Prologue

March 1st 1848

A cold shallow pond lay silent as the cloudy sky hung overcast, teeming brilliant with mist and circumstance, making it impossible to see the sun, to see sunlight. By noon, the cloud had formed so thickly that the atmosphere was so dark as if the afternoon moon had already come up and the sun dawning it's last. The pond rippled. Raindrops started to fall onto the earth, rocking the still sleeping more comfortable with the sound of rain.

Major Jonathan 'Skipper' Eswald sighed and wiped the sweat of his brow as he rode on the road on his feet, tired and weary. He had been dropped off by a horse and wagons in Richmond, 8 miles from his home, courtesy of the War department, for all Mexican-American war veterans. He was a young major who had just had his first war combat. Earned his name 'Skipper' of taking command of a company of 20 men in such command and force. He was praised by his peers, and disapproved by his commanders. Though the thoughts of war were still buzzing in his head, he didn't feel much of it, he was wracked with the much more serious loss for him.

Major Eswald killed his own commanding officer with several shots to the torso, accidentally confusing him with an important enemy officer. The thought of killing his own was bad enough, but it became worse with the treating of him afterwards.

His commanders treated him as he would just plainly be disposed off, thought him of pure rubbish. Completely out of the league of the army. Which destroyed him on the inside. As soon as his peers heard of it, they were horrified and disgusted, and abandoned him as like was his own company. He felt that he had no other thing in the world to be of purpose,

Skipper on the way, saw an orchard of peaches. Stared at it, with much thought and awe in what now to do. Was he going to do what he wanted? Or let Providence figure out for him .With much vigor, he jumped over the fence surrounding the trees, and buried himself within the center of the plants. He stood up, then without much haste, took out his loaded pistol from his holster. Sighing, he looked at the firearm as if it were fading golf, precious for a time, then it would be gone.

The major thought about what he was going to do, how it would effect his family, or friends, if he had left. He continued to think in much great pain of what he did in those months ago. The bloody stare of his commander, the gore flowing from his commanding officer's mouth, and the soulless interpretation of his death as he fell to the ground, gasping for air, an attempt that would just hurry his death, and add to his mortal wounds already killing him fast.

As Skipper's own hand twitched in the thought of what he was thinking of doing, he remembered his commanding officer's own hand, moving in small gestures feeling around, something maybe that would help him, but all he felt were caps, rifles and the dead bodies of his own men.

There were footsteps outside the orchard, Skipper shrunk down, crouching behind a neatly plowed mound. The Orchard door opened. With much unease, Skipper pointed the pistol at his head, faltering and ready to shoot his life away, until, he heard no footsteps in the quickly dampening orchard sod. It was just the wind, just of the thoughts of his commander, Colonel Benton, as he spoke aloud to the space and wind, thinking they where the voices of his own husband and children, saying goodbye.

The hesitation of the near suicide rung loudly and wildly in the major Skipper's head, the easy hesitation and the shaking of the hand of Colonel Benton as he tried to stand up and shoot more of the enemy, or probably the man who shot him, and order by himself never fulfilled easily, never fulfilled uneasily, never fulfilled at all.

With one swift click, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

Only a small snap was heard, no lead was launched from the barrel of his pistol, no life taken away from a misfit of his surroundings. Mercy plagued him, as if he couldn't bear the guilt crushing the insides and structure of his dignity and pride. A slow and painful craziness driving him mad.

Jonathan 'Skipper' Eswald would not take his life that day. All to the sake of what divine providence there is that kept him conscious and well. He swallowed his breath, his face covered in tears, but his loud sobs drowned by the hard rain, large thick raindrops smacking on the dirt and grass.

The fury in Benton's eyes as he choked in the horrid smoke of gunpowder and heard the near yelling of advancing Mexican soldiers almost to him. Benton opened his mouth and said to Skipper,

"I always expected this from a traitor. Useless…"

Skipper stood up, the entire front side of him covered in mud, he walked to the dirt road and trudged in the depressing mud, nearly knee high. Skipper tugged his cap and thought about what occurred in that one moment in the downfall of his Commander, Colonel Benton. With will, he fell down on the muddy road, his head facing the cloudy sky as rain fell on him and screamed out, his voice echoing through the horizon . The wind and rain made him nearly sightless, the near vision of Colonel Benton. He would never forget. Never forget what happened at Veracruz.

Major Eswald reached his steady two-story home with dried mud on his shirt and pants. He was completely winded and needed some rest before he would fall to the ground, unconscious. His eyes were red with soreness and his feet as well with a pain unbearable. He leaned against the door coughing.

