A/N: Sorry to say my updates may continue to be a little slower. RL is a bitch! Thank you for the lovely reviews. They are really encouraging. This story is not an easy one to write for a variety of reasons, but knowing that people will read keeps me plugging away!
The Present: one week after the decision to embark on a western campaign
In his office, Miles was pouring over logistics for the western campaign – how to feed the men, quarter them, and keep them warm. It was a bad time of year to do anything – he should really be wintering the troops and training them, but he also recognized that if they were going to subdue hostile people, they could use the winter to their advantage. People would be vulnerable, maybe even starving. If the Militia could offer food and resources, even the recalcitrant might come into the fold.
Further, the Militia needed to establish order immediately, before someone else did…in fact Miles feared it was already too late for that. Something Miles hadn't told Bass - because he wasn't quite sure how to articulate what he'd seen - was that he'd sensed that some of the armed civilians he'd met weren't operating alone. Perhaps they had formed their own militias, just less organized – no uniforms but a stockpile of weapons to fall back upon. If this were the case, were they attached to rudimentary governments, their own versions of the Monroe Republic? Miles wasn't sure if he'd concocted this scenario in a fit of paranoia, or if it was real, but he wanted Bass to see with his own eyes and weigh in. Bass was often better at reading civilians. Miles too quickly fell back on contempt and expediency.
"General," Jeremy drawled, entering Miles's office.
Miles was glad to see him at the moment. Jeremy was questionable in the field, but he would have made a decent Quartermaster General. Only problem was that Miles couldn't convince Jeremy that he was best behind a desk.
Miles called him over to look at a map. "Jeremy, c'mere and tell me what you think about some of these camp locations. Good water supply, open high ground, but also near towns to requisition food."
"Mm hm," Jeremy mumbled, rubbing his chin as his eyes traveled the map. "People aren't going to like it if you take their food, especially in the winter. You know, General George Washington always asked civilians nicely – never seized. It's why people liked him and elected him president." Jeremy's lively eyes glanced up to spar with Miles, extracting a scowl from the general. But Miles also recognized the truth in the words.
"Well, no one elected me, and I'm sure as hell not likable," Miles groused. "Most of all, you'll never see me getting embroiled in a war of attrition like Washington." Miles immediately regretted saying that. Fate had a terrible way of throwing 'nevers' right back in your face.
Jeremy shrugged. "A glorious sentiment, but I'd just like to remind you that he did win the Revolutionary War. Speaking of attrition, Miles, I have some bad news for you."
Ever since Miles and Bass had ventured into Philly, everything had been bad news, it seemed. Miles scooted out his chair and said, "Let's walk. Need to check on the supplies."
They opened the front door on another washed-out, uninviting morning in Philadelphia. Jeremy explained as they walked, "Once the troops heard we were going on a winter campaign, some deserted. They're new to soldiering, and, well, sir, they don't really understand why this is so pressing that we need to go now in the dead of winter. It's freezing, and they're tired of being ordered around and…"
"How many?" Miles asked in a low voice that made Jeremy swallow.
"Um…maybe thirty."
"Thirty? Maybe? Didn't you check the rolls?"
"It's thirty-seven, Miles." Jeremy stole a glance at his friend out of the corner of his eye and saw Miles's jaw twitch.
"Thirty-seven. Now that's a big difference from thirty, isn't it?" Miles felt his heart rate increasing. "That's mass desertion. When did they go?"
"Last night, under cover of darkness," Jeremy said, watching his own boots grind into the frozen soil. He found he was increasingly eager to finish this conversation and put some distance between him and the general.
Miles hated when Jeremy said things like 'under cover of darkness.' It made Miles feel like Jeremy was playing at soldier – repeating things he'd heard in movies. This was not a game. They were losing control of the troops.
Miles fought to extract the anger from his voice: "And have they been caught?"
"Some of them."
"Some, Jeremy?" The ire shot back into Miles's tone. "Use numbers, goddamnit."
"Five."
Miles shook his head, his chest heaving now. He forced them both to stop, though he could see how eager Jeremy was to walk on.
"Private Martinez's court martial is this morning?" Miles asked tersely.
