It's Christmas Day, 1862. The U.S. Navy had already captured the port of Galveston back in October, but hasn't actually occupied the city itself until the previous day (Christmas Eve). More Union Troops are pouring in, and it's clear that they've got their sights set on Houston—hence why the Confederacy is determined to take back the port (something they never did before or after, I believe).

I've placed Jasper in the Fifth Texas Cavalry (aka Fifth Texas Mounted Rifles), which is called in to be a part of the Second Battle of Galveston, which will take place on New Year's Day. So this first chapter takes place a week before that, when all the regiments are trickling in to prepare for the battle to retake Galveston.

Disclaimers: These chapters obviously deal with Jasper's serving in the Confederate army. I wanted to explore Jasper's background here because his backstory is especially interesting and I've always been curious about this period of history, but I also want to acknowledge the fact that this is an uncomfortable topic for a lot of readers. I don't want to sugarcoat the fact that Jasper decided to serve in the U.S. Civil War on the side that defended slavery, and I don't like to gloss over the racist/dehumanizing/paternalistic attitudes that he almost certainly had during this part of his life. While I don't think slavery was the reason he fought, I don't want to be too generous to his character during this time either. It's not until the third chapter that those issues come into play much, but of course it's always there in the background. But I am also not going to condemn him for making that choice—I think it was a very natural one for him to make at this point in his life, and I think (as a matter of headcanon) that he has come a LONG way since then in terms of his attitudes towards people of color. I also want to acknowledge that humanizing his character and letting him have a redemption arc later on is just one of many ways of responding to it all. And I think it needs to be said that exploring this earlier part of Jasper's life is most certainly NOT equivalent to approving of those earlier attitudes in any way.

I've also had to fudge canon just a bit here, to make the details work the way I want. Jasper implies to Bella in Eclipse that he was evacuating civilians from Galveston because of the *FIRST* battle for Galveston, which took place in October 1862, as described above. However, I've chosen to place his evacuation mission as following the *SECOND* battle of Galveston, which takes place on New Year's Day 1863. Here's why I'm choosing to use the second battle, and not the first:

-This makes his change be in 1863, as the Guide says (this wouldn't be possible if this was all during the first battle)

-The cavalry regiments were only brought in for the second battle.

-The first battle is boring and pathetic, and the second is really interesting!

-This has been a Christmas outtake in my head all along, which means it can't take place in October.

Virginia Point, TX (seven miles from the island port of Galveston)

Christmas Day, 1862

Maj. Jasper Whitlock POV

"Almost there," I said, scratching Patch between his sweaty ears. He snorted and shook his head, as if to say, That's what you said twenty miles ago!

"So I did," I murmured with half a smile. "But this time I really mean it. Look up yonder, boy—we're almost out of land." The Gulf of Mexico was looming large on the horizon now, just beginning to darken as the sun sank behind us. We were keeping a steady trot, chasing our lengthening shadow towards our goal. The Gulf grew larger, and I could finally make out a middling puddle, laying aside its near edge: Galveston Bay. The island between the two was a long, thin blade of land that looked like it would sink any minute. It hardly looked worth the trouble.

We reached Virginia Point at sunset. It had been a day's hard ride, and I was more than happy to swing out of the saddle and toss the reins to a waiting corporal. I cracked my neck, waiting as my commanding officer, Colonel Tom Green, dismounted at a more respectable speed.

"Oats, if you've got any," I told the corporal. He gave me a vague salute and waited while I gave Patch one last scratch between his ears. He nosed me hard in the chest, and I laughed quietly. "All right, all right. Just one. You earned it today, pal." I fished a cube of sugar out of my inside pocket and smiled tiredly as he lipped it out of my palm. His tail flicked my face in thanks as he was led away.

Colonel Green and I walked to the fort in silence. Our new commander was a quiet man, so unlike his predecessor, Henry Sibley.

General Sibley was the reason I was a member of the Fifth Texas Cavalry. When I first laid eyes on him two years ago, I had just run off with nothing but Patch, four dollars in my pocket, and my Pap's Enfield rifle on my shoulder. I was wandering around San Antonio, trying to figure out how to enlist, when I heard a voice booming. I followed the sound and beheld a giant of a uniformed man, complete with a passion-red face and handlebar whiskers, preaching to the crowd about his newly formed brigade. He would see Texas restored to her full glory, and beyond, he said. Come, boys, and carry the Lone Star to victory! We'll take New Mexico, and it won't stop there, no sir. The Federals are blockading our ports left and right, so we'll just slice our way through to the West. The gold mines of Colorado and California would just be a pit stop on the way to the Pacific. Once the Confederacy shakes off the chains of the Union, Texas will be the heart and soul of a proud land, and we'll get her ready to shine with gold. The Army of New Mexico needs you, lads. President Davis needs you. Texas needs you! If you've got a horse, you've got a future with the Brigade!

