Hello All, Sorry, just a short update today, to let you know I'm still writing. Also, a note re the history of the Civil War:
A Guest reviewer posted a review on Chap 34 with some personal family history from the war that I found fascinating and I recommend you check it out. Thank you so much for sharing your story.
Re Guest's historical notes: in my high school history class, we weren't told what the cause of the war was, but assigned to research the cause(s) and form our own opinions. I wrote a long (of course) paper concluding that the root cause of the war was economic: the agrarian economy of the south and the manufacturing economy of the north caused conflict between the two regions on a number of issues, including tariffs, the national bank, states' rights and slavery. There's considerable evidence that many northerners were not particularly interested in ending slavery and, as Guest points out, most southerners of the day did not own large numbers of slaves like the Picards, Nechayevs, etc. in my story. I dropped the characters into the roles that made sense for them (to me), thus Lwaxanna Troi and Q own slaves and Beverly and Miles O'Brien do not, and so on. I chose the focus and themes for dramatic purposes, not to be representative of the entirety of antebellum life.
In a future chapter, I had planned to have a character argue from the Confederate point of view—political and practical, in that their land was invaded by the enemy. I will keep Guest's comments in mind to inform my writing, so thank you, Guest, again for taking the time to write.
As I said at the outset, I don't want to offend anyone, and I realize that is a risk with this type of story. I'm glad for the chance to explain, to incorporate another view and to apologize to Guest for any offense taken.
Thank you all for reading and reviewing!
Be creative, be well,
Liz
"You asked to see me, sir?" The subservient words and tone felt alien on Jean-Luc's tongue, but the Confederate Army major to whom both were addressed did not notice.
"Yes, Picard, come in, have a seat," Q said, behind his oversized desk. "At ease," he added, upon seeing how stiff the older, yet lower-ranked man remained even in a sitting posture. "How is everything going?"
"Very well, sir." His shoulders may have relaxed, but Jean-Luc's manner remained rigid.
"Yes, yes fine." Q dismissively responded to the captain's words almost before he had finished answering the question. "Good to hear. Picard, I'll get right to the point." Q leaned back in his chair and set his boots on his desk, then crossed his hands over his stomach. Jean-Luc practically paled at the informality. Q was happy to see his most egotistical officer put on edge. "Our regiment will be on parade before General Johnston on Friday and I want your company to lead the parade."
"Yes, sir." Jean-Luc's acknowledgement of the order was unemotional.
"Do you know why I've chosen you?"
"No, sir. You haven't deigned to share that information, sir."
"Will you stop 'sirr-ing' me?"
"No, sir."
"No, sir? What in the name of Zeus are you doing, Picard?"
Q frowned, obviously perturbed. Jean-Luc, on the other hand, sat still and cold as a statue.
"Major, you have made it abundantly clear that our relationship is to be based on the strictest military formality, sir. As I do not wish to step out of line and risk having a blemish on my record, I will endeavor to follow your every rule as closely as possible. Sir." Jean-Luc spoke calmly but assertively and appeared a man at ease and confident about his decided course of action. Though his very speech proclaimed his deference, his bearing still betrayed his retention of control—personal control and, to some extent, control of the situation.
Q's boots thumped on the ground as he sat forward, hands on his desk and gazed intently at the man sitting across from him. "Oh, give me a break, Picard. Your fake obsequiousness isn't going to save you if I decide to come down hard on you. And your fake concern about your own future in the army doesn't fool me. I know that you're far more concerned about the men under your command—their training, their safety and their futures."
As surprised as Jean-Luc was to hear Q's threat and uncanny explication of his actual priorities, Jean-Luc made sure that his face revealed nothing. In fact, Q's admission that he knew Jean-Luc's real motivation was showing his hand, in part. He had put Jean-Luc on warning that his potential adversary was more insightful than he seemed. Going forward, Jean-Luc would make a note to be more careful in whom he confided in and how he approached his commanding officer.
"Understood, sir."
Q rolled his eyes and his head along with them in a dramatic flourish. "Oh, again with the 'sirs.' If it will satisfy your petty, deep-seated need for control, you can go ahead and 'sir' me to death. I assure you, it won't be my death."
