Covers
by Robin and Parda
written 1999

16 September 1862
Sharpsburg, Maryland

Connor's Story

The night before a battle is always much the same. Soldiers check their weapons, telling uneasy jokes as they try to silence - or at least to muzzle - their fears. Men whisper prayers, read or write letters; the young ones weep silently in fear and shame. Tomorrow, many of them will be dead. It is always the same.

I should know. I rode off to my first battle nearly three and a half centuries ago: Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, battling the clan Fraser in the Highlands of Scotland. In this land, in this war, I have become Captain Clement Lawrence of the 19th New York Infantry, and in the morning we will battle the rebel troops of General Lee. The Blue and the Gray were waiting, massed and ready, for the coming of the dawn.

I made my way between the stands of maple trees, checking on my men. We had marched hard today, past field after field of just-ripened corn, and the men sprawled on the ground, bone-weary and quiet.

"Evenin', Captain Lawrence," Tom Johnson said, a thin-faced scarecrow of a man from the narrow streets of Brooklyn.

"Sergeant," I said and shared a sip of whisky and a word or two. Then I moved on, listening to the fiddle music coming from the Irish regiment camped in the woods not far away, watching as the soldiers ate hard tack and cold salt pork off battered tin pans. General McClellan had forbidden campfires, and the men of the Army of the Potomac would spend the night in darkness, shivering in the crisp autumn air. Tomorrow would be hot enough, in a lot of ways.

I stiffened as the presence of another Immortal raced up my spine and lodged at the base of my skull, a hammering ache that faded as I spotted the cause-a tall man in battered blue, coming toward me up the hill, his boots scuffing at the thin spattering of blood-red leaves on the ground. I laid my hand on the hilt of my Army-issue sword, wishing I had my katana. But the odds of losing it on the battlefield were too great, and I had left it in a bank vault in New York City. The Army saber would have to do.

The other Immortal approached slowly, with the weariness that spoke of recent fighting or long marching, and he made no move to reach for a weapon, either pistol or sword. He stopped five paces away, and his gaze went to my waiting hand. "Is it not enough that we fight our own countrymen tomorrow?" he asked in a voice graveled with dust and from shouting orders. "Must we fight within our own ranks as well?"

"Our countrymen?" I challenged. "Is this your country then?"

"It is now," he responded. "Paid for with sword and sweat and blood."

"The War of Independence?"

"That was the first."

My first in this country, too. I dropped my hand from the hilt but kept my distance. "Captain Clement Lawrence, 19th New York."

"Captain Evann Montgomery, 25th New York."

I knew that wasn't his real name, anymore than I had given him mine. It didn't matter. "Were you in the skirmish this evening?" I asked, for even through the gathering darkness I could see the front of his jacket was dark with blood, his trousers dark with water.

He nodded. "Pleasant way to spend an evening. You?"

"Missed it. We were still crossing Antietam Creek." My trousers were also wet. "We got a good fight at South Mountain two days ago, though."

"We were there, too." He slumped against a tree, leaning with arms crossed, ankles crossed, long and lean and boneless with fatigue. "Your boys ready for tomorrow?"

"As much as they can be. No campfires doesn't help."

"Can't even get a hot cup of coffee," Montgomery agreed.

"I've got something better. Care for a drink?" I offered, and at his nod, I tossed him my flask of whisky.

Montgomery caught it - barely - then took a long swig. He threw the flask back to me with a nod of appreciation. "Better than I'm used to out here."

"Shipped it in special." I had other things shipped in special, too. I had bought a textile mill and two shoe factories five years before, and my orders got priority. As I said, I had seen wars before.

Montgomery shivered as a cool breeze moved through the woods. "Going to be a damn long, damn cold night. No campfires, not enough blankets. At least we have bullets for tomorrow."

The mark of a good officer, to care about his men. Not a bad fellow here, so far, and in this battle at least, we were on the same side. "We have some extra blankets," I volunteered. Ten of our boys had died of dysentery in the last week. We were supposed to return all Army Gear to the Quartermaster, but blankets and shoes often tended to get ... lost somehow, or destroyed in battle. There was always room for creative bookkeeping.

"It's going to be a damn cold winter," he warned.

"For everyone," I agreed, then offered again, "You want the blankets?"

"We've got nothing to trade," he said, giving me another chance to change my mind.

"Going to be a damn long war," I reminded him. "Maybe my men will need some bullets."