It was like he was speaking right to me. I could just feel his excitement, his confidence, his righteous fury as he called us to join up. I hadn't given much thought as to where I was headed, before that; I just had to get away from my Pap and that broken-down, God-forsaken ranch of his. Of course I would enlist; what else was there to do? But I really hadn't thought much beyond Texas; Texas was the whole world. I couldn't care less what any rich politicians were jabbering about up in Washington and Richmond.

I was soon wearing gray and riding tall in the saddle, caught in the tide of Sibley's glorious destiny. And, for a while, it seemed that we were unstoppable. Less than a year later, we were two and a half thousand strong, made up of three cavalry regiments; I had come in via the Fifth. We won the battle of Valverde, though we paid for it with a river of blood. We took Alberquerque, then Santa Fe. Moving up, we beat the Yankees senseless up near Pike's Peak; California gold was gleaming closer and closer. I began to move up the ranks, having quickly earned a reputation for my horsemanship, my marksmanship, and my ability to keep everyone focused.

But soon after that last victory in Colorado, we were smashed in a raid and lost our entire supply train. We had never regained our numbers after Valverde, and we lost even more men in the raid. Our retreat back to Texas was long and hard. And hungry. When the remaining 900 of us made it back home earlier this summer, ragged and defeated, Sibley had been temporarily discharged of duty and ordered to Richmond to account for the disaster in Colorado. The Brigade disbanded and the regiments melted back into their separate commands. Tom Green was bumped up to Colonel, the new commander of the Fifth, and I to Major. Company A was to be my charge. The officer who oversaw my promotion had given me a suspicious look, but I had proven myself ten times over by then; he wasn't going to make a fuss over my obvious youth. I got a star on my collar, and I wore it with pride. Our regiment had taken a licking, to be sure, but there was still work to be done... still glory to be had. Sibley was due back any day, we had gotten some new recruits, and even the horses were nodding and stamping in their stables, itching to get back on the road. We had gotten plenty of leave and I had attended my first ball, awed by the colorful ladies who gushed over us. But like the horses, I was itching to get back into action; idleness didn't suit me. I just hoped the Brigade would come back together soon, and that we could reach the Pacific in time for it to matter.

But four months later, Sibley was still in Richmond, and here we were, heading east instead of west. The man walking beside me now was steadier than Sibley had been... more realistic. He was a Ranger who had won his stars in the War for Independence, back in the days of the Republic of Texas. Legend had it that his regiment had single-handedly captured Monterrey. Not for long, of course, but his accomplishment was still legendary. He had evolved with the times, and he understood now that the Confederate cause had to come first; Sibley had lost sight of that. But I really didn't see why we had been called in to deal with a puny island town. The Federals had taken ports before; why was this one so different?

"Looks like they've discovered artillery," Green muttered under his breath.

We both paused, peering up at the embrasures. The walls were bristling with cannon, all aimed at the bay. I squinted out across the water, frowning when I saw the Union flotilla staring back at me. Six ships, just dark smudges on the water to my eyes. But if I had a closer look, I knew I'd see the open mouths of their guns. "Discovered, sir?"

He nodded up at the cannons. "Looked just like that three months ago. Trouble was, there was only one cannon, and fifteen logs painted black. And that was after the blockade had already begun! What a bunch of cotton-headed ninnies. Now it's up to us to take the noose back off their necks."

A thunder of hooves began rising in volume, and a cloud of dust rose behind us: the rest of the Fifth, Companies A and B. I looked over my shoulder, taking stock of the faces I knew so well. Half of them were younger and newer than me now, fresh and eager. This would be their first maneuver, whatever it was. The other faces looked tired and bitter. A third of them had drawn lots to spend Christmas at home, but that had been snatched away when Magruder's orders had come yesterday:

To Colonel Thomas Green: Fifth Texas Mounted Rifles and your accompanying artillery will report to Maj. Gen. Magruder at Virginia Point with all haste. All leave suspended until further notice.

