So, I promised smut this chapter. That was before I started converting my outline into actual story and realized I've got (as usual) a terrible sense of how much narrative it takes me to actually accomplish certain things. Along those lines...I've put in an estimated chapter count, but odds are it's well on the low side. If you're reading this and want to know the outcome, expect to be in for the long hall, cause I've covered three months in 50k words, and the war lasts four years...

...but there'll be smut. I promise. So I'd appreciate it if ya'll bear with me. :)


Chapter 4: The Virginia Quickstep

Dearest Anna, September 19th, 1861

We have orders! Oh, to be free of over-crowded Washington, the over-bearing politicians, the over-enthusiastic recruits arriving by the tens of thousands, the over-wrought quartermasters ready to skin a man for requesting nothing but what is reasonable, the over-solicitous hucksters intent on swindling the ignorant of their earnings, and the over-abundance of flies! Marching out means that we will lack amenities to which we have become accustomed – two months has seen our barracks transformed into a semblance of a home – but my men are a resilient, resourceful, dedicated group, and I have no doubt that our new location can be improved as sufficiently as our current; perhaps even better, for there will be rich country on which to thrive, none to steal through intent or ignorance that which we have made for our own convenience, and, dare I hope, the opportunity to do what we have come south to do, rather than simply sit in Washington DC and rot.

Our exact posting has yet to be told me, but I know we are for Virginia. General McClellan has an ambitious plan to fortify the capital against attacks by the rebels, for if Washington should fall that would severely imperil our cause. Several forts are already completed in Arlington and beyond. It is an honor to us that we among those chosen. Regiments deemed unprepared for active service are retained in the city for further training. Only veteran units, those proven to the General as ready for battle and versed in the soldierly arts, have been sent west and south. All know that it is a mark of pride, and most have been strutting like peacocks, flapping jackets like flared feathered, since we received the news this morning.

I have in my hands yours of the 10th, scarce a week behind, and I thank you for the information on my parents, the intelligence on your family and your brothers, and of course I love to hear the minutiae of your life! However, you resume your narrative of Mr. and Mrs. Milton's trip as one continuing a relation begun prior, and I regret to report that I have never received whatever letter contained the intelligence of their departure or their arrival in Chicago. Please, do fill me in, for what you relate of their experience there is intriguing to me and I'd love the context to understand all.

I fear my letters on militaria are dull for you. I have had little else of import to communicate. As Colonel Elkins and Hannah's wedding approaches, I hope I will be able to send you that which is of a rather more gratifying nature to your interests. Along those lines, know that Hannah has, with much recrimination and unhappiness, been convinced to stay in the city with Zachariah, Margaret, and Hester when we march out; and that so far as I understand the date has been set for October 20th, to be held at the Church of the Epiphany (did you know Col. Elkins Episcopalian? I did not!) Will you be able to attend? It would be a veritable miracle to see your face, but only if you may travel safety, with dignity, and in company – I'm sure my parents would be too thrilled to be among your escort.

We march out at dawn tomorrow. While I expect at first our post and other such luxuries will be delayed, I doubt it will be long before things normalize, so fear not – I will continue to write, send my letters as I am able, and cherish every one of yours that reaches my hand. Do be well, my love!

Your, J.C. Novak

The day that followed was one of endless frustration that James was growing to associating with the organization of the army. Communication between departments, between individuals in the same departments, was too poor; the number of tasks expected of everyone, himself included, were too multitudinous; and orders were too often given that would work exceptionally well were the individuals involved in a void where no other people existed. As it was, at dawn the 27th New York marched in excellent order to the docks along the Potomac, with orders to board ship and proceed the short distance down the river to Alexandria, only to find the way completely clogged by others with similar orders. Those arrived yet earlier had already departed on all available steamers. The backlog was lengthy enough that the harried naval officers overseeing the situation turned the regiment away. Each subsequent attempt to cross the river was thwarted. The Long Bridge had been recently closed to accommodate the building of a railway line, the Chain Bridge was impassable due to the Union soldiers fortifying and securing it, and in the end they marched nearly six miles in the opposite direction of their eventual destination before they reached the unobstructed Aqueduct Bridge in Georgetown. The delays were not over, for the troops defending the bridge had no orders that any were permitted to pass and so the 27th stood, strung out along the bridge in perfect marching order in a steady drizzle, for near two hours while Colonel Elkins' aide Major Carnegie secured written orders that the regiment be permitted into Virginia.

By then it was afternoon, and even James found his excitement to be on the march dimmed as misery upon misery was heaped on them. The rain fell continually until they dripped, their uniforms were heavy and sodden; every stitch they carried, including tent, blanket, leather, hardtack and all were soaked through. Standing, they were all accustomed to. After day in and day out of naught but drill, drill, and more drill, there could all happily, or at least resignedly, stand from dawn to dusk. However, marching had grown unfamiliar again. The furthest they'd gone since July had been between Georgetown and the Capitol, to participate in the periodic reviews that General McClellan was exceedingly fond of. The men at first had resented the pomp and circumstances as far from the reality of war, but the heartening cheers of the thousands that lined the parade routes had gone to their heads, and now leaving behind the hope of more such was also much bemoaned. Even had they spent all summer marching they'd have been ill-equipped for the miserable march to Alexandria. After the dry summer, the unrelenting downpour turned the roads to quagmires, and much to everyone's horror, it was discovered that the shoes they'd been issued not three weeks ago could not stand up to water. The glue that held the uppers to the soles dissolved, and within a few miles nearly everyone was barefoot.

