"Uncle Jasper-"

"Renesmee, let your uncle talk." I felt and didn't feel as Alice nuzzled me, kissing my neck. More anxiety from Nessie. I ignored them both; though the memories I'd just unearthed were difficult to relive, there was worse to come. All I could do was keep talking before Renesmee had a chance to re-hash an argument Alice and I had had at least two dozen times. My wife didn't believe I'd acted in cowardice when I'd run from my family, but self-preservation. To me, they were often one in the same.

I remember standing in front of the recruiter, a Captain my father's age who happened to own the most acerage along the Texas coast. I'd bet, but didn't dare say aloud, that his rank as Captain was a reflection of his land's poor crop output. How little I knew then... I was standing straight as I could, trying not to be obvious as I tried using my height to my advantage. The Captain had been eyeballing me for only minutes, but it seemed like hours. As I tried not to fidget, I kept repeating the same mantra in my mind. Please, just let me enlist.

"How old are ya?" The Captain's fingers slid down until one thumb hitched into his belt, blue eyes still on me.

"Just turned twenty, sir." I leaned forward slightly, putting more of my weight on my toes. I was only seventeen and I couldn't afford to be sent back home now.

"Got your own horse, I see."

"Yes, sir," I confirmed. I'd had to push Cassidy and Christopher off so I could get on the horse this morning. Archer had taken them, let them cry on his shoulders now that mine were no longer avaliable. Before I'd left, I'd nodded to my brother. Maybe he would make a better elder brother than I had. Maybe.

"How good a rider are you? And how good a shot?" Before I could pull completely free of my memories or answer the first question, I felt the weight of a rifle in my hand.

"Let's find out." Shouldering the weapon, I smiled and turned back to my mount. I thought the Captain would stop me, but he just watched as I got into the saddle, checked the gun, loaded it, and grabbed the reins. "Anything particular you want me to shoot at?"

"Figure it out, boy."

I needed no further encouragement, letting out a whoop as the horse started to canter, then gallop under me. The wind whipped through my hair as I squinted into the sun, looking for a likely target. I brought the stock to my shoulder, checking my grip as my other hand handled the reins. I pulled my mount to the left and fired as my body turned. The lead bullet flew, punching a neat hole through a wooden fence post. Blinking, trying to get the ringing in my ears to stop, I nudged my mount back to the Captain at a canter.

"Impressive. Your horse didn't startle."

"No, sir," I responded, swinging my leg back over the steed to vacate the saddle.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Jasper Whitlock, sir." He was circling me now. Again, I tried not to fidget, feeling very like a dying animal being eyeballed by a hungry buzzard.

"I know your family, Whitlock. Your father's a decent man." I tried to keep the frown off my face, but the Captain's dark chuckle told me he probably saw it. He stopped circling me and pulled a soft leather pouch from his pocket. Calloused fingers reached in to retreive a plug of chewing tobacco, his teeth expertly tearing a small chunk free. Jaws working around the chew, he nodded to himself. "I believe you'll fit in fine, Whitlock. You're a decent rider. I'll recommend the calvary."

After a month of training, I got a better idea of exactly what the Confederacy was working with. Some of the soldiers, myself included, had come from well off families. They were gentlemen, most of whom owned their own horses or their own guns and were able to purchase their uniforms. Others were mere farmboys, white trash country bumpkins who had to beg and borrow until they could be fully outfitted. Some of the poorer men were there on orders, paid by their financial betters to take their place on the battlefield.

Despite the lack of equipment, we had skill and we knew our territory. In every skirmish I was involved in, every mock battle I witnessed, there was nearly always somebody who knew the lay of the land. A trapper, a hunter, a marksman, it didn't matter what their skillset was. Whoever knew the area best would always step forward and share their knowledge. After the first few times I witnessed this, I always made a point of asking who knew the area we were in. I suppose this was one of the things my superiors noticed. I earned a promotion.

By the time I became an officer, the army was more organized. We were ready for anything. Most of the rank and file and even some of the officers were convinced we'd all be home by Christmas. Just a few more months and the war would be over. I wasn't as optimistic. We were hearing more news of battles in the North, territory and terrain we didn't know as well, land we weren't fighting to defend. The war was moving.

I thought then that it was terribly pointless. Blood and death and gangrene everywhere for no real reason. I was careful not to share these views with my men, of course. They liked me and respected me, though many of them were older than I was. Age didn't matter so much when you didn't know which bullet might have your name on it, which disease might rob you of your health. I followed orders. I didn't take risks.

When we learned of the Union's plans to attack us from the Gulf, I immediately mobilized my troops. Houston was my home and I would do all I could to prevent it from being taken. The days spent evacuating the women and children, shielding them from the coming danger, everything changed. I never saw her coming.