So here we were. But what possible use could an entire regiment of cavalry serve at a port? We had our own battery of howitzers, but Company C had stayed back with them; they'd be another day at least. Not that I was complaining; I didn't have anywhere to go for Christmas. But a good lot of my boys had really been disappointed by the news.

"Why are we here, sir?" I asked.

We started walking again, nodding as the gate guards saluted and followed us in. There was a scrawny little Christmas tree just inside, decorated with stars cut from tin cans. "Galveston's too valuable," Green told me quietly. "It's a straight shot to Houston. A blockade is one thing, Whitlock, but Lincoln's had his eye on Texas all along. If the Union Army gets the railroad, we'll have bigger problems than a bunch of Yankees thumbing their noses at us from a twenty-mile-long piece of dirt."

A year ago and a half ago, I might have spit out some hot-blooded protest, straight out of Sibley's manual: Not Texas! They'll never set foot on our soil, not with the Brigade around! No, sir!

But I had seen too much, and done too much, in that year and a half. I knew that anything could happen. Heroes could be brought low. Your best friend could catch a musket ball in the ribs and be dead in your arms ten seconds later. Our enemies could, just maybe, be boys like us who didn't even know what they had been signing up for. We could… lose. Hopefully not that last one- the war was still going well. But that didn't mean any of us would be around to see the day when Lincoln and his ilk caved in.

"Is the town occupied, sir?" I asked.

He shook his head. "It's just the U.S. Navy, at this point, out in the water. Their blockade's been up for some time; taking the port was just the latest cinch in their belt. But I've heard tell that Cook never got to finish his evacuation back in October, which means there are still civilians on the island. There hasn't been any traffic in or out these past two months, not with that flotilla training their guns on the town. My guess is, we've either been called in to finish evacuating them, or we're to shore up the guard here at the Fort while they wait for infantry reinforcements. I hope there'll soon be a naval battle to push the blockade further out, but I imagine we'll be long gone by that time."

We were ushered into the commander's office, which was an unholy mess of paperwork. General Magruder had only been here a few days, and was obviously still trying to make sense of the notes left by his predecessor, who had been sent home in disgrace. Magruder was a tall, heavy man. Even with his back halfway turned to us, it was obvious he was brimming with energy, despite his gray hair. His ponderous carriage and huge handlebar mustache made me think of Sibley. But the flickering light from the gas lamps showed a profile that was far more experienced, far more… reasonable, I hoped, if he was to hold our lives in his hand for a while.

Green saluted beside me, and I followed suit. "Colonel Thomas Green, reporting as ordered, sir."

Magruder spun around, a genuine smile spreading across his features; even his eyes lit up. "Tommy! What a sight for sore eyes!" He reached across his desk to shake Green's hand, and finally noticed me.

"That's Major Jasper Whitlock, sir," Green said. "Presides over Company A. He's a fine marksman in the saddle, one of our best."

Magruder swept his eyes over me and huffed. "Get younger every year, don't they? How old are you, Major?"

"Twenty-one, sir."

He huffed again, a laugh this time. "If you say so. At ease, Major, before you sprain something. Sit down, Tom, sit down."

I widened my stance and locked my arms together behind my back. General Green took the seat that was offered, as well as the cigar. He finally relaxed, sniffing the cigar and smiling over it to his friend. "How'd you land yourself in this mess, you old buzzard?"

Magruder grunted, taking his own chair. "Somebody's got to fix it. Might as well be me. And you're going to help me." He moved aside a stack of papers, revealing a map that was tacked to the desk. He picked up a pencil, tapping our current location. Virginia Point was the tip of a small peninsula, connected to the island city of Galveston by a long, narrow causeway: the only way in or out of the town, except by sea. "The blockade's nothing new. And the port's been in enemy hands since October, as you know. But the Harriet Lane has been sneaking in and out over the past weeks, bringing in fresh soldiers."

"More navy?" Green asked.

Magruder shook his head. "Army… infantry. A few of them have been on and off the island. But yesterday morning, near on three hundred of them went ashore."

Green coughed, sending a sweet cloud of smoke into the air. "The town's occupied now?"