James had never been so glad he got to ride on horseback, even though his wet saddle caused his soaked wool pants to chaff uncomfortably against his bottom. Saddle sores would heal, but he had no idea when they'd have new shoes. It was un-Christian of him to be grateful for such, and he felt increasingly guilty as the men grumbled, but their unhappiness did little to dim his relief.

In other circumstances, James would have been impressed with what a fine city Alexandria was. However, in the driving rain, the lavish brick structures appeared to be weeping, drawn curtains hid the warm light that might otherwise have poured through expensive glass paned windows, the weather was bad enough to have driven the citizenry to their homes, and the hour was late enough that all of the shops were closed. Those few people they did see, mostly laborers, shot them dirty, resentful looks, and one older woman made a rude gesture, obviously directed at Henriksen, that prompted Bradbury to ready his rifle, as if his waterlogged powder had the least possibility of igniting.

The prospect of the warmth and dryness within those houses was alluring, and James was not the only one who looked wistfully. As they trudged down the cobbled streets, James spun out a fantasy, of one of these buildings being home, of a welcome awaiting him and his comrades-in-arms. Impossibly, there was room to accommodate them all, towels and fresh-drawn hot baths to drive away the clammy chill that had settled into his bones despite the mildness of the temperature, dry clothing and bedding, and a finely cooked meal enormous enough to sate even the hungriest of their number. Glimpses into the few uncovered windows, lit by interior candlelight to glowing gold, showed a life eerily reminiscent of the one James enjoyed in New York. Within one parlor, a young couple exchanged tender glances and shy smiles, and the reminders of Wolcott driven home even more as James recalled Anna giving him a near-identical demure look, expression limned with a hint of coy promise that made him think things he knew he shouldn't.

A black woman, eyes lowered, shuffled into view as James' horses passed the window, and his last view into the room was off the man breaking off his flirtation, face contorting with anger as he yelled at the slave girl loudly enough that his voice was audible as a dulled hum through the thick wood door.

The sight drove away all nostalgia. This was Virginia, not New York. If James sought sanctuary in one of these homes, he'd be condoning an institution he found reprehensible, and if he balked in seeing through his military service, such scenes would be repeated ad infinitum in homes throughout the south. In that moment, for that day, he was undeniably uncomfortable, but he was only one man, and it was only one day, he served only a two year term. The war would end and James would return to his nice, warm, welcoming home, the arms of his waiting fiancée, the career as a lawyer his parents had planned for him since he was a boy, and he'd never have to suffer another day. His sacrifices were paltry in comparison to what was asked of others as a matter of course for their entire lives.

The city faded behind them as they passed beyond the last homes and towards the steep hills south. Despite their early start, it was late afternoon when they finally, wearily crested one of those hills, bare save for a small encampment laid out on top. From the peak, Alexandria made a drab vision washed in the gray of clouds, dusk and water, the Potomac visible as a deeper gray beyond that, the hills of Maryland ghostly in the distance. Another hill flying the US flag was barely visible to the west, and the valleys between were a patchwork of nondescript, bare farmland, made drear and brown by the bad weather and coming fall. Occasional stands of trees blocked further view, but the road south disappeared in the blurred haze of the horizon. In sunlight, James thought it would be handsome country, but that evening it was swamped with a pervasive, oppressive gloom.

The Colonel ordered a halt before several large tents glowing with lamp light and short line of low triangles adequate to accommodate maybe a company. A few of the tents were occupied by men asleep, but the rest were presumably on picket duty. Their location was near the southern edge of what the Union held securely, and the threat of attack must be taken seriously.

Their arrival was a cruel reminder that there was no rest to be had at journey's end. Major Carnegie came around to summon James, Fitzgerald and Henriksen to a command meeting. Orders were distributed that Company A would be joining in picket duty, Company B would shovel the camp privy, Company C was to cook some semblance of mess, Company D would gather tents and assemble them in lines, Company E were to see to the regimental horses, and on down the regiment until all had tasks.

The meeting with the Colonel got James and his lieutenants out of the rain, but the alternative proved little better. The existing encampment proved to be a cadre of engineers who described plans to construct a fort atop the hill, and the 27th New York was there to do the digging and building. Their description was extremely technical, unnecessarily so, and the interior of the over-crowded tent was humid and stuffy to the point that James felt himself growing sick with it, the atmosphere unbreathable, his lungs scarce able to muster the strength to lift his uniform, made heavy by water.

It was full dark before the company, and much of the regiment, retired to their tents. The rain was accompanied by dazzling lightning strikes that blinded the eye and reminded them how dreadfully exposed they were on the bare hilltop. Thunderclaps ripped through the night, each one flaring memories behind James' eyelids of cannon, smoke, fire and damnation atop Henry Hill. The simple linen squares under which he slept did nothing to repel the deluge. Somewhere in the wilderness to the south some beast with a cry like a woman in agony rent the night on occasion. The temperature plummeted until James shivered in his woolens. Even with all that, when sleep came, it took him completely, he was so exhausted from the day that had been.

