A/N: Jasper Whitlock belongs to S. Meyer, but all of the other characters belong to history or my imagination. Once again, I express my love and appreciation to Wuogkat and MaleficentKnits for their help. I hope you enjoy. Please read and comment!

6 June 1862

Major Whitlock had been given a half hour reprieve, and his thoughts were getting the best of him. While he had spent the day delivering messages and running errands, he had hardly managed to see any actual fighting. The only exception being a rather unique incident with an unknown corporal who had been chased his way accidentally. The cries and the moans from the battlefield and hospitals were everywhere. Some men would be haunted by that sound and not able to sleep that night, it was something completely different to Jasper Whitlock. He first noticed it like someone would have heard cattle lowing, but as it continued, it consumed his curiosity. It was turning into a siren's song… drawing him to the battlefield to witness, first hand, the full effects of this godforsaken war.

Without realizing what he was doing, Jasper's feet took him just out of earshot from the church.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he started to follow the siren's song that called to his curiosity. He moved with interest northward, from the church toward the Confederate camps that stood between him and the battlefield.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the intoxication vanished. Union forces had begun another barrage of mortar fire, and the new sounds sobered him up immediately. At this point, however, Jasper's curiosity had gotten then better of him. He still wanted to see the battlefield first hand. While the venture may take more than the thirty-minute reprieve he had been granted, he had a logical excuse.

Sir, he thought of the excuse, I simply wanted to ensure the accuracy of the reports that we have received. It provided logical and plausible deniability for his tardiness. With this thought in mind, he quickened his pace to the camps.

The smell of evening chow was the first thing he noticed as he drew nearer to the camps; this was something that had not been there earlier while visiting the officers. He had always known that the enlisted men did not eat as well as the officers, but the odors emanating from this mess made him question the edibility of their food. He wondered, briefly, if this difference was a because of life on the front lines, or if it was simply how things worked in Tennessee. Regardless of the reason, his sympathy was building in a way that he had not expected.

As he approached the camp, Jasper saw the brigadier general's tent that he had visited just a couple of hours previously, butted up next to a massive oak tree that offered both shade in the day and some level of protection from rain, should it come. It was the simple things like this that truly separated the officers from the rank and file enlisted soldiers. The major slipped past the general's tent as quickly and quietly as he could, managing to go unnoticed, just as he had hoped.

He was now into the camp.

In Texas, Major Whitlock was no stranger to the enlisted men. They knew who he was, and he knew many of the men under his command personally. He possessed a great empathy with them for their role in the chain of command, which he understood to be at the bottom, like the chain links that drag upon the ground and are ignored unless needed. His men knew how he felt. It was not in any particular thing that he had done, but simply in how they felt around him. There was a peace about Jasper Whitlock that the enlisted men felt. It made them work for him as they would for their fathers and not as a commanding officer.

This camp, however, was different, and Jasper could tell that from the beginning. He had done many drills back in the Texas 2nd with his men, but he had never truly bivouacked with them.

He saw the lines of tents and with men sticking partway out of them, a head here or a pair of feet there. In some places, men crowded around a tent or two, engaged in some form of gambling or tomfoolery. Of course there were others who were just hoping to sleep. He stood there for a moment, taking in all that he could before he passed this last stage heading to the battlefield. He noticed one thing that to which he had never paid attention before: the way men used their bayonets.

Without doubt, the bayonet was the least preferred method of self-defense. If a soldier had to resort to using it, he was either out of ammunition or way too damn close to the enemy; sometimes it was a sad combination of both. It was a slow and deliberate weapon that required the ability, strength, and agility of wielding a massive musket. However, off the battlefield, the Enfield Bayonet was one of the more useful tools in the camp. It was utilized as a knife, an emergency tent peg, or any other number of uses. Yet the most intriguing and perhaps most ingenious was seeing so many of the bayonets simply shoved into the ground and used as a candleholder. The socket at the end, which affixed it to the barrel of the soldier's musket, was perfect for a candle. Because of this, there were many men laying on their ground cloths either composing or rereading letters from loved ones, all the while providing a lit path through the camp.