"It's not much of an occupation… today, at least. They're mostly holed up inside a warehouse-turned-barracks. Sitting ducks, if we play our cards right. But I don't want to wait more than a couple of days, Tom. They can't be allowed to turn that garrison into a mobile force. President Davis isn't going to let them keep this port, not with Houston sitting ripe and ready nearby. And Galveston was only partially evacuated, back in October. There's still women and children over there. We're going to take the town back, and we're going to send those Yankee pirates limping back to New Orleans."

Green eyed him with suspicion. "You got a fleet hidden in those whiskers, John?"

"It'll be ready soon."

"And if you fail?"

Magruder shrugged. "Then we blow the bridge to hell and fortify the coast. I have enough dynamite coming in tomorrow to do the job. But it doesn't matter, because we're not going to fail."

Green took a deep drag on the cigar, leaning back in his chair. "You keep saying 'we', John. What do you want my cavalry for? If you think I'm going to lead a mounted charge over that rickety plank you call a bridge, you've got another thought coming."

Magruder grinned slightly. "No, I need your boys on the ships. I've got two steamers being outfitted up in Harrisburg, the Bayou City and the Neptune. You'll—"

"Two ships?" Green echoed, leaning forward. "That's your fleet, coming to save the day? In case you haven't noticed, the Federals have six warships out there."

Magruder didn't miss a beat. "I want your sharpshooters on the ships, like I said. You've heard of cottonclads?" Green shook his head, and my own head began to swim. We were going to fight aboard a ship? What did we know about boarding and capturing an enemy vessel? We were cavalry, not marines!

"They're lining the sides with cotton bales," Magruder explained. "Like riding along inside a pillow. Your boys'll be safe enough while they're shooting. What are you carrying there, Major?"

I looked back up and shrugged my rifle off my shoulder. "An Enfield, sir." I handed it to him. He hefted its weight, looking pleased.

"This'll do fine, Tom. And the steamers will have shotguns ready for you, as well, for when it's time to board the enemy."

"Now hold on!" Green said, stamping his cigar into the ashtray. "It's all well and good to shoot from behind a shield, but my boys are cavalry! You know hand-to-hand combat isn't their thing. And what do you mean by sending them out to die in the water like that? The odds—"

"—will continue to worsen, every day that we wait," Magruder said, his voice like steel. "I can't afford to wait much longer. The longer we spend on the muster, the more their new garrison will be fortified. And the bigger that muster is, the less likely we'll be to keep the element of surprise. A week, at most."

Green's face reddened. "A week."

"I'd prefer two days," Magruder sighed, "but the Fourth are further out, the ships aren't ready yet, and I'm not risking any of this without the dynamite. That'll give your boys time to rest up, and we'll give them a talk about capturing a vessel, brush up on their knife skills, et cetera. Shooting and fighting on the deck of a rocking ship is just like shooting and fighting on horseback."

Now Colonel Green was truly angry; the air inside the office seemed to grow hotter as his face grew redder. "Just like fighting on… this is insane! My regiment isn't some throwaway bunch of infantry, John! I'll not have them wasted like this—you want to throw them up against a brick wall and drown them at the same time! Use your own damn cavalry!"

"I haven't got any, and it'll take far too long to bring in anyone else. Anyway, they're not all warships," Magruder protested. "And once the Fourth gets the heavy artillery on the island, they'll be shelling the rest of the flotilla for you. Once you achieve any measure of victory, the garrison on the island will surrender."

"And then what?" Green spat. "The other four ships will just yawn and go home?!"

"Your protest is noted, Colonel," Magruder said tightly. "When is the rest of your regiment due to arrive?"

Green clenched his teeth, swallowing the rest of his speech. "Company C has the howitzers. Tomorrow night, maybe."

The two men hunched over the map again while Magruder began outlining the specifics of his plan. I was glad he had left my rifle laying on the corner of his desk, because my back was aching. Even my powder bag and my canteen hanging heavy on my shoulders; I hadn't gotten so much as a drink of water yet, and I was still in full gear, minus the rifle. At least I had left my extra carbine and the heavier tack back with Patch.

They went on for another hour, arguing over minutia. Their friendly camaraderie never returned. Instead, the office air felt heavy with hostility as Magruder outlined all the ways that we, and the Fourth, were going to be sent into battle in a few days, outnumbered three to one. Outnumbered by ships, outnumbered on deck if we took a ship, outnumbered and outgunned on land. It was either brilliant or insane: only time would tell which one.