I wonder who wakes the bugler.

Such was James' first bemused thought on being woken by the inelegant note of the regiment's inept trumpeter. His second was an unjoyous reiteration of every discomfort of the previous evening, his uniform still damp, his feet swollen painfully inside the tight leather of his boots, his nose itchy, and to all of that was added an alarming disquiet in his stomach that made him extremely nervous. Thus far, the 27th had been spared any serious outbreak of illness, but they had been lucky. Washington DC had festered in the ludicrous heat of the summer, disease run rampant where men lived in close quarters sharing bad food and dirty swamp water. Even as the hospitals had discharged those recovered from their wounds taken at Bull Run, a new sort of casualty had filled the beds – men taken ill with every sort of complaint, but the most common was the one James felt now, the pressure to relieve himself, the need to hasten to the privy pits. Rising, he obliged his discomfort, and found himself far from alone. Shame at the act of using the bathroom publicly had long since faded among the troops, and instead James exchanged sheepish grins with the others who squatted near him. It was easier to smile at their mutual discomfort than to acknowledge it by any other means, simpler to chuckle at the absurd sounds some of them made than to consider the potential severity of their condition. The flux could kill a man, and all of them would sooner face bullets again than go out like that.

Duty cared little for the illness that obviously afflicted many of the men that day, and as the Colonel gathered them to pass out their orders, James could do little else but pray for the symptoms to pass quickly. There were to be no delays in constructing the fort – already dubbed Fort Lyon by the engineers, in honor of General Nathaniel Lyon, recently killed during the fighting in Missouri. Company B had been issued shovels the previous day, and thus they were instructed to dig once more, beginning the construction of a deep ditch around the hilltop. Most of the other companies were set to felling trees. Those with experience in carpentry were singled out and given the equipment necessary to prepare the trees to build a stockade. Throughout the day, wagons of equipment and supplies arrived, and the regimental quartermaster took charge of the material and organized it, overseen by the keen eye of the engineers.

Guilt drove James to pick up a shovel and help the men. As an officer, no one expected him to do so, but the drudgery of the task was evident. Though the day was sunny, the air was cool, and the sun did little to dry the waterlogged soil. Heavy, dark brown sod made up the hillock, and digging it up was hot, difficult work. Men who had started the day ill grew more so, and even as James helped shoulder the load of physical labor, interrupting his labors occasionally to see to the demands of his roiling insides, he watched his troops and worried.

The wagons contained much that appeared useless, from carts with enough grain to feed three times the number of horses they had to nails that were obviously too short to be of any use in their task to one cart that contained nothing but replacement wagon wheels, but they did produce a few boons. One, bearing the seal of the United States Sanitary Commission, proved a particular God send. The health-minded citizens of New York City had, with impressive foresight, sent them a tent to be used for men who were wounded, an apothecary worth of medicines, long strips of clean bandages, splints; in short they'd been provided with a mobile hospital just when they needed it most. Fearing that the most ill among his troops would suffer disproportionately, but well aware that without orders he risked being accused of insubordination if he gave them a break (Col. Elkins would not second-guess James' judgment, but General Wright and the men from the engineer corps were too unknown for James to guess their reaction), James instead sent his sick men to aid in the unloading of the hospital and the assembling of the tent. No one reprimanded him for his actions, so either they had passed unremarked, or their new superiors were not insensitive to the physical needs of the individuals under their command. That was a relief, for James had already observed that too often, officers – especially those of the West Point variety who had been to war before – saw the privates under their commands not as people but as interchangeable units.

They dug until the lengthening shadows made it impossible to continue. By then, James' hands were thoroughly blistered, his innards were twisted in agonized rebellion, and only the knowledge that not eating would further weaken him was adequate to force himself to consume minimal sustenance in the form of hardtack crumbled and soaked in the cleanest water that he could find.

James was far from the only man up and down throughout the night.

When James joined the others to resume digging the following morning, Henriksen gave him a wry look, seized the shovel from his weakened grip and refused to give it back. James was too unwell to belabor the point, and contented himself with offering encouragement to his men in between harried trips to the privy. Near a third of the company was relieved from duty due to sickness, retreated to the large, open-sided hospital tent, lying on blankets on the damp ground under the care of Private Ellicott, the regimental doctor Whittaker, and a sergeant from Company H whose name James didn't know. Most the few women who'd accompanied the regiment assumed nursing duties, which constituted keeping the direly ill supplied with fresh water, keeping them clean and disposing of the disgusting, often bloody, waste. While some men appeared to be improving, some were definitely growing worse, bodies wracked, faces contorted to reflect the pain, pleading for water that they could not keep down. It was horrible to watch, and though James visited the ill of Company B, and knew by all rights he should be among their number, he could not bring himself to stay.