After today's battle, there were an exceptionally large number of men either writing letters or dictating to those who could write. Jasper could sense… no he could feel... feel the fear that hovered over the camp. No man present had ever seen a battle that raged like this first day at Shiloh. Although many of them had guessed in exaggeration, they were correct that this was the single worst and most destructive day of battle in American history up to that day.

While he stood there, a short way into the first row of tents, a few of the men had noticed him, and begun to whisper about what a major might be doing there. No one recognized him from their regiment, which led them to believe that he was either lost or on a mission.

Jasper walked past a few tents and stopped at one where a dark-haired young man, a little younger than him, laid on his ground cloth penning a letter.

"Who's the letter to?" Jasper asked in a warm voice.

"My family," he responded simply, but obviously holding back tears. The private didn't even bother to get up much less try to stand at attention. Contrary to what some men assumed, this lack of respect did not bother Whitlock in the slightest.

"You're scared aren't you?" There was a pause while he let the young man search for the words he wanted, but he could not find them. Instead, he dropped his head. Jasper took a step closer, squatted down beside him, put a hand on the boy's back, and whispered something in his ear. No one knew what he said, but everyone who witnessed this was moved and felt an increase in both courage and spirit.

After a few moments of whispering, Whitlock stood up and took a step away intending to continue through the camp to the battlefield.

"Thank you," the private said eagerly, with the same tone that a boy would give to a father figure. Jasper stopped.

"Remember that and you'll be just fine," Whitlock replied. He gave the private a knowing nod and took a step away. Immediately men circled the private and asked what had been said. Jasper knew that men would talk, but…

"You have a fiddle?" he asked another soldier who was standing nearby. "If so, then put it to some good use." His comfort was for that one boy, not the entire company. He not only wanted to take the focus off of the private, but also to change the atmosphere as quickly as possible.

He returned from his tent with the same haste as he had been ordered. The soldier carried an old violin in hand, stood at the edge of the makeshift group, and pulled the bow slowly across the strings producing a long, slow, mournful note.

"Something cheerful and happy," Jasper whispered to the violinist. It was as though he hadn't heard the major because his second stroke of the bow was equally soulful.

Then, all at once, the song quickened pace. The young man's fingers sprang to life and pealed out a rousing jig. It was an original American tune, inspired by the native sounds of his Celtic ancestors. This style of hybrid song was familiar to many native to the Tennessee mountains. It reminded them of home, and certainly drew the attention of men from all around.

Jasper knew just what they needed to liven their spirits and get them past that day's events. With a slight smile, he moved along through the camp, when he saw another soldier with a guitar hurrying toward the music, and smiled within himself at the impromptu concert that was starting. He listened for a moment as the solo became a duet. He noticed that the music followed the rhythmic pounding of the distant artillery now creating an oddly appropriate trio. The music was still turning heads and nearly guaranteed that men were looking at him when he walked through the aisles of tents.

His pace was unaffected by the stares that he received; in fact he was impervious to them. Even the comments made under one's breath were ignored. That was until...

"Just another damn child brevet* who thinks war is about honor and glory," a voice called out. "I'll bet he couldn't find a lass's ass without a map and compass."

Major Whitlock stopped in his tracks and turned to his left. The speaker was a middle-aged man who stood with his uniform shirt on, but unbuttoned. The three stripes on his sleeve showed that he was a sergeant. It was easy to determine the guilty party. Not only had the sergeant in question stood like an iron post, staring at the major, but the innocent men made themselves look busy or uninvolved.

"Do you have a problem with my rank? Or my age?" Jasper asked calmly, accentuating his Texas drawl.

"I'm terribly sorry, Major, if you misheard me," the sergeant stated. It was as disingenuous an excuse as anyone had ever heard. If, however, an NCO was going to go on the record in a conversation with an officer, there were certain things that had to be said. "I have no problem with you... Sir." The pause and last final sir, oozed with contempt.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, Sergeant. Is there anything with which you do have a particular disagreement?" Jasper asked, maintaining a coolness in his demeanor.