I was eventually called over to join them. In a dismal tone, Green talked me through the plans for our part of the attack. It was decided that Green and I would preside over Companies C and A, respectively, on the larger Bayou City. Our primary target would be the Harriet Lane, as she was expected to house most of the incoming infantry. This would make capture more difficult, but more worthwhile if achieved. She was certainly the most dangerous boat in the flotilla. Company B would be on the Neptune, and go after the Westfield. This would take the two fiercest ships away from the island, leaving the smaller guns of the other four to protect the garrison. Meanwhile, the dismounted Fourth Cavalry would quietly bring the heavy artillery up onto the causeway and start shelling the nearest ships—hopefully, before we engaged at all. After deciding on where our regiment would set up camp for the night, we were wished a terse Merry Christmas and dismissed.

I followed Green out toward the officer's mess in a daze, barely remembering to grab my rifle on the way out. He was fuming under his breath.

I shook my head as I walked, still taking it all in. The shooting itself sounded like an interesting challenge: what would it be like, taking aim from the deck of a rocking ship? But it was what came after that disturbed me. If we did manage to board one of the Union ships, my rifle would be useless. I had hardly used my saber at all, and now Magruder was talking about knife skills. I had a sinking suspicion he wasn't talking about throwing knives, either. After all, once you threw it, you didn't have it anymore.

There were a world of reasons why I loved being cavalry. There was the exhilarating speed, the sights, the glory of being in the Fifth… of being in the Brigade, back when that had meant something. And Patch had become an extension of myself, carrying me to victory and away from death, time and again. He knew instinctively how to carry himself at every turn, and when he felt me taking aim, he rode smooth as butter while I fired. Going into battle without him… I felt off-kilter at the thought, like one of my hands was tied behind my back. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Being cavalry was… clean. I had killed my share of Yankees, but it ha usually felt detached, impersonal. I aimed, I fired… and some unlucky kid in blue fell down half a second later. It was almost as if I hadn't killed him myself. I had crossed blades a few times, but it was always in passing, mostly swinging the saber to keep the other one away from Patch's legs. We weren't barbarians like our Union counterparts, stabbing around with bayonets at close range; we had our pistols, and I had just been issued a new percussion revolver: six shots without reloading. But this… this was different. Once I stepped onto the deck of the enemy ship, my rifle would just be in the way. The pistols might be good for a minute, but once we were all crowded together it would be too dangerous to fire. It would all be sabers and fists and knives, fighting at close quarters. I shivered at the thought of having to push a blade into a man's gut… a boy's gut. It made me feel dirty.

Of course, with the odds the way they were, it was anybody's guess whether I'd even make it aboard our target. And even if I did, the deck would be crawling with infantry, fresh and rested, ready to shove us back out onto the waves below, churning and dark and…

I stopped walking suddenly.

Green looked over his shoulder, annoyed. "What now, Major?"

I flushed, ashamed at showing fear when he most needed me. "It's just that I… I can't swim, sir."

His eyes held mine for a moment, and I wondered if they held an apology. He glanced back at the fort and spat on the ground towards it before continuing his walk. "Neither can I."

.

.

.

Most of the enlisted men were still awake when I entered the camp. As a senior officer, I had been offered a place in the Fort, but this was no time to be leaving my boys in the lurch: they'd be waiting to hear from me, after seeing Green and I cooped up in the Fort for so long. They were huddled around small campfires, crowded close in order to block the sight from prying Union spyglasses. It was a fool's hope to think they hadn't seen evidence of a muster, but that didn't mean we needed to give them a body count.

I steered over to the stables first, to check on Patch. He was dozing in a snug little stall with his head hanging low and a dribble of oats drying on his lower lip. He was exhausted. But his brown coat was gleaming in the moonlight that cut into the stable, evidence of a proper rubdown.

At times like this, when my superiors seemed determined to bury me, I always found myself standing beside him in the moonlight, whether in a stable like this or under whatever tree he had been tethered to. I would confide everything in Patch in a whisper, cursing the powers that be and telling him of all the places we would visit once the war was won. But he looked so tired tonight that I didn't even want to whisper and disturb whatever horsey dreams were soothing away his aching muscles. I reached up and touched his neck ever so gently, tracing the white patch that had earned him his name. I dug another sugar cube out of my pocket, leaving it on the post for him to find in the morning.