Fearing he could succumb as others clearly were, James drank throughout the day and ate a little whenever he felt he could. Despite Bradbury's frequently rolled eyes and Fitzgerald's polite suggestion that James might benefit from a lie-down, he stayed on duty, and he wasn't sorry for it. Even the minimal work he was capable of served as a welcome distraction from his discomfort, ensured that the time passed with the semblance of haste. By evening he was relieved to find he was no longer passing blood, and his sleep was only interrupted once during the night.

Private Zeddmore died just before dawn. Spangler cry of inconsolable grief woke most of the camp before the buglers were able. Come morning, the mourning soldier took up his shovel, walked down the hill to a place near where the outer pickets were stationed, and determinedly dug a grave, ignoring every reprimand and castigation that Sergeant Reidy, Henriksen, and James hurled. Their efforts were half-hearted. It was difficult to fault a man for wanting to do right by his best friend, and when it became clear that nothing they said would stop Spangler, James instead told him to continue, returning to the officers and securing permission to build a small regimental graveyard at the location that Spangler had selected. Not only was permission given, but several additional men were assigned to the task, for over the morning two more men had died, and thus three graves were needed.

On Sunday, Chaplain Murphy led a modest, poorly attended church service. Scarce a hundred men were arrayed devoutly on the grass, James, Henriksen and Fitzgerald as always in attendance. Few of the other officers and men of Company B attended, though Winchester joined them as well. James wished he could convince them all to attend, but it was not for him to dictate the church-going habits of his men, no matter his desire that they care for the health of their souls as assiduously as they tried to do for their health of their bodies. Especially in light of their current situation, when death could befall anyone at any time, James thought all belonged in prayer. The outbreak of disease was mending, but six men had fallen since they'd arrived at Ballenger's Hill, with no knowing who might be next. It troubled James to think what might await his lapsed troops in the hereafter. It troubled him that in three days, near as many men had died of illness as had died under the hail of bullets at Bull Run.

Church was followed by a funeral service for those who had passed. Many who cared not for homilies and psalms attended to say farewell to their friends and comrades, and at least half the regiment was in attendance, gathered in knots along the slopes of the hill. Wooden crosses had been carved for each casualty, their full names on them, birthdays given when they were known, and their date and cause of death.

The service was informal. Chaplain Murphy invited the gathered to speak for their friends, and a few came forward to say a few words. Spangler, openly weeping, knelt before Zeddmore's cross and said "goodbye" so softly that only those closest could have possibly heard. Colonel Elkins said a short piece on sacrifice and duty, commending them for their bravery and service as if they'd died under enemy fire instead of being laid low by the bloody flux. When no one else approached the fore to contribute, Chaplain Murphy stood before the graves and spoke from memory.

"The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them." Murphy's voice was strong and carried easily over the assembled soldiers. "In the eyes of the foolish they seem to have died, and their departure is thought to be a disaster, and their going from us to be their destruction, but they are at peace. For though in the sight of others they were punished, their hope is full of immortality. Having been disciplined a little, they will receive great good because God tested them and found them worthy of Himself. Those who trust in Him will understand truth, and the faithful will abide with Him in love because grace and mercy are upon His holy ones and He watches over His elect. The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. He revives my soul and guides me along right pathways for His Name's sake. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me; you have anointed my head with oil, and my cup runneth over. Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever. Amen."

"Amen," echoed the assembled hundreds in a hushed rumble.

"Amen, Lord!" declared a hearty woman's voice. Intent on the service, none had noticed the small group approaching them, at their lead a short, rotund black woman in an ill-fitting off-white muslin dress, her black hair pulled back from her forehead by a thick band of cloth. Despite her bold words, she wore an appropriate expression of sorrow, and the group of black men and women following her looked similarly respectful. There were a dozen, ranging from a gaunt, haunted-looking child to a man stooped and old enough to be a grandfather, his hair iron gray, is lined face achingly mournful.

"Excuse me?" Spangler, his grief-stricken face flat but his voice outraged.

"Y'all're Union soldiers, right?" The woman spoke in a thick, uneducated accent that in no way detracted from her firm, confident authority. The group, surely fleeing slaves, wore simply, ragged clothing. Most were barefoot. All save the woman and the old man had a hunted, wary look that James remembered well from the faces of those fleeing souls who had sought sanctuary at the Novak home on their journey north to Canada.

"Yes, ma'am," Colonel Elkins smoothly interjected, stepping between the new arrivals and the irrationally irate Spangler. Chaplain Murphy, sensing the tension of the situation, began shooing people away from the site of the completed funeral. Men stepped back but few departed, intrigued to see what followed. James and the other officers, all of whom had attended save those too ill, made a buffer between the curious and the Colonel.

"We're…" the woman trailed off, hand circling the air as she searched for the word.

"Contraband," wheezed the old man, his voice rheumy.

"Exactly," she gathered herself up, put her hands on her hips, and managed to look down on Elkins despite being inches shorter. "We're contraband," she repeated with a decisive nod.

A long moment's silence thickened with tension and James worried that Elkins was on the verge of turning them away. Gabriel and his allies had successfully seen the Confiscation Act signed into law, and precedent suggested that any slaves from rebellious states who escaped to Federal lines were to be given refuge, but racist, officers harboring sympathy for the southern cause often refused slaves sanctuary, or at least so said rumors. Elkins would do no such thing unless he was under orders from his superiors to do so, but such was entirely possible. The ominous expression clouding Elkins' face did nothing to quiet James' concerns. The child, biting her lips, glanced around and caught James' eye, and despite her downtrodden appearance her dark eyes were hard with fire and defiance.