"I don't think that there is anything in particular, Sir. Perhaps I'm fatigued at this day's end." His voice had lightened a little bit as Jasper's demeanor had begun to affect him, but the sarcasm remained clearly present in his voice. "Actual fighting can effect those on the battle's front... even those of us who are used to an honest day's work."

The innuendo was clear. Jasper could sense the Sergeant's anger for him. Now it was obvious that he viewed the Major as another Academy boy who came from a family of means. This was not an uncommon emotion for older soldiers to feel towards the junior officers like him young enough to be their sons.

"What kind of farm did you have?" Jasper inquired.

The sergeant was surprised by the question and this visibly affected his demeanor.

"You were a farmer, right?" he asked, guessing at the man's antebellum life, but felt it was a safe bet.

"Yessir," he muttered, "corn mostly."

"Large farm?"

"Err...," the Sergeant was now completely at a loss. The shift in questioning had taken him so much by surprise that he did not know how to react. "Naw sir... just a few acres. Too small t'compete with all the cawtton."

In these few brief moments of conversation, there was more at play than many witnesses realized. The Major's demeanor and questions of home stripped the soldier of his anger. Jasper (and everyone else for that matter) could feel the distinct change in the atmosphere, but the Sergeant's drawl confirmed his relaxation.

"Who worked it with you?"

"Not many folks. Jes' m'self, brother, and my two sons," he said. "W'made 'nuff to git by, and eat decent enough."

"Jasper Whitlock," he responded while stepping forward, offering his hand.

"Zebulon Adams," the sergeant replied, but quickly adding, "they call me 'Zeb'."

"Well tell me about your family, Zeb."

The exchange shifted from an interrogation to a conversation. It started just as a means to to calm Zeb down. His initial plan worked; as Zebulon talked about home, he moved from angered to frustrated to calm and finally nostalgic.

"...the mizzez would call round about an hour b'fore dusk an' we'd come in from the fields..."

However, the unexpected part was that Jasper came to sympathize with him. The picture he painted of home made him downright homesick.

"...the first time I saw me son bring home a deer, I know'd he was a man. I taught him to do right by God, but don't know what he's a doin' now," he paused, obviously looking for the words. "I know'd he got the spirit of man, but jes' being fourteen, I don't know if he's growed up enough to run the fields with his brother now that Jeff and I are off."

This is when Jasper finally began to understand Zeb's real concerns. He was another man who enlisted expecting a short war; a war that would involve one skirmish and then the politicians would find a way to end it. Instead, Bull Run showed clearly that this war was neither to be short, nor resolved by politicians. Now here stood a man who was concerned about whether his sons could maintain the farm and their livelihoods with both men off fighting in the war.

Clearly Jasper's countenance had changed. He wanted to help out this man, but there was nothing he could do. He had built a rapport with Zeb and felt his emotions. Which is why what happened next surprised him almost as much as it did anyone else who was present.

"So what was that about a 'child brevet'?" Major Whitlock demanded.

"Excuse me, Sir?" the sergeant responded, snapping back suddenly from the home in his thoughts.

"I'm hardly a child and certainly not brevetted. I'm sure you're thinkin' I'm one of those academy boys, but rest assured I grew up workin' fields like you and your boys," the Major's tone was firm, but not angry.

"Sir, I don't think you understand," he replied almost pleadingly.

"Of course I understand," he paused, "but if all you can do is dream of home, why don't you just head back!"

Major Whitlock turned to his left as if to leave, and then it happened. Acting faster than anyone could have imagined or responded, Whitlock turned back to his right and swung a hard, closed fist backhanding the sergeant in the face, knocking him to the ground. A rush of enlisted men started moving in instinctively, but quickly stopped, almost in unison, recognizing that they could not threaten an officer. Zeb Adams rested there briefly with blood already oozing already from his hand covering his mouth. He then spat out a tooth onto the ground.

"Just one?" the Major stated more than he asked. He then grabbed the collar of the man nearly old enough to be his father with his left hand and delivered a fierce right punch again to the man's mouth, knocking out a second tooth.