You'll get a fine rest here, Patch, I promised him silently. A full week's Christmas leave. At least one of us would getting some rest this week. I would be running ragged, whipping my boys into shape in preparation for a maneuver that I had no idea how to achieve and little hope of surviving. I shivered as I looked out onto the bay, wondering how cold its depths were. December in Texas couldn't be called cold, exactly, but I felt cold tonight, especially when I thought of that water. Exiting the stable, I glanced back at the fort and imagined tucking into a warm bunk. But instead I moved toward the fires that dotted our camp. They'd be waiting to hear the gossip, or at least an inkling of why we had been ordered onto an empty peninsula on Christmas Day.

I made my way over to the closest fire, finding its glow dancing on five familiar faces: Sergeants Moore and Lockewood, who had been with the Fifth since Valverde; Captain Miles Lang, a rosy-cheeked plantation prince, and my current right hand; two privates, newly recruited earlier this week. One was Lee, who we had already nicknamed The Little General, and the other was Morris, or Norris, or something like that. All Company A. There were a couple of other too-young faces mixed in as well, but they weren't mine. Judging by the blandness of their speech, Magruder must have brought them down from Virginia with his entourage.

Their conversation quieted as I approached, and I could almost feel the wall shoot up as they cleaned up their rough speech; nothing like a superior officer coming over to spoil the fun. Only Moore and Lang nodded a greeting. Just as well; I wasn't feeling too generous at the moment.

"Shouldn't you lot be getting some sleep?" I muttered, kicking a stray twig into the fire. I sat down on a hay bale, squeezing in between Lockewood and Lang. Lang had his banjo sitting at his feet.

"We was hoping you'd bring us a word, Major," Moore piped up. "And Miles says he'll pluck out a few Christmas carols, if we get him drunk enough." There was a titter of sleep-deprived laughter around the circle, and the two privates eyed each other, stealing nervous glances at the star on my collar.

I finally doffed my hat, ruffling the dust out of my hair. "Well, get him going then. Only a couple hours left of Christmas, anyway." I shivered again, leaning closer to the fire. The conversation paused awkwardly, and I cursed myself for coming over here and shedding my ill mood on my own men, right before I had to give them bad news. I forced half a smile, nodding toward the new recruits. "It's a little game we play, boys. Lang couldn't squeeze a tune out of that banjo sober if his life depended on it." Another round of quiet laughter, and Lang shrugged his bashful agreement. A whiskey bottle magically appeared in Moore's hands. But instead of passing it to Lang, he turned it over and over in his hands, watching me. Pair after pair of eyes drifted toward me, and I clenched my jaw behind a lazy smile. Guess there was no point in beating around the bush.

"General Magruder is the new commander here at Virginia Point," I began. "Galveston is a key port, and a rich prize for the Federals, since it's so close to Houston. The port was taken in October, though the town itself wasn't occupied immediately. There was a brief truce for evacuation of civilians, but it got botched somehow, as there's plenty of women and children still on the island. Magruder has been brought in to retake the port; he's got a couple of ships on the way. There's also a couple hundred U.S. Infantry in the town now; they'll need to be dealt with as well."

"They set foot on Texas soil?" Lang asked in surprise. The two privates glanced at each other again, their eyes wide as they discovered the profane possibility that Texas might not, in fact, be completely impregnable.

"Not for long," I said hotly.

Moore slowly turned the bottle in his hands again, his eyes never leaving my face. He knew me well enough to tell when I was stalling. "And what's our job in all this?"

The fire let out a big sizzle-pop just then, and a cloud of sparks jumped up like a bad omen. I waited for the sparks to die out before I answered. "We're to dismount. We'll be parceled out to two steamers—our company will be on the Bayou City. We're to take as many shots as we can, but our main goal is to board and capture the Harriet Lane. She and the Westfield are the two real warships out there. The other four are weaker, and they'll already have their hands full when we engage, because the Fourth Cavalry is going to cross the bridge. It's a long, narrow causeway, over a mile long, and they'll be bringing along all the cannon they can muster. So that's the plan: they'll be exchanging fire with the four weaker ships and take back the town, and we'll disable the flotilla enough to send them limping back to New Orleans."

Silence.

"Dismount?" Lang echoed. I should have known they'd get stuck on that word; they probably hadn't heard a blessed thing I'd said after that.

"We ain't navy," Lockewood observed. That did it; everyone was talking at once now. A few other men were drawn to the sound, and I soon had an audience of at least twenty, all gathered around the fire and staring at me like I had two heads. I repeated the news, earning the same silence as before.