"We cannot house you on the hill," said Elkins firmly. "Nor do we have the resources to care for you unless you work for the army."

"Heard you got contraband helping with diggin' and buildin'?" A muscular man with a bluff face, one arm protectively encircling a pregnant woman whose skin was so light it might have passed for being tanned, flexed his free arm to demonstrate his strength.

"It would be wisest if you take refuge in Alexandria," Elkins suggested. James scowled. From what he'd seen, they'd only scarce be free there. If they were in the employ of the Federal army, they would be paid, they'd receive food and shelter, whereas in the town they'd be at the mercy of anyone pretending friendship.

"Colonel?" James spoke up, and waited for an acknowledgement from Elkins before continuing.

"Yes, Captain?" There was a trace of exasperation in Elkins' tone that James determinedly ignored.

"We have spare tents and blankets and rations enough. It would be a matter of simplicity to set up a camp by the road on the north side of the hill," James said quickly. "While this group is small and Alexandria can accommodate this number, more will come, and how many can we leave to shift on the townsfolk?"

"So you propose we accommodate them all?" asked Elkins with an air of resgination.

"I suggest we gather those who come, find employment for them, and when a large group assembles, send them to the camp north of Washington where the government can aid them as they see fit."

Though James and Elkins spoke softly, a glance at the intense, attentive expression on the face of the woman leading the group made it clear that she was attending them closely.

"Very well," Elkins said, loud enough for everyone gathered to here. "They're your responsibility."

"Excuse me?" said the woman defiantly. "We're our own responsibility now. That's what freedom means."

"I agree," James approached her, holding out a hand by way of greeting. For the merest instant she was astonished and then she took it, her grip powerful, expression bright with triumph. "Captain James Novak."

"Missouri Moseley," she said.

"Henriksen!" Calling loudly, James glanced at the gathered troops. As it became clear nothing terribly interesting was going to happen, most were drifting up the hill, some somber, some laughing, some talking with their fellows, one person singing a funereal dirge in what James thought might be Dutch, and several attempting to console a loudly weeping Spangler. Only a handful lingered, and from the mass of men Henriksen emerged, striding purposefully towards James. The instant the uniformed black man came into sight, the former slaves gasped collectively.

"Well don't that beat all!"

"Where do I sign up?"

"Praise Jesus!"

Fitzgerald trailed uncertainly in Henriksen's wake, holding back, an uncertain smile flickering over his lips.

"Lieutenant, I'd like you to take responsibility for this – for them," James amended quickly.

An expression flashed over Henriksen's face too quickly for James to interpret, and he said tightly, "Yes, sir."

"Feel free to grab Winchester as well – put together a list of what you need, secure what you can from the camp, and I will obtain the rest," James continued. "Tents and food, obviously, but I'll see if we can get them shoes and clothing suitable for the cold weather to come. Also, see who among them is interested in working and what they are capable of, and I'd like you to oversee that, as well."

"What of my duties as lieutenant, sir?" There was an acid note in Henriksen's voice, his expression schooled utterly neutral.

"Don't you think this is more important?" asked James, startled.

"If I thought that anything was important than serving in this army, I wouldn't have enlisted," Henriksen said tightly, stance parade-ground perfect and oozing affronted pride. "If you think it's so important, why not give over your own duties?" Somehow, James had offended the man profoundly, and he hadn't the least clue how.

"I'll do it, sir," Fitzgerald interjected blithely, apparently oblivious to the tension electrifying the air. Without waiting for James to say anything, he sauntered to Missouri in his long-limbed way and held out his hand. "Lieutenant Fitzgerald, ma'am."

Part of James rebelled at the thought. He'd given the order to Hernriksen, and that made it Henriksen's responsibility. James was Captain, and Henriksen was his subordinate, and he didn't get to pick and choose which orders he followed and which he didn't. On the other hand, he didn't want something this important left to someone who was anything less than passionate about it. Henriksen would do his duty, James was sure, but what might he neglect in bitterness and frustration? Why was he so enraged?

Why had James automatically asked Henriksen, his first lieutenant, instead of any other officer in the Company?

The thought instantly troubled him. In those first moments it had seemed obvious that this should be Henriksen's responsibility, but objectively, he could scarce spare the man – he couldn't spare either of them, but if one was going to be dividing their time, better Fitzgerald than Henriksen.

"You won't be able to enlist," Fitzgerald's apologetic voice cut through James' momentary preoccupation. "Our lieutenant is the exception, not the rule – but there are folks working to see that changed, so you never know."

Henriksen was black.

"Winchester," the amount of authority in Fitzgerald's voice as he called for the sergeant was surprising. Fitzgerald was so diffident normally that James did a double-take to see the confidence on his face now. Sam must have been close, for the gangly youth appeared in an instant. "Would you get a stool for the lady who is expecting?" She made a gesture that deferred the honor while suggesting the gray-haired man might take it instead. "And if you can find any others, grab those too."