"Sir, you must not tire yourself with such indignities, you must relax, but you must bathe first" spoke his house servant, a nice kind lady, with years wearing down on her with the usage of being a slave.

The servant's name was Catherine. She was in her older years but she had a strong voice and the determination and will power above an average person.

But the only thing she would be doing was sweeping the floor and wiping the table.

"I'm alright…" replied the battered veteran with blood running down his forehead. "I'm alright."

Catherine walked slowly to Skipper and took his blue cap off as well as his coat and hung took them to the laundry basket. Despite being a servant, she had the uttermost respect and kindness to the family which she served, for they secretly treated her with the respect that she deserved.

Skipper's wife suddenly came running to him from the kitchen, hearing the talking and the door opening. With the most care, she hugged her husband.

Skipper did not hug back, for he did not have the strength in his arms, but he did close his eyes and remembered he had a family outside the army, outside the war, outside the death of Colonel Benton.

"Marlene… what's for dinner tonight?" was his first statement to her getting home.

Marlene smiled at Skipper's remark, her own clothes stained with the wet and mud of his.

"Porridge as usual"

He stifled a bit of laughter and sat down at a wooden chair, careful enough not to feel the uncomforting sense of sitting down wet and muddy on a cloth chair.

But in the most comforting thought, he remembered, he was home.

December 24th 1860

Bells rang from a high tower that span across a small lively town on Maine. Birds sang and the scene was complete pomp. The prideful flag of the United States wove on a high flag pole that seemed to shimmer like a golden rod in a quite surprisingly sunny day in the Maine winter. Here and there were the footsteps of a student carrying his books. Nothing could compare to the sight of seeing all this in high grandness.

A College of average size fit utterly perfect on a low hill surrounded by a thin copse of trees. Stagecoaches came and left as they dropped or picked up students or teachers for various reasons most likely important.

To learn or teach here at this snowy college was a blessing in all the reach, as well as the chance of a lifetime. The climate was harsh at times but the suffering of illness or non-well-being would pay off with a good deal of knowledge at the hands and mind of the student taught.

It was nothing but tranquil learning, except for one science professor, with the class bandwidth of 15, who thinks he missed all the golden opportunities in his life. His name was Fitz John Kowalski, known simply as Kowalski or John by the other teachers well known at the Institute, Mr. Kowalski by his students, or vulgar he thought, Mr. K.

He sat at his cold desk with a single apple in his hand, with one small bite. Kowalski stared at the quite normal fruit in a quite odd way. He thought of what would've happened. He seldom thought what worse happenings there could've been if he didn't choose to be a scholar. He didn't think there was much worse happenings. What he thought was either if he'd chosen the right choice as being a scholar, or much better of as a graduate at West Point.

He tugged at his wool jacket and sighed with all complexities still within him. The professor took a sip from his glass, and sighed again with much difficulty. Kowalski tapped on his desk as he heard the footsteps of his students come near close by. And with the most uneasiness in feeling, he stood up, and wrote on the board behind him the chapters the students he taught had to read. He tightened himself up, looked toward the empty desks in front of him and breathed slowly.

The door opened.

Students came pouring in as everyday, he expected with their overused pencils to a small bit, or freshly new pencils, along with papers and books.

They sat down surprisingly professionally. But as professional as their seating was, it was normal and highly expected by the teachers. The college endured and aspired with greatness and pomp only to that the students and teachers follow on to walking and sitting, standing, and even posture in correct and great discipline and dignity.

Kowalski rubbed his head and coughed. With that, there was the reply of one student.

"Mr. Kowalski, troublesome winter these times?"

The young professor nodded and cleared his throat lightly.

"Now, in the spite of the great segregation of countries and continents upon the earth, there lays the fact that many people are alike. And with that posture of likeliness, we must remember the fact that we trust the ones by their inside, not by their outside. Not by their voice, their taste, their religion. No. That happens on behalf of the constitution. Freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, now can someone answer this question"

There was a pause in the room, replaced then by the shuffle of papers and the turning of pages of books.

"Can there be equality with diversity in the venue of color, and nationality, and racial profile?"

There was more of a pause, and more of a dead silence than before.

"Of course. There is no matter, if your skin is black, or white, one man is equivalent to another."

One hand raised.

Kowalski spoke, "Yes?"

"If there is equality in the diversity of black and white skin, then how can we tolerste the rising tide of slavery in the South?"

The professor nodded, sat at his desk, profoundly stupefied at the question. Not because it didn't make sense, it did make sense. It wasn't because out of topic, it was in topic. It was because the question was so unexpected, yet so relevant in the time.