"Yes, sir, right now." Jeremy used the honorific far more frequently when Miles was making him uncomfortable. It was one way of putting space between them.
"If Martinez is convicted – and I assume he will be, as he's already confessed – then I want the full letter of the law brought down on him."
"I thought..." Jeremy paused. "You said it would be a stiff prison sentence."
"Now it's death by firing squad," Miles said matter-of-factly. "Have the troops – all of them, even the prisoners – in formation at 1300."
He watched Jeremy begin to form a protest, "Miles…"
"That's an order, Captain!" Miles barked and walked briskly off toward the stables.
Miles was having difficulty managing his temper and tried to calm himself with the sight of the horses – the graceful curves of their necks, the warm eyes, the delicate veined legs sloping into sturdy hooves.
He passed into his own horse's stall and whispered, "Hey Zep," gently running his fingers over her withers, before moving on. Zeppelin's stall was right next to Bass's horse: Gunsmoke. "Smoke," Miles greeted her. "Good girl." He scratched her gray neck for a moment.
After his heart rate had quieted, Miles went after their chief farrier.
"Huger," Miles called out, not spotting him.
"Yes, sir," Huger responded, leaning out from behind a horse whose hoof he was examining. Huger refused to enlist, but he was one of the only civilians around that Miles liked.
"A word with you."
"Sir," Huger limped over. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and though he was only fifty-five, he wore his miles like an ancient.
"Do you have broader smithing skills, or are horseshoes it for you?" Miles asked him.
"I was actually a blacksmith before I became a farrier. But there was no money in it…back then anyway. So I learned this trade." Huger was from backwoods Kentucky, and when he said 'there' it sounded more like 'theer.'
Miles lifted his left arm out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, the chilly air biting his skin. "See this?" he asked Huger.
The farrier glanced at the arm and nodded, his bottom lip stuck out in thought.
"Think you can make a brand of the design?"
"Yes, sir. Easy."
"How long?"
"Maybe a couple of hours?"
"Perfect. Make a few."
"Yes, sir."
1300 brought little change to the impenetrable, white winter sky, yet on the ground, it inaugurated a solemn ceremony. The Monroe Militia was gathered on three sides of a square formation, flying no colors, surrounding a single stake. The five pale-faced deserters who had yet to be tried were assembled under guard at the front of the line; one had his eyes closed, his lips moving. Miles and Bass were on horseback waiting for the convicted Martinez to march out. Bass hadn't said anything to Miles about the execution, and Miles couldn't tell what his friend was thinking. But they both sat up very straight in their saddles, somberly surveying the crowd. Miles gave the order to usher out the prisoner.
Martinez's armed guard marched him right by the general and president. The private looked small and withered and suddenly halted in front of Miles and Bass, startling the troops of his guard. They immediately pointed their muskets at him in warning.
"Sirs…permission to speak," Martinez said in a shaky voice.
Bass was surprised enough by the request that he cocked his head at Miles questioningly. Miles stared impassively down at the man. "Permission denied." You had your court martial, Miles thought. Don't make this harder than it is.
Martinez looked stricken but marched on with his guard. When he reached the stake, the officer of the day read the prisoner's offenses and his sentence in a steady, confident voice. Then the regimental chaplain came out and knelt with the prisoner, making the sign of the cross on him. Miles couldn't hear the prayer, but he did steal a glance at Bass, who kept pushing his lips together. The gesture made Miles nervous, so he stopped looking. Finally, the soldiers of the guard fastened Martinez to the stake and blindfolded him. Miles nodded at the officer of the day to ready the firing squad.
Out filed six soldiers armed with six guns (five blanks, one mystery bullet). They stopped ten paces from the prisoner. There was dead silence, as if the crowd was holding its collective breath. The officer of the day ordered, "Ready!" and the clicking of the locks pierced the silence. "Aim!" The men pointed the muzzles directly at Martinez's breast. And just as the officer barked, "Fire!" Martinez cried, "Oh God!" and he was dead. His body crumpled against the stake.