"Yes, sir," Winchester bolted up the hill in long-legged leaps.

With a sick wrench, James knew in his heart that he had asked Henriksen to take responsibility for their new arrivals because of the color of their skin and the color of his skin. James hadn't even paused to consider who among his staff might actually be most suited to the responsibility.

"I'm sorry, Henriksen," he said softly, sincerely. "You're right. You are essential to me as a lieutenant and second-in-command. The company can't spare you." Raising his voice for all to hear, he added, "Fitzgerald, I expect a report on your progress this evening."

"Absolutely, Cap'n," Fitzgerald gave James a cheerful wave.

Feeling utterly drained, by his illness, by his oblivious thoughtlessness, James nodded to Fitzgerald and started up the hill. "Walk with me, Lieutenant." Stiffly, Henriksen trailed in his wake. "I am sorry. My order was out of line."

"It's your prerogative to give orders however you see fit, sir."

"Yes, it is," James sighed. "That is why it is critical that I do so responsibly, with consideration. I didn't just now, and I'm ashamed of myself. Of course you are too essential as lieutenant for me to reassign you to oversee refugees, and had I thought about it as I ought I'd never have named you first."

"Whatever you deem fit," said Henriksen coldly. There was a pained pause, James' temper rising. He was trying to make this right, and his lieutenant was shutting him down completely.

"The men's off-time ends at noon," James pushed his pique into business-like efficiency. They had to work together. Henriksen had been the victim of much worse, and much more obvious, racism, from men who'd never apologize for they saw nothing inappropriate in their actions. "See that we have no shirkers. We're back to digging after lunch, and then we have drill in the afternoon."

"Yes, sir," Henriksen said. They were nearing the crest of the hill. The encircling trench now allowed only one narrow entry point to the top, a narrow road that would ultimately lead to a large door. After another awkward pause, Henriksen released an explosive sigh. "Captain, it…it is not worth nothing that you figured out where you went wrong. I had long thought that you, unlike most I've known, saw me as a fellow man and soldier first and foremost. To realize that you don't is a disappointment. But I was expecting too much, that you might be so far beyond your race. It's enough that you recognize it, and that you will seek to be more sensible to it in the future. I won't lie – I'm still angry now – but I'll cool down. I accept your apology, and appreciate your intentions to improve. In the future I will try to give you the benefit of the doubt, instead of letting my temper get the better of me immediately."

"Thank you," James wished he had something more adequate to say, wished he could take back his earlier actions, wished he hadn't found that hidden kernel of internalized inequality within himself. "I will strive to be the man you thought I was."

Henriksen made no answer, moving away to walk towards his tent. James watched him go, sadness and guilt in his breast, wondering in distress how many others he'd slighted in the past without even realizing it.

With church finished and several hours yet of Sunday morning leisure, men lounged lazily around the camp or indulged their oft-neglected hobbies,, writing letters, reading the newspaper or a bible, socializing, carving or crafting or whittling, playing at cards or dice, and a group of men were playing a ball game learned from soldiers from New York City. The strains of a popular new song made a cheerful backdrop to all,

Marching along, we are marching along;

Gird on the armor and be marching along.

McClellan's our leader, he's gallant and strong!

For God and for country we are marching along.

The day was lovely and James felt tempted to join in the frivolity, but he hadn't the energy. His body yet ached, his stomach reminded him he was scarce recovered, and his thoughts were exceedingly troubled by his argument with Henriksen. Pretending he was deaf to Bradbury's call that he come watch the ball game, James retreated to his tent, bundled himself in his blanket and fell into a restful doze, lilted to sleep by the sounds of jollity in the camp. He did not stir until the trumpets, inevitably, rat-tat-tatted out their call to duty.

In the fatigue of the late morning, a nap had seemed a great idea, but in the shadowed darkness of a clear night lit to surprising brightness by a gibbous moon, James lay beneath his tent wide awake, thinking about Henriksen, the contraband, his sister-in-law Raphael, the many freed blacks and runaway slaves his family had helped over the years, and wondering how often he had unconsciously perpetuated ignorance and injustice while wearing the mantle of righteousness. The same recrimination went 'round and 'round as James examined the minutiae of every interaction he could remember having with a colored person, chastising himself for the least hint of recalled impropriety. No amount of reminding that judgmental voice within himself that past ignorance was beyond repair, that all he could do was strive to improve in the future, caused his ceaseless thoughts to still. The square of linen that passed for his tent was only barely long enough to cover him head to toe, and no matter which direct he lay, moonlight bright as day fell over his face. He put his hat over his eyes, attempted to forcefully impose calm in his mind, but each time he moved the hat slid to the ground and his thoughts sparked back to life. Gradually, the moon dipped towards the horizon, the bright beam across his face elongated, and frustration and anxiety destroyed any hope of a restful night. Giving up, he rose and stretched, pleased to note his stomach was calm; now it was merely his thoughts that roiled.