Q stood and began to pace in a circle around his desk, the two chairs and the remaining occupant of one of them without saying anything. Jean-Luc counted his breaths to take his mind off Q's obvious attempt to unnerve him.
Finally, after three or four purposefully slow laps, Q spoke. "Captain Picard, I want you to tell me why, in your estimation, I might want your company to march first past General Johnston."
Jean-Luc answered immediately. "Well, Major, you have of course observed all the companies in your regiment and are aware of all of our strengths and weaknesses. Knowing that you have assessed us all, as you must, I can only conclude that you have determined my company will look the best and you wish to display your strongest, most impressive company in front of the general."
"Exactly." From behind him, Q suddenly bent his tall form above Jean-Luc so that he practically spoke into the seated man's ear. This unexpected proximity did have the intended unsettling effect, as it made Jean-Luc start.
Pleased, Q straightened and continued to pace. "Every general watches the first company of a regiment closely, but his attention wanes quickly. I want Johnston to see your men and I want your men to be perfect. If there is a man out of step, a belt buckle unpolished, a button crooked, then you will be out of line, you will receive a blemish on your record, and your men will be punished.
"Is that understood?"
Picard abruptly stood and snapped to attention, stone-faced and addressing the empty desk in front of him. "Yes, sir," he said, in a voice that was a bit louder than necessary.
Unseen behind his junior officer, Q shook his head at the man's insistence on communicating his disrespect through exaggerated motions of respect. For a moment, Q pitied Jean-Luc.
So incensed was he at Q's dominance-establishing antics, Jean-Luc nearly missed the significance of what Q had just told him.
"Major, a question, if I may?" He asked in a controlled voice.
Q slowly and deliberately walked around him. When the two men were face to face, Q sneered, "You may."
"Sir, may I know the reason that General Johnston will be reviewing the troops?"
Q took his time responding, his chin up and his head held at an angle, as though he were measuring the man before him and considering whether he was worthy of this particular piece of knowledge. Not fooled by Q's posturing, however, Jean-Luc harbored no doubt that Q knew the moment the question was asked—and, most likely, long before—how much he wanted to reveal to his subordinate. Furthermore, Q's delay confirmed Jean-Luc's suspicions.
"Yes," Q finally said, with kingly arrogance, "you may know. The general is looking for several more regiments to add to the Army of the Potomac. There are even rumors that his army may be merged with the Army of Northern Virginia. For us to join at this early stage would almost certainly lead to a key deployment and an early opportunity to prove our mettle in battle. I'm sure you're pleased about having a chance to show off what you can do in the thick of things with the Yankees."
Jean-Luc did not respond as he mulled over this potential change in his and his men's fortunes. If the regiment sufficiently impressed the general, then they would be headed to northern Virginia—to the hub of the war. Although only minor engagements with the enemy had occurred since the Battle of Bull Run, Jean-Luc knew it was only a matter of time before both armies were adequately organized enough to attack in numbers large enough to create many casualties. He did not plan to be in northern Virginia and, more importantly, he did not intend for Wesley to be there, when that occurred.
Q had sat down at his desk and resumed his slouching in his chair. "Tell me, Picard, how are things back home?"
The question was completely unanticipated and Jean-Luc again found himself having to maintain his poker face. "Things are fine, sir. Thank you for asking."
"I only ask because you're a newlywed," Q said with a wink, "and I'm sure you miss your new wife."
"I do, sir," Jean-Luc said truthfully, "but I do not allow my personal feelings to interfere with my military duties. Sir."
Q contorted into mock offense. "Of course not! I would never accuse the great Jean-Luc Picard of such a base and common thing," his brow lowered and eyes glaring, he sneered anew, "as being guided by his feelings."
Jean-Luc ignored the slight.
Q continued. "We men of character must always place our honor and duty above our, how shall I put it, our carnal instincts. Why, imagine the chaos that would erupt if we men let ourselves be governed in our affairs by our passions. Even worse," Q sat up straight and wide-eyed, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "imagine the societal anarchy that would threaten our very way of life if we married men allowed ourselves to stray from our marital beds to follow any lustful wench who happened to sashay past us and laugh at our witticisms." The last was spoken as Q leaned over the desk, leering at Jean-Luc and, at the end of his speech, winking again.