It was soon broken by Moore; he was usually the one to get to the bottom of these things. "What do they want cavalry for, Major? Why us?"

He couldn't have given me a better opening if he'd tried. The real answer, of course, was that we were the only warm bodies that had a prayer of getting here fast enough for Magruder's plan to have a ghost of a chance. That if he waited for enough infantry to plod in, the town would be brimming with Yankees and we'd be falling back to Houston within a month. That the civilians on the island would become hostages, or worse.

Maybe. Maybe not. But that wasn't for me to worry about. I had my orders, and Green had his. He was a good commander, but he wasn't the type to speak much to the enlisted men, especially not when it came to news like this. I was going to have to work my magic tonight.

It was the most natural thing in the world for me; even Sibley had always been in awe at my ability to work a crowd, despite my dislike for being the center of attention. I suppose that was how I had started rising through the ranks. True, I really was a good marksman in the saddle, and I did have a knack for leading a charge. But I had always had this way with people, where I could get them fired up, or calmed down, or whatever my job was. It normally wasn't too difficult—a few inspirational phrases, a word here and there wobbling with emotion, a shouted call for courage, with just the right inflection… I always had them eating out of my hand within half a minute. This was going to be a tough one, though. I had just informed them that we were going to leave our better halves in the stables, hitch a ride on two untried ships, go against six ships, turn pirate in the middle of the battle with a few days' worth of training, and hope to God that the Fourth would get into town quick enough to turn their cannons on the other ships for us. That was if they weren't spotted by the flotilla and blown into the water on their way in. And I hadn't even given them the worst of it: that we were going to be boarding a ship full of U.S. Infantry. God only knew what artillery they had on deck, destined for Houston. I had to warn them about this, but with the right spin.

"Why us?" I said, forcing a smile to spread over my face. "I'll tell you why us. They don't want navy, because this isn't a naval battle. The Harriet Lane isn't just a gunboat anymore—she's been ferrying U.S. infantry onto the island. Like I said, Galveston's the gateway to Houston. Lincoln's been itching to get his hands on Texas all along, and he thinks he's finally found a way in. But he didn't reckon on the Fifth, did he boys?"

A weak chorus of "No, sir!" echoed around the fire.

I took a deep breath, resting my elbows on my knees and leaning forward, as if to confide a secret. The others leaned in as well, their eyes gleaming as I hardened my smile into a grim promise. "We've been chosen for this maneuver because of our reputation as sharpshooters. Magruder has the steamers lined with cotton bales—cottonclads, he calls them. We'll be right safe shooting from behind them. Our target will be full of infantry, and it'll be our job to clean those bastards right off the deck as we approach. We'll be using Enfields and shotguns. Once we get close enough, we'll ram the Lane and board her. With all the shooting we'll get in beforehand, we shouldn't have too much trouble with the capture itself.

"Meanwhile, the Fourth will keep the other ships busy with their cannons. And once we do our work out in the water, they can get busy retaking the town. We're going to kick the Yankees clean out to sea. They're going to learn what comes of touching Texas soil, and they're going to learn it from the finest cavalry regiment in the Confederacy."

Not exactly the full truth, especially that part about the capture being easy. But it was what they needed right now, and it was working like a charm. My voice had been building in strength throughout the speech, and my audience was starting to buzz with excitement by the end.

"When?" Private Lee asked, his eyes fierce.

"We have to wait for the Fourth, and for the steamers to be ready—a couple of days, a week at the outside. We'll be getting a crash course in naval combat in the meantime. I know you're all pining for Mama's turkey and stuffing tonight, but we'll be giving Texas a Christmas present she'll never forget."

"I'll drink to that," Lang announced with gusto, and the tension was finally broken with a round of hearty laughter.

"Hear, hear," Moore said grandly. As if on cue, we all screwed the lids off our canteens and he filled them up for us. I stood up, holding mine aloft.

"To the Lone Star, gents."

"To the Lone Star," they echoed solemnly. There was a reverent silence as we drank, and then a chorus of sighs as the whiskey shot through us, giving the illusion of warmth. I tossed another stick on the fire and took my seat again, nudging the banjo at Lang's feet with the toe of my boot.

"Miles, how about those carols?"

"Ain't drunk enough yet," he muttered, eliciting another round of laughter.