The view from the hillcrest was oddly distorted by the haunting light, long shadows cast by the hills themselves obscuring thickets of trees and undulating farm land into ominous shadow while other details were limned by the cold light and gleamed in stark relief. The face of a clock mounted on a tower peeking above the rooftops of Alexandria beamed like a second moon. Faint noises filled the air, insects chirping, a shockingly loud frog croaking, the rush and clatter of leaves and branches stirring in a faint breeze, the unfamiliar call of a night bird. The camp itself was still, faint snores and occasional snorts the only sounds the sleeping men made. There was something beautiful about the ordered lines of low tents, the contrast between their facing sides catching the moonlight and the dark shadows they cast behind them, the neatly stacked rifles, butts resting on the ground, tops making a pyramid where they crossed, polished barrels twinkling. At the end of each line of tents, two sleepy men ostensibly stood guard, but they were scarce more alert than those who slept. James received barely an acknowledgement as he walked by them.

A line of pickets stood at wide intervals around the trench. None stopped James when he wandered down the narrow road and wended his way to the base of the hill. There was another ring of pickets below, the men closer together, their duty sound the alarm should attack come and to provide the first line of defense. A squad of troops were arrayed around the neat cluster of tents that Fitzgerald had assembled for the contraband slaves, and another squad stood at the road, oblivious to James' approach until his boot struck a stone with a loud clack and they all jumped and turned around with wide-eyed alarm.

"Evening, Captain," the Sergeant said, voice tight with nerves that his casual words couldn't obscure. "No one allowed out at night."

"I just need to go for a walk," James said. When he'd been home, he'd always found that getting out of the house could soothe his late-night anxieties, when his thoughts would careen so that he couldn't sleep.

"Just need to find a warm bed and some amenable company," muttered a private, another sniggering in reply.

"Sorry, sir," the Sergeant gave a smirk that betrayed his agreement. For a moment, James' temper flared –far from having considered availing himself of a prostitute, James had never been with anyone, and would not until he and Anna were wed, whenever that might be – but he quelled it. Their orders were clear, and though James knew he meant no harm, it was a slippery slope to allow him egress. Once one exception was made, why not others?

"My apologies, Sergeant," he said and started back up the hill.

He'd scarce begun when he had the thought that he could stay within the picket line and still obtain his end, circling the base of the hill. The thickets that had at one time cloaked the base of the slope had been felled, the trees dragged to form a thick abatis to protect the nascent fortress from attack, and the pickets stood within the line of felled trees, watching the trunks and branches with obvious boredom and fatigue. Protected by the obstruction, the men were spaced far apart, and as James stepped into the shadow of the hill, he realized it would be simple to sneak between them and work his way out through the tangled tree limbs. The obstruction was, after all, meant to keep people out, not in. He'd have to return, but if he was sensible and careful he could think of no reason he'd not be able to retrace whatever route he took now.

Passing between the pickets proved embarrassingly easy. Passing through the trees silently proved impossible. Freshly fallen, the branches of the abatis were covered in dying leaves, inky black and appearing an impenetrable barrier in the deep darkness where no moonlight fell. With the whisper of leaves and the snap of twigs, James attempted to find a way through, cringing at every noise his movements provoked.

"Git!" shouted one of the pickets.

James dropped to his knees, loathe to get caught, as his unhelpful thoughts pointed out the very real possibility that his brilliant plan to take a walk might get him shot. Looking over his shoulder, he realized retreat was nearly as hazardous as pressing forward, as he'd passed nearly halfway through the barrier.

"Damn deer," muttered the man. The piercing sound of a single gunshot shattered the stillness of night, and James flinched though he didn't hear anything to suggest that the bullet had come anywhere near him. Considering his options, stubbornness won out over sense, and tentatively James continued even as he resolved on what a terrible idea this was. "You come in here, we'll eat you!"

A screen of branches parted and James was in the clear. Returning would be less difficult than he feared, as he could simply masquerade as local fauna once more. Stepping into a field near Ballenger's House at the foot of the hill, he felt a wonderful, liberating peace settle on his shoulders. He had no desire to abdicate his responsibilities, but now for the first time since May he had some few moments on his own, away from all expectations, nothing to prove, not a soul looking to him for instruction. Rolling his shoulders, James took to the road, resolving to begin his gallivanting by investigating a dense copse of trees some half-mile south.

The last thing he expected was to find someone else already in the copse.

Thick trees hid a small clearing, and James could barely make out signs that this was a well-used campsite, likely a haven for those who didn't wish to brave the price of accommodations in Alexandria. A vast shadow, ominous in the midnight dark, stood within, and, frightened, James froze beside a large, knobbed tree trunk. Not until the monster shifted a foot and stomped did the distinctive sound of hoof on sod bring James to his senses and he realized the beast was merely a black horse. It stomped again, shook its head with a slap of the leather reins draped negligently over its neck, and whinnied. A shadow shifted at the base of a tree and resolved into a man clad in dark clothing, skin a strange, sickly gray in the night. The fellow approached the horse and pet its nose in a gesture James found inexplicably familiar.

"S'ok, baby, I know it was a long ride, but rest now while you can. It'll be just as long goin' back later."

Fatigued, slow, drawling, deep, quiet, and utterly unmistakable.

It's impossible. What are the chances?