Just like that, for no reason that he could presently discern, Jean-Luc realized that Q had again tipped his hand. Although Jean-Luc could not tell if Q had some actual knowledge or if he merely suspected and was fishing for a reaction, one thing was certain: Q knew something. What that would mean for him was maddeningly unclear. The hints that Q had dropped could have led dangerously close to Beverly. Alarm bells sounded in Jean-Luc's head. Keeping his face blank and his posture unflinching required every ounce of control and self-discipline that he could call forth. He breathed evenly and looked Q in the eyes, his face a blank mask that adopted a questioning look of innocence as Q's moral dictates slithered into innuendo. Not knowing how Q had come to suspect anything unusual about his love life was a distressing development in their relationship, one which caused Jean-Luc, in turn, to suspect, for the second time in this exchange, that someone he had trusted had betrayed him—this time, by revealing his deepest secret, his relationship with Beverly. The prospect of her being in danger sparked an anger in him, which he quickly extinguished—for now. Although Q's words had the effect of steering his attention toward Beverly and pleasant memories, he deliberately emptied his thoughts of any trace of her and concentrated on Miss Ro, as though Q could read his mind.
For the time being, however, Jean-Luc knew how to respond.
He nodded his head, "Agreed, sir."
Wesley Crusher took a break. Leaning on his shovel, he removed his cap and used his shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat off his forehead. For what seemed like the fiftieth time, the men of the regiment had bullied him into digging a latrine. By unspoken agreement, they assigned him all the unpleasant chores that they could get away with unloading on him. He hated feeling like a cockroach that they would just as soon squash as spit on—and several of the men had done plenty of the latter.
"Mr. Crusher!"
A familiar voice boomed as the cracking of branches heralded the big man's approach. Wesley resumed work, in the hope that appearing occupied would excuse him from awkward small talk.
"Aren't you done digging that latrine yet?"
Lt. Riker walked right up to him and stood with his hands on his hips, his height making him appear to lean over the younger man.
Obviously, I'm not done, Wesley thought. "No sir, not quite," he said. The soil was rocky and the punishing task was taking him even longer than his tormentors had anticipated.
Riker stepped back and, appraising Wesley, frowned. "Weren't you the one who dug the latrine at our last camp?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the camp before that?"
"Yes, sir."
Will's face and tone softened. "Wesley, you're going to have to stand up for yourself with the men."
The advice sounded as unhelpful as the captain's vague wisdom. "How do I do that exactly? There's always a group of them versus just me. Whenever I start to get to know someone new, the men from our county talk to him and tell them what an awful person I am. I can't get anywhere with these people."
"Wes, you broke the law and you can't change that. But, you're here now in this situation and you have to improve your standing with the men. No one else can do that for you."
"How can I do that?"
"Have you tried helping them out?" Wesley gestured to his current project. "I mean, unsolicited help. Bring a cup of water to someone who doesn't look too good after a long hike. Give a direction to someone who looks lost in the woods. Don't forget, these men are just like you."
Wesley rolled his eyes and, when he spoke, he sounded haughty. "Not really."
"Oh, no? You all were born and raised in the same part of Georgia. Most of them, like you, are from modest backgrounds. You're all citizens of the Confederate States of America, which is being invaded by an enemy army from the North."
"But, they weren't the enemy a year ago. They were our army. We were all Americans." Wesley was prepared to go on at some length.
Will's eyes narrowed. "That was true then, but it's not true now. When they meet you on the battlefield, they're not going to be thinking of what used to be. They're going to try to kill you and the only people who can help you stay alive are the men in your company. That's another thing you have in common with them: you're wearing the same uniform."
Wesley opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He had no idea how to make Lt. Riker understand his perspective and his situation.
Will pointed at the hole in the ground as he turned to leave. "I want that finished before dinner."
"Yes, sir," Wesley mumbled, mostly to himself, wondering whether Will Riker was any better than the others.