Author's Note: Wow. I had ONE reviewer. I feel special. Sorry for the sarcasm, people, I guess nobody except for one wonderful reviewer was that interested. So I'll reply to her…him…I think it's a girl…please don't hurt me!

Alaura Fairfield: Yeah, the assignment in English was to put it in a modern setting, but I didn't want to put the story in the 21st century. My writing instincts didn't want me to, so somewhere during one of my insomnia spells someone in my head goes "hey, what about the Civil War?" My most hairbrained schemes become realities between the hours of 2 and 5 am.

Robbie stared at the waters of the creek, looking at his hazy reflection that wavered as the water ran swiftly and clearly over the smooth creek stones. He sighed and stood from where he had sat for what seemed like an eternity, lost in thought. A movement in the bracken behind him caused him to turn his head, looking for the source of the noise. Ben came through, whistling and carrying a basket of food, eyebrows shooting up as he looked at Robbie, apparently noticing him there for the first time.

"How's it goin', cuz?" Ben inquired lightheartedly as he flopped down on the shore and continued whistling the quick, good natured tune. Robbie sighed and turned his attention back to the waters, answering at length.

"It's goin'."

"Good or bad?"

"Too soon to tell." Robbie shrugged and took a different perch on a tree stump as Ben turned to examine him.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

Ben gave a knowing look, guessing the reason for Robbie's melancholy mood—the girl back home. "It's Rosie, ain' it?"

Robbie nodded and Ben just shook his head. "Gotta stop beatin' yourself up about that, man. Rosie's alrigh', an' we'll be gettin' her out eventually."

"I'm sick o' waitin'. Every minute's an eternity."

Ben just shrugged and went back to dipping his feet in the water lazily. He frowned at the water, trying to think of a way to take Robbie's mind off the girl from back home that he had loved so dearly. He jumped to his feet. "How bou' we meet the others an' go to Philly for a nigh'?"

"What's the use?"

"Migh' do ya some good."

Robbie sighed, knowing that his friend would never rest until he at least cheered up a little. He stood and brushed his trousers off, examing Ben for the first time really since they had been talking. "Wha' happened to ya lip?"

"Jus' a brawl. Nothin' big," Ben answered at length, not really meeting Robbie's eyes. He watched Robbie's eyes narrow as the African determined exactly what had happened.

"When will it all end!" Robbie threw his arms up in the air in exasperation and stormed off, leaving Ben to follow speechless behind. "Fightin', escapin', runnin', hidin', fightin' some more…I'm sick o' it, Ben! I can't take it anymore!"

"I know, cuz…" Ben said softly.

Robbie continued on, but his pace slowed eventually. His black eyes held a quiet anger and sadness. "There's gotta be a better way."

Peter took another drink from the whiskey Mr. Connors had provided. He surveyed the room lightly, his mind going in circles as he thought of the possibilities. If Connors agreed to his marriage proposal, and he married Joyce, then he would inherit Connors thousands of acres and many slaves…he'd be one of the most influential men in the state of Maryland, not even counting he was already the son of the Mayor of Harpies Springs. But small towns were no longer of much consequence. He wanted the bigger picture.

"Ah'd like to ask to court your daughter, sir, if it's alright with you."

Peter had noted that Connors hadn't taken a seat since Peter had been shown in. The older man's eyes seemed withdrawn with pondering every word his company said. Peter was many years older than Joyce—a twenty eight to her sixteen. Joyce had also never met Peter, or not to his knowledge, and this was America. He couldn't force his daughter to marry anyone.

"Ah dunno, Peter. You'd have to ask the girl…she migh' take a likin' to ya. She's a sensible enough girl." He continued to pace in front of the fireplace. "Ask her 'bout courtin', give it a few months, then ask about marryin' her." It would be well for the family for Joyce to marry Peter, considering his upbringing and background, but it all remained up to Joyce. "Talk to her tonigh', at the party…bring a few friends, if ya like, but tonigh' could be your chance."