Montgomery paused, looking me over, then nodded. "Thanks. I'll send someone over."

"Tell him to ask for Sergeant Johnson." We turned as the sound of female laughter carried above the Irish fiddling. "Might be fun," I said with a grin. "Want to go visit Hooker's ladies?" I asked, using the recently-coined nickname for camp whores. General Hooker's troops always seemed to have more than their share of camp followers.

"Right now the only thing I want to do on my back is sleep."

"Sleep is good."

Montgomery pushed himself off the tree. "Yes, sleep is good," he agreed, then turned to go.

I watched him until he disappeared down the hill, then went back to my men and told Johnson to give Montgomery's man the blankets. I took another walk around our campsite. The men were settled and as comfortable as they could be, all their weapons were in order, our area secure. Sleep was good, as Montgomery had said, but I wasn't all that tired, and I could think of a lot of things I wanted to do on my back. I needed a companion for at least three of them, so I told Lieutenant Mattingly he was in command, then I headed for Hooker's comfort detachment.

Evann's Story

I stretched and yawned as I left Lawrence and made my way back to my men. Sleep would be good. If I could ever get some. As always, things needed tending to, not the least of which was finding someone to pick up our newly acquired blankets.

That Captain Lawrence was an interesting man. Arrogant, and just a little smug, quick to offer a drink. Slow to trust. About what I would have expected for another immortal, but there was something genuine about him I couldn't quite place. And he had given us blankets. Definitely put him one up on my list.

I knew my boys well. The taste of fear filled their mouths, despite the canned crap they gave us to eat when we finally made it into camp. Not a one of them was asleep, though they were all as dead tired as I was. Some of them more so.

They watched me with confident eyes. We had been through a lot; we'd be through a lot more.

"Archer, go find Sergeant Johnson of the 19th New York, just up the hill. He's got some blankets for us," I said, sliding my back down the trunk of a tree to sit. Off my feet for the first time in days. It was heaven.

Archer shot to his feet. "Yessir, Captain," he said, and headed off in the direction I had come from. One of my men brought me coffee, cold and bitter, but still somehow satisfying. I thanked him, my eyelids already starting to slide closed.

I took a long sip of the coffee, feeling the acrid bite of it down my throat, forcing me awake. No sleep. Not yet. The coffee mixed with the whisky in my stomach, and it churned in protest. Apparently the two liquids settled better if you drank them together.

I gave my boys a good hard look. No shoes or blankets were the least of our worries. Our muskets were in disrepair, held together by prayers and spit. Unit morale was low. Mail was late in coming; so was pay. I'd guess less than a quarter of my boys had enough money to buy one of those whores we could hear laughing in the woods.

It wasn't easy for us.

The laughing stopped, replaced by soft moans, and Private Holm made a joke I couldn't quite hear. I wondered about Captain Lawrence, and just what he was doing right now. I didn't have to wonder very much.

Captain Clement Lawrence, eh? Not damned likely.

Arrogant. Smug. Potentially charming. Downright charitable.

I could deal with that, but I had other things to deal with tonight. And tomorrow. And - assuming I didn't take a bullet to the chest or a bayonet to the back -the day after that as well, for as long as the Rebels kept coming.

I had just drained the small tin cup of coffee when Archer came back with a pile of ten neatly folded blankets. I nodded, and he started passing them around to the wettest soldiers, the ones on the verge of getting sick. The ten still weren't enough.

Archer brought the last one to me. "Here you go, Cap," he said brightly, his spirit not diminished at all by the near-constant fighting, or the near-constant marching. "S'gonna be a cold night."

"Keep it, Archer," I said, hauling myself to my feet. I wanted to go over everyone's musket; I wanted to double-check our ammo and stock of gunpowder. Archer looked a little surprised that, wet as I was, I would give up the opportunity to have a blanket. General McClellan had ordered all campfires extinguished long before we made it to camp. It was too easy for the enemy to calculate your strength based on the number of campfires. It was a sound military tactic. It was a good idea.

It was a pain in the ass.

I clapped Archer on the shoulder and handed him the little cup. "It's going to be a cold night. And a long day. Get some sleep."

He shook out the blanket, drawing it up around himself, and without a word hunkered down against the tree where I had been sitting. Archer was a good kid, young and idealistic. Too much so maybe.

I rubbed my hands together to warm them and headed off to check on our supplies. It was going to be a very long night.

Continued in Chapter 2