowing that he was dead before he had even left my arms.

The general sighed quietly. Shaking his dark head from side to side gingerly. "Another man down." He murmured so quietly that the conclusion was almost drawn that he had spoken mainly to himself. Turning quickly toward me. His lined face hard, stubborn. "Major Whitlock, we move everyone out. Tonight. We move further into the city. What would I like you to do with this? Take care of the women as they pass through with the soldiers. Ensure that we loose not one member Jasper. Not a one." Ireland growled. The use of my first name only adding tension to his statement. He only called me Jasper when something was vitally important. To him: this task was. For his wife walked within this crowd. His wife and adult daughter.

I bowed my head slowly, slightly. "Sir, general, now?" I ask stupidly. The only possible answer would be yes. An obvious one at that. Ireland turned his head once to glare.

"Yes Whitlock. Proceed to camp. I will meet you there in a matter of moments with further instructions. I ask that you wake the camp."