Men stood around flabbergasted. They were in shock having witnessed this sight before them. Zeb was laying on the ground, resting on one elbow, while still holding his mouth. He was dazed, but as his he regained his senses, Zeb looked up, opened up his blood-filled mouth and mumbled, "Fank you, Sir."

Jasper straightened up his uniform, and then began massaging his now hurt right hand with the other. There was silence on their row as Jasper and Zebulon stared at each other. They were, however, sandwiched between the only other sounds that were nearby: music from deeper in the camp and the moans of the wounded still on the battlefield.

"Anytime," Jasper said with true meaning, almost with caring, and then he finally turned and walked finally toward the site of that day's carnage. Those who had seen what had just happened cleared a hole wide enough for a caisson** before the officer got anywhere near them. They were shocked at what they just saw.

It is no surprise that he cleared the camp and made it down onto the actual battlefield with no further discussion or interaction with the soldiers. Jasper was not only fine with this, but he was quite relieved. He did not want to confront anyone about what he had just done. He was sure that his actions had been misunderstood. What witnesses viewed as a barbaric act, an assault, Jasper saw as the only way to help him.

Those who served in the army already understood the importance of teeth. Soldiers received paper cartridges to speed the process of loading their muskets. In order to properly use these, they must first bite off one end of the paper in order to pour out a certain measure of gunpowder into the musket's flash pan. If a potential recruit lacked his two front teeth, he was not accepted into the service as he would be physically unable to perform this simple, but essential task.

To date, all soldiers signed up on a purely voluntary basis. In the early days of secession, there was intense nationalism and support of states' rights. Men enlisted in droves in support of their fledgling nation, fully expecting a quick and decisive end to the conflict between the two nations. Men of all ages signed up, and Whitlock was no exception. Although underage, he was able to convince certain officials that he was of age. In all reality, it was not too difficult to do as too few questioned the ages of any recruits.

However, as the war continued to drag along, recruits were increasingly difficult to find. So much so that the Confederate Congress was in the final stages of implementing the Conscription Act, which would authorize a nationwide draft. While the political implications of this would be severely damaging to the strength and influence of the Confederate government, the popular effects of this were detrimental.

Later in the war, unwilling conscripts would find many diverse ways to avoid the war, the easiest of which was to make oneself physically incapable of serving. In later years simply knocking out one's own teeth came to be a common practice. However, here at Shiloh (less than a fortnight prior to the institution of the Conscription Act), very few had seen or heard of the practice.

Major Whitlock, on the other hand, had to deal with this situation twice in Texas. He knew that without those two front teeth, there was no choice but to take a man off the front lines of the battlefield. While his attack seemed vicious, it was motivated by the desire to find a way to allow Zeb Adams a way out. Now, there was no choice by to send him home, back to his farm, and back to his family.

Indeed, what he had just done was motivated by the one dominating trait that he possessed: compassion.

Jasper possessed neither the time nor the patience to vocalize any of this. With all of these elements tying together, there simply was no way to explain why he had just assaulted Sergeant Adams. Jasper hoped that his actions were understood, and believed they were with Zeb's 'thank you.' That is why he offered a genuine and heartfelt response.

Yet, just as his compassion had led him to take the sergeant's teeth, it was his compassion that led his feet through the camp and onto the edge of the field itself. The moon cast an eerie light upon the field and the wounded. The sounds of men calling for help and the moans of despair affected him too. However it was here at Shiloh that for the first time in his life, Jasper Whitlock understood that he did not just understand emotions and empathize with others, but that he truly knew and felt what they did. He was flooded and he was overwhelmed, but he would have given anything for this experience.

Footnotes:

*Brevet – a temporary advancement in military rank, usually during wartime. Because brevetting was common in the Civil War, many younger officers held ranks higher than was common for their age. One of the most well known is Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, who was given a temporary rank of Major General During the American Civil War.

**Caisson – This is a two-wheeled cart that carried ammunition for field artillery. By the time of the Civil War it was a horse-drawn, 4-wheeled carriage attached to the same cart that carried the field guns or cannons.