Miles waited for the firing squad to march away and then rode out in front of the troops. He hadn't planned to speak, but the collective trauma he witnessed on the troops' faces compelled him forward. Miles was glad that Zeppelin was with him, because he felt dreadfully alone. He sensed the troops were frightened of him.
Miles cleared his throat. "When the lights went out, you all got to experience what ultimate freedom feels like. It feels like terror and panic. So, you chose to give up some of that freedom when you enlisted in this Militia to bring back order and to protect the people you care about: to secure their lives, liberties...their happiness."
Bass was impressed: so Miles had read the Declaration of Independence. Bass had left it on his desk as a kind of joke. He was also impressed, because Miles could make a speech. Really make a speech. Bass and everyone present were riveted.
"You made a sacrifice to help establish the Monroe Republic. And make no mistake, this is the Republic's moment of need, of peril. If we don't immediately pacify the west, the Republic will fall and chaos will return." Miles paused. "I know that justice can be hard to watch, but when it is executed swiftly and fairly it should bring you comfort. Now you know the limits. Without limits and rules, there can be no mercy. A world without mercy is a terrible place. We've all seen it. I'll be damned if the citizens of this country will have to live another minute in that world."
Zeppelin shifted under Miles's thighs. Miles looked down for a moment at her chestnut mane and then back at his soldiers. "I'm proud of what I've seen in this army. You've trained well; you've got fighting spirit. And in a few days, we'll march out together and put your training to the test. Will it be cold and miserable? Exhausting? Dangerous? Yes. But your moment is coming: to pass from green recruit to soldier. The feeling is impossible to describe, but there is nothing like it." Miles stared off wistfully before finishing. "So we'll move on from this day together, and prepare ourselves for the test ahead."
Miles signaled to begin marching the troops by the body and rode back toward and past Bass.
"Miles!" Bass called.
Miles grunted that he was listening, as Gunsmoke trotted to catch up.
"Jeremy said something to me earlier…I'm not exactly sure what he meant. He said you were having brands made? For the troops?" Zeppelin and Gunsmoke were now walking side by side.
"That's correct."
"I don't understand. You'll brand them like cattle?" Bass asked, his voice half critical, half confused.
"Not like cattle. They need to believe they're part of something – part of us. What do these tattoos mean?" Miles asked Bass sharply, briefly lifting his lower sleeve in emphasis.
"That…we're brothers? Even if not by blood, by life. Brothers." Bass wrinkled his forehead.
"That's right. And now we're brothers with all of them. That's what I told the regimental officers to say when they give the troops their marks. We may be of all different ranks and responsibilities, but we're in it together. We're family."
Bass once again felt awed by this new side of Miles that he was witnessing. He'd seen Miles lead men before, certainly, and he knew Miles was good at it. But this…this was on a different scale. Bass felt something - a pang of guilt or envy - that he was not holding up his end of this partnership quite as magnificently. Bass was glad he was going to ride out with Miles on the western campaign. It would provide a chance to prove that he, too, could lead.
Miles broke away, noticing the officer of the day nearby. "Lieutenant?"
"Sir!" The man barked, saluting, which Miles promptly returned. The man had light, compelling eyes that stood out from his dark skin.
"Your name is Neville, correct?" Miles asked him.
"Yes, sir, 1st Lt. Thomas Neville."
"Well, I'm promoting you to captain. You showed good leadership today under trying circumstances. Come by my office at 1900, and we'll make it official." Miles had been watching Neville for a number of weeks. He had brought Tom in as an officer, because he had shown promise from day one. Since then, Tom had proven that he understood the necessity of discipline and leading from the front.
Neville looked surprised and pleased. "Thank you, sir!"
They exchanged another salute before Miles rode back to the main house with Bass. They handed off the horses, and Miles parted from his best friend without another word. Miles climbed the stairs to his room and opened the drawer of his nightstand, which contained the small number of personal effects he'd brought with him on his journey from South Carolina. One was a photograph of him flanked by Rachel and Ben at their wedding. He stared for a long moment at the picture unsure of why he so urgently needed to see it. He ran a thumb over Rachel's face and then put it back. He tried hard not to think it, but the words had already formed in his mind: What would she think of you now?