Connors called one of the servant boys in the room, handing them a list and a packet of invitations. "Deliver these, boy." He motioned for Peter to follow and walked him to the door, noticing the almost hungry look in the young man's eyes.

"Ah wan' her to be sure of who she marries…be sure she love you." Connors said as he shook Peter's hand, having the creeping feeling that he had, in sense, just signed off his daughter to the highest bidder.

It was loud in the pub that afternoon, even in the backroom where the Yankees, escaped slaves, and slaves who were given leave were forced to gather. A slave was talking in an overly loud voice not far from Ben and Robbie, apparently asking for someone who could tell him what a piece of parchment in his hand said. Robbie watched as Ben took the list from the boy and began reading off names. They were all of upstanding citizens, rich plantation owners and townfolk.

"Where's this party held?" Ben questioned the slave as he finished, wondering what occasion there could possibly be for such a gathering.

"At the Connors, o' course. Rosie tol' me I had to hury if I didn' wan' a beatin' for bein' slow abou' it, so I can' stay to chat."

Robbie immediately lifted his head slightly as he heard Rosie's name. "Rosie?" His Rosie didn't work at the Connors. It had to be a different Rosie.

"Yeah, new worker…pretty girl, bu' sorta vain for a slave, if'n ya know what I mean." The servant boy turned to walk away, but Robbie stopped him.

"Ya got to ge' me into that party."

The servant boy raised his eyebrows. "How'm I supposed to do that?"

"I'll give ya the nigh' off. I'll pose as one of ya. I'll ge' three o' ya outta work tonigh'…" He knew he was speaking for his friends, one who wasn't even there, but he had to see if it was his Rosie. He had to know if she was there. "Me 'n Mark 'n Ben. We'll cover ya."

The boy gave a reluctant nod after a few moments, then leaned in closely to give them instructions on how to get in. "Alrigh', lissen."

Joyce winced as Nancy tightened her corset, preparing her for the party. Her mother was in the corner of the room, examining her dresses and throwing aside several of Joyce's favorites, wearing a face of disgust before finally coming to one of the ones she had picked out herself. Her mother had been prattling on forever. "There's a very fine gentlemen comin' to the party tonight. Peter, the Mayor's son? Very handsome, that 'un…"

"Lawd knows that the truth, Miss Connors…" Nancy turned back to Joyce, grinning slightly.

"And arrogant, to add to his list of qualities." Joyce said in an offhand way, though her face clearly spoke that she hated the boy. She had seen him with some of his friends, around town, picking on those weaker than him. He thought his father's position gave him right to run right over everyone.

Joyce's mother frowned heavily and tried another approach. "You'd be made a rich woman, marryin' someone like that."

"Lawd yes, chile, you'd have everythin' you'd ever wan'. All the clothes an' jewelry an' horses an' fine things—"

"Ah don't care about those things, an' you know that, Nancy." Joyce said, clearly trying to close the subject. As her breath was taken away from Nancy pulling on her corset more tightly, her mother took further advantage of the situation.

"Jus' talk to him tonigh' at the party, hon." Her mother swept out of the room before another word of protest could be worked in by the furious Joyce. She sighed as Nancy finished her corset, hating the tight fit of the thing, and threw aside the dress her mother had picked for her, picking one of her own favorite—a blue one with white linings and a tapered waist. She saw her Nancy, the servant that had taken care of her since she was a child, grin slightly and shake a falsely condescending finger.

"Ya'll be in trouble for wearin' what your mother don' approve of."

"My mother doesn't approve of me, Nancy, an' that's the truth o' it."

Nancy shook her head and began straightening out Joyce's belongings. "Ya ought not talk like that, chile. Not proper. Not proper a' all."

"Proper be damned." Joyce said angrily, and Nancy let out a small whistle and a grin.

"Jus' lissen to the girl! Cussin' already, an' we're tryin' to make a lady of her! Lawd help us!"

Joyce smiled a small smile and began putting on her dress. "Ah'm jus' gettin' tired of this life, Nancy. I'm gettin' real tired of it."