June 28th, 1863
Maryland/Pennsylvania Boarder, Near Confederate Encampment, under the command of Major General Longstreet
Taneytown, Pennsylvania
Henry sat upon his horse, feeling more and more exposed by the moment. Out of his Assassin's robes and in civilian clothes, he willed his heart to stop beating so hard. Below him, the sprawling Pennsylvanian land stretched outward in a vast expanse of emerald green. The peacefulness of the sight before him did nothing to quell his nerves as he yanked his horse's reigns.
This might've been the riskiest gamble the Everts siblings might have ever undertaken. Margaret would be making contact with a friend of theirs in the Maine regiment, which was not but twenty or so miles south of his current position. Their plans to stop the armies from coming together wherever they may meet, and for Henry, he had the hardest job out of the two.
Convince High Commander, General Robert E. Lee to not invade the North.
He had no thoughts about this being an easy task, especially when he would be going back
The Battle of Antietam still was a vivid sight in his mind, the sight of all the men, young and old, blown apart by the roaring of the cannons or the whistling of the minute balls.
The converging of the entire Confederate army, aside from those still entrenched in Vicksburg, would have a devastating effect in regards to losses. Regardless of personal politics and his own beliefs, Henry knew that his job as an Assassin was to save as many lives as possible. And not only would this hopefully bring the Confederate generals to their senses in regards to the cost of life. Although, if they didn't stop after Stonewall Jackson had perished, then maybe this inevitable battle needed to happen.
Henry sighed as he continued to ride on.
He had thought he had seen someone come through this way, a weasel looking man with a broad-brimmed hat that covered most of his face, so he just followed the trail. Henry's fingers clutched the reigns tighter as he scanned the wooded area. He felt rather exposed and defenseless without his Blade and revolver. But Margaret did have a point: war reporters don't carry weapons, aside from their pen and paper.
Something in the woods shifted, cracking a branch or twig. Henry's horse knickered nervously, wanting to bolt, but he held her steady. No need in having her bolting or kicking him off. Henry swiveled his head, scanning like a madman through the woods. He didn't want to use his Eagle Vision, for fear of the picket line being easily spooked.
Spotting something moving in the shadow, he yanked the reins on his horse. Instincts had him reaching for his weapon (only he didn't have any) only to come to a halt when several men came out of the woods. All of them wore threadbare uniforms, with different levels of worn. One man, a slightly plump man that had a massive grey beard, held his musket at the ready. Henry had to remind himself that he was a fully trained Assassin that could take all of these men in a blink of an eye.
"Howdy, Stranga." The bushy bearded man greeted. There was a sense of formality in that thick southern accent but it sounded to Henry's ears that he was forcing it. "What can I help ya with?"
Henry cleared his throat before saying in the most confident voice that he could muster, "I'm looking for General Longstreet. I'm a journalist for the Maine Gazette, and I want to report on the condition and opinions of the Confederate Army."
"Now, whay does a Yankee newspaypa wan' tah stick their noses in ouwer business?"
"Because there are many in the North who think that the South is very justified in their actions and I wish to show that many here agree that the Federal Government is overstepping their boundaries."
Henry held his breath as he finished, and watched as the men around him look around at each other with confusion at first and then drawing themselves up as they realized what he was saying. His hands held the reins tighter now, the knuckles almost pure white. If they decided to take him, and string him from a tree somewhere, he would have only a few minutes to get the upper hand. He could do it but he wasn't as young as he used to be.
"Well, I guess we cood take ya back d'ere an' letcha talk to tah general." The bushy bearded man said, the musket in his hands relaxing. "But I'm gonna halfta ask ya tah let us take a look in dis-here bag and patcha down."
Henry did as he was told, watching as two of the men, both of them much younger than he was, searched his saddle bag while the bushy bearded man and another soldier held him at gunpoint. The men were rough with his clothing and the pad of paper that he brought with him. When they didn't find anything, the two men searching demanded that he remove his vest and shoes. Once he had done so, they searched for any bladed weapon or pistol, finding only the pouch that held his pencils.
"Awright. Follow me, Stranga."
Henry, still dismounted but with his horse's reins in hand, was lead through the trees and into the Confederate camp. He didn't know what to expect when he entered the camp, seeing how whenever he or his sister would be watching the movements of the Federal Army, they would be watching from afar.
The Confederate camp was an area of controlled chaos. Some men sat around little cooking fires, drinking what was supposed to be coffee but was probably mud mixed with water, while others practiced drills and hand to hand combat. The few that could read were sitting on a lone tree stump, huddled over worn books and pamphlets, while the rest were huddled in groups, listening to someone play a banjo, singing along and stamping their feet.
Most of the activity halted for a brief moment when Henry and his little entourage passed through, especially when the man realized where they were headed. A tent with the flap hanging open revealed a lone figure, dressed as a high-ranking officer, sitting at a small table and scribbling something on a piece of paper. A fat cigar hung out of his mouth, and on occasion, the man would spit out a puff of smoke.
He glanced up when the group approached the tent.
"Sir!" Bushy Beard greeted with a salute. The man stood, towering a good couple of feet taller than Henry himself, and turned to face them. Henry saw that his eyes were ringed heavily with dark purple bags, with crows-feet lines at the corners of his eyes whenever he stepped out into the sun. Henry had heard that the General was only about a couple of years older than Margaret and himself, but the man's full dark grey beard was streaked with grey.
"What can I help you with, Private?" General Longstreet asked. His voice, while heavily accented with that deep southern drawl, was clear and formal.
"Dis man says he's with a newspaypa, General Sir."
Longstreet's eyes darted to meet his. "Is that right?"