The horse stomped again, nuzzling the gentle hand, then nipped towards his clothing. He laughed, a low sound that tingled through James' skull and caught under his skin. "Oh, is that all?" Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out something, rubbed whatever it was against his jacket, and then held it to the horse's mouth. The horse mouthed it happily and there was the distinctive crunch of apple.

Dean Winchester, here, now?

Nervous, James stepped backwards unthinkingly, and a branch snapped. Horse and man looked his way simultaneously. Dean's eyes glimmered, gathering a sparkle of the moonlight breaking low through the trees as he searched the shadows of the thicket.

It can't be a coincidence.

"Someone there, baby?"

Maybe it's to do with Sam. He couldn't think of how, though. If Dean had been in the camp, James could hardly have missed him, and Sam hadn't sneaked out at night. Why not? I did.

" 'Course, if someone all innocent-like stumbled on me, there'd be no need to hide," Dean continued as if he were still talking to Impala, but his gaze never stopped watching the undergrowth that James prayed masked him from view.

No, Sam hadn't contacted his brother. The bitterness in Sam's voice as he'd spoken about Dean made it perfectly clear that Sam wanted nothing to do with his brother. Corporal Winchester has every right to be angry. Dean has joined the rebellion. He's a traitor.

"But it's okay," Dean said. "It's tough times – suspicious times. Can't fault a man – or woman, for that matter – if they don't want to show themselves."

Why is here? Why isn't he in uniform? Where is the Confederate army? Rumor is they are at Centreville, using the tents that our army abandoned when we fled after Bull Run. So why would he be here, now, alone?

"Don't you worry none, baby." Dean's keen eyes returned to his horse and even in the darkness James could see his expression soften.

Maybe he's not a rebel.

"Ain't no one here to trouble us," Dean leaned forward and kissed Impala between her large, liquid eyes. She gummed lovingly at his hand, snorting a faint neigh. "If they was, they'd have said somethin' by now, right?" Dean made one last piercing survey of the thicket in which James hid. Satisfied with whatever he saw, Dean nodded and returned to the thick tree trunk against which he'd been sitting when James arrived, an enormous, ancient oak older than any James had seen since coming south. Sighing tiredly, Dean slumped bonelessly to the ground in a rustle of old leaves, nestled between two bulging roots emerging from the soil. His dark clothes faded into the forest floor until only his skin showed ghostly, pale in comparison to the night though James vividly remembered how tanned and freckled Dean looked by day.

Maybe he is a rebel.

"If someone did have somethin' to say, ain't no secret where to find me," Dean added with an assumed air of casualness and a gesture that made it clear that the clearing was his haunt. "Jus' like always."

Maybe he's a spy.

Heart thumping so loudly James couldn't believe it did not give him away, he crept as quietly as he could through the ring of trees and undergrowth and back out to the road.

What did it mean? Why was he here?

Winning his way back through the abatis proved embarrassingly easy. What stopped an army dead in its tracks proved a scant impediment to one determined man, and the two pickets near whom he emerged had left their posts to engage in a silent game of dice together. The next man down the line was equally absorbed, noticeably craning his neck to watch. Once he was within the line of pickets, James saw no need to hide, returning as he'd come. Hardly cognizant of the strain of climbing the hill, of passing the sleepy guards, of skirting the teepeed lines of rifles, he found himself before his tent once more. His once-loud thoughts were strangely still, and tiredness tugged grittily at his eyes. Settling beneath his blanket, James closed his eyes, and one thought rang loud, clear, and true.

I have to see him again.


Interlude

Army of the Potomac, Attn: J. E. Johnston, General Commanding

September 23rd, 1861

Please find included a map of the defenses of Washington DC compiled from various sources, including fortresses and works currently in planning, drawn in dashed lines, and those under construction, marked with a star. Garrison details provided when known, including regiment(s) defending, approximate manpower, known ordnance, commanding officers.

Thank you for providing the liaison I requested. His abilities are precisely as I recalled them to be, and I appreciate the demonstration that you trust my judgment on this matter. Please also pass my thanks on to General Singer.

J.B.H.


To: Sam Winchester, Company B, 27th New York Infantry September 27th, 1861

Dean's sorry, as he knows you asked him not to write, but he's had no word since your injury and he's a might worried. He heard your regiment is stationed outside Alexandria, and has no idea if you're hale and hearty, still abed, or worse. You know how he gets. Do us all a favor and set his mind at rest, would you? I know you're still warm at him, though to own my opinion that scarce seems fair since you're the one who left, never a worry what you left him to and scarce a letter to let him know how you was doing. I'm not asking you to love him like a brother again, that's for you two to work out in your own good time. I'm asking you to let him know you're not dead. I don't put any kind of odds on how long before he comes by that fort to check on you if he don't hear anything. How many times you think he can pull those kinds of stunts before he's found out and hung from a gibbet? Two words in your hand, "I'm fine," and I'll keep him from bothering you more.

Your servant, Ben. Lafitte


To: Captain Novak, Company B, 27th New York Infantry October 4th, 1861

From one brother to another, if you could find means of letting me know that Sam is alright, I'd be in your debt – more than I already am.

D. Winchester


Endnote: I already have a good chunk of the next chapter written, so hopefully it'll be a little quicker between updates.