Kowalski paused, and looked at the window to his left, at the college courtyard where a thick blanket of snow lay. The light outside suddenly got darker, and there was too an unexpected frost covering the window. It started to snow.

Kowalski sat down on a stool in his home right in front of the forest. In one hand, a piece of wood, and in the other, a small carving knife. Calmly thinking, he whittled away pieces of wood, letting the shaving fall on the floor.

Small strokes. To big slides of the knife. The piece of wood began to morph and change.

After a while, It became possible to see what the object of point was. It was a deer, a broken looking deer that gained only one antler.

Kowalski looked at his piece of art, admiring it, but not thinking much of what it really meant, or why he even carved a deer. Was it because he saw so many? Or was it because of a deeper meaning?

Out of the silence of his admiration for the little piece of carved wood, the door opened with much sound. Kowalski's brother, Richard, entered with two rifles and a dozen boxes of ammunition.

"John, um, uh, there are reports of some deer- uh, out there. Wouldn't- wouldn't be nice if-"

"Richard, I would like you to talk clearly and fluently for me, alright?"

His brother paused, stopped his stammering. Simply, he nodded his head, and continued.

"Wouldn't it be nice, if we went hunting today?", Richard spoke, wiping the snow of his coat, and starting to caress his sore cold ears.

The professor sighed, held tightly his newly carved deer, looking at it with much thought. His deer seemed to plead with it's small wooden hollow eyes for something. For some difference in the world. Kowalski didn't know what difference it should be, or what he should do, but in a matter of time, he opened his mouth again.

"I'll make that difference"

His brother looked at him oddly, raising one eyebrow.

"What? Difference? What do you mean difference?" Richard said in such an obstinate tone. Scratching his head, he sat down on the chair beside Kowalski.

The professor lifted is head.

"Nothing, nothing… I was just… thinking…". The college teacher shook his head, thinking, 'No, no… to simple…' .

"So will you go hunting or not?"

The professor looked at his with his tired, weary eyes and said,

"I will"

It snowed a good amount for deer, for the fortunate point for them was that the snow lessened the vision for the hunters that evening, it made it easier for the deer, so easy that they could've just lived their normal way of life instead of cringing in fear of getting shot.

The trees in snow shock nearly muted the sounds of light hoofs and shaking bodies in the forest, all that hunters could here was the calm precipitation.

Kowalski held his rifle steadily and stopped. He looked around for any signs of life or deer. He thought about the stillness surrounding him, fascinated the professor, made him really think what was going on in the world. The puzzle of nature seemed to shun him there as a wrong piece, but Kowalski tried to fit in as much as possible.

The professor made quite a noise with the crunching of his old boots against the 6 inch deep snow.

Spite the sound of thinking how easy and soft that noise was to make, it was actually very loud and difficult to walk.

It was very cold that evening, every sound, every flinch of life seemed to be very alive in those instances when he walked about the field of snow and trees, that were, what he thought, just figments of the forest, unimportant, unvalued by some.

Kowalski would feel the slow falling of snow, drifting around him, stinging his skin and chilling him to the core, he felt the hot feeling in his torso, the lucky part of his body, mocking the exposed skin being numbed by the extreme Maine winter.

The professor sat down, sighed as did, and took out the carved deer from his pocket, looked at the detail and the expression, every little thing that made the carving of just a knife and some wood.

Suddenly, there was a sound, a light stroke against a fir tree, not sixty feet ahead of him. It was a gray deer staring there, with it's own leg caught in a rosebush. Kowalski thought of the pain the deer suffered, the thorns pricking inside the skin, almost to the bone.

He looked at the deer, then he looked at his carving with great care. And with that same level of gentleness, he put the carving back in his pocket and set the rifle to the side.

The deer was more frightened now of the gun, not him. But neither of them was more baffled than Richard, watching from behind a few trees.

Kowalski took out the same knife he used to carve the deer and nodded at the innocent animal, as the animal's own pleading eyes looked at him.

The professor looked at the leg stuck to the rosebush and saw the blood painfully dripping onto the snow. Kowalski was aware of the wolves, and what they would do to animals wounded or stranded. Quickly, he sawed the surrounding twigs off the deer's leg and nodded once again. And just like that, the deer bounded off.

"John, what was-, why did you- what the- What was that?" Richard muttered as he struggled out of the plants and trees.

The professor looked as him oddly with a a gaze trying to ignore the falling snow.

"Excuse me? Speak slowly, then tell me what I did"

"You let the deer go!", Richard's hands tightened more against the rifle in his own choking words. "you could've- you could've- ugh!" he said with his hands to his forehead now.

"I did what was proper, I set him free"