Wordlessly, Henry pulled out a little card that he had forged before coming here and handed it to Longstreet. "Philip Williams, sir. Of the Maine Gazette. I'm here to do a story on your men and their opinion of the war sir."
"Well, the north should know what they are." He stated coldly as he handed Henry back his "business card". "We left the Union."
"But not everyone wanted to leave." Henry felt himself getting shut out, so he carefully pushed, saying, "Look, there is a lot of hostility towards southern people nowadays. I just want to show that all of these men," he gestured around him, "are fighting for a just and worthy cause."
There was a slight tightening of Longstreet's mouth. Henry clamped his mouth shut, realizing that he hit a nerve, though he didn't know what nerve that was. Longstreet glanced back at the men that had escorted him through camp, his eyes asking a silent question, one that the men picked up.
"Sir, we found no Yankee pamphlets or newspapers. Though we did find this."
Henry's eyes went wide as he produced a photograph of his sister, taken a year before the war. The shock quickly turned to anger at the fact that the man had stolen a picture of Margaret from him.
Longstreet, unaware or unwilling to take in the shock of Henry, took the photograph and looked it over. "This your wife?"
"No, General. My sister, Margaret. She lives in Maine right now, looking after my nieces and nephew."
"Mmmm." Thankfully, he gave the photo back to Henry. "Private, set Mr. Williams up with a tent next mine."
"Yessuh!"
"Lieutenant Greens, can I speak with you a moment?"
Henry was led away from General Longstreet's tenet, his horse calming down to a significant degree since they got there. A man came from nowhere and asked if he could take his horse to the stables. He gave the horse over to him, after giving the mare a quick pat on the snout, before following the man closely. They walked a little way, moving away from the cluster of small canvas tents to where one of the more extravagant tents were. Henry watched as the man that was guarding him gestured for some help from the other soldiers. He was surprised and shocked that the men were able to put up a decently sized tent in a matter of minutes.
"Dere ya go."
"Thank you, gentlemen."
"Yeah…..whateva."
They lumbered off without another word. Henry sighed as he moved inside the small tent, collapsing on the small cot that was left in the tent. He stared up at the ceiling tent, trying to figure out how he was going to pull this ruse off. General Longstreet no doubt had his suspicions, which was probably why he was going to have someone trail him or something in the next few days. Henry sighed heavily through his nose.
His eyes were about to close when he sensed someone outside his cot. The sun was just about to set, leaving the entire foliage shadowing on the wall of his tent. The man watched carefully as a slim shadow appeared on the wall, moving around sneakily, like a child trying to sneak a peek at a visitor. Henry closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, pretending to be asleep. His ears pricked at the slight sound of leaves crunching under foot. His head snapped up, unable to stay down for long when he heard the tent flap opening up. Henry wished, not for the first time, that he had his weapons until he saw who poked his head through.
He looked a bit embarrassed to see him lying there. "Ah….hehehe. My apologies, sir. Guess I got turned around."
Henry recognized him as the weasel looking man who had unintentionally led Henry to the Confederate army. Looking even more trussed up then when Henry first started to trail him, the man fidgeted as Henry got to his feet and greeted the man at the door of the tent. He drew the air around himself, holding himself in a way that he usually did when he was around novices that didn't know better. The Assassin noticed the way the man took notice, stepping back and wilting a bit at him.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Ah….you see, I was looking for my tent. Recently got set up, you see. Thought this was mine."
"Well, as you can see," Henry gestured around to his single bag, "you're mistaken."
"Indeed." The man dipped out of the tent. Curiosity pulled at Henry, as though Fate and History were telling him to explore the camp, to talk to the weasel looking man.
Sighing, Henry moved out of his tent, calling after the man, "Do you know where the mess tent is? I've had a hard ride and really need to fill up on something to eat."
The man stopped and turned around, an eyebrow quirking upward. "I do, but I'm 'fraid that there's not gonna be much to eat."
"Doesn't matter." Henry jogged forward and fell in step with the ragged looking man. As they walked, Henry tried to start up a conversation. "Philip Williams. At your service."
"Thomas Harrison, but most of the folks 'round here just call me Harrison."
That name….it sparked something in Henry's mind. The name sounded very familiar to him, but he couldn't place it. He shook it off for the time being. The two walked through the camp in some silence, Henry noticing that there were no small number of soldiers glancing at him and Harrison.
"So!" Harrison said, with forced gusto. "Where ya from?"
"Oh, you know. I move around a bit, but I've lived in Maine my whole life. What about yourself?"
"The Grand Ole State of Mississippi! Pretty sure you've heard of me?" Harrison turned to him with a twinkle in his eye, one that made Henry question whether or not his man was a bit insane.
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Ah, that's fine. Most Yankees don't know who I am since they've never really traveled that far south. Too oppressively hot for them."
Can't argue with that logic, Henry thought ruefully.
"I am an actor, a thespian! Well respected in many places in Mississippi! Though no one can outshine Mr. John Boothe."
Henry let the man ramble on for a bit, drowning him out while his mind complied everything he saw. And it was a depressing sight. Most men weren't wearing uniforms, but instead threadbare shirts and trousers that were, probably at one point some other vibrant color, but now where nothing but faded. There were a few that wore shoes, but the majority had holes in theirs or didn't wear anything on their calloused feet.
The sight that tugged at his heart were the soldiers that were no more then mere boys. There was on scrawny young man whose face was smeared with dirt and a cap pushed so far down his eyes were shadowed, but he couldn't have been more than fourteen years old.
Henry's mind, all at once, became bombarded with anger.
All these men…. fighting for the sin of slavery…or maybe they didn't even know what they were fighting for. Maybe they were being threatened or forced…. maybe they were told that they would be fighting for their rights as states…...as people.
The Templars were going to pay for what they were doing. Henry was going to make sure of that.