I genuinely liked Miles Lang. When he had first joined the Fifth, all chubby-cheeked and toting a rank he hadn't earned, I had rolled my eyes along with the others. His hands had been soft and useless, and his aristocratic airs had put us off even more. But he had gotten down to business in Valverde, earning his mettle along with my respect. And back in Colorado, he had gotten off a shot that probably saved my life. Patch had taken a bad step, and I had dismounted—during the retreat, no less—to hurry and get a stone out of his shoe. I spun around just in time to hear a pop from Lang's pistol, and a Yankee was just falling dead not fifteen feet behind me.

"Give the man his muse, Sergeant!" I ordered Moore. Another round was poured, much fuller now that the others had wandered off to start passing the news around. Lang tossed it back all in one go, slapping his knee in approval. He spun the banjo up onto his knee, and we all cheered. He began plucking out a merry God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. I turned my eyes back to the fire, taking a small sip of the whiskey. I couldn't afford to get too drunk tonight, or I might start rambling about how most of us were probably going to be dead before the week was out.

We'd faced defeat and death before. Our regiment had been nearly cut in half at Valverde, and then again in the raid in Colorado. But the worst was the men I had lost over the course of the retreat—so many had been wounded in that final skirmish. Some of them might have had a chance, if we had been in a snug army hospital. But a cavalry regiment didn't exactly carry a doctor with them, and now we were on the run without a supply train. We had absolutely nothing except our weapons and the kit on our horses, and we were still riding. Every wound began to fester. I myself had been grazed by a musket ball on the back of my left shoulder, and those first two days' ride had been agony. Lang was the lucky man who had the pleasure of scraping the infection off the wound every time we stopped, since I couldn't see what I was about. Once we had ridden far enough to feel safe, we stopped and scrambled together what linen we could to dress everyone's wounds, but it was too late. My shoulder healed eventually, but there was no salve that would chase away the nightmare of watching my friends die slowly of gangrene. I did what little I could, holding hands and muttering half-remembered prayers, but we didn't even have any medicine for them. When we packed up and rode off a week later, we left a small city of mounds and homemade crosses behind.

But the Fifth had survived. We were shored up with the new recruits now, and Green was a fine commander. We had all gotten the new pistols. And while none of us liked how the Brigade had fallen apart, we were all thrilled to be back in Texas. And for what? To drown in Galveston Bay, so that Lincoln wouldn't have a chance to get a second foot onto Texas soil?

I had to admit, it was a worthy cause. I had Texan blood running hot in my veins, the same as the rest of them. The very idea of Houston—my Houston—being taken was blasphemy itself. We wouldn't stand for Texas to be invaded, not while we were still in the saddle. Or on deck, I thought with distaste. Texas had been throwing off oppressive governments for nigh on half a century, and Lincoln's Union was no different. We'd only been a part of the United States for fifteen years, after all. If he wanted to work himself into a tizzy over the original colonies, let him. Why couldn't he leave Texas alone? It was times like this I missed General Sibley. He'd have his own fiery words to add to mine tonight.

But still, for us to have come through so much, only for it to end here! I believed that the port would eventually be won, or the town, at least. Magruder was convinced that the speed of this attack would mean its success. But that didn't mean that our regiment wasn't going to be decimated out there in the harbor. We weren't a throwaway bunch of infantry, like Green had said, but we no longer the glorious Brigade, either. We were a band of sharpshooters who just happened to have horses, and who were unlucky enough to be on hand for this one. But that was war; if we had to die to keep the Lone Star clean of the filth of Yankee boots, we would. I would. I hadn't a home to go back to, anyway, and as much as I liked to whisper to Patch about the adventures we would have together someday, I knew the odds. I still believed the South would prevail, but sometimes I didn't truly believe that I would live to see the day. I especially didn't believe it tonight. But I couldn't think of a better cause to spend my life on, and I couldn't have picked a finer regiment to spend it with.

I looked around the circle of faces, still flickering orange from the fire. Lang's music was warming us in a way that whiskey never could; I didn't see a lick of fear in those faces now. Half of them had their eyes closed, no doubt pretending they were back in their warm homes, hearing this same music and staring at the candles on their Christmas trees, smelling the turkey as their mother took it out of the oven. I sat back up, working my left shoulder in a circle. On cold nights like this, it still pained me. I transferred the whiskey to my left hand and kneaded the muscles that I could reach with my right.

After a while, Lang was tired out. I hadn't fooled him, not completely, and he had downed more whiskey than was good for him. He was a gloomy drunk, the type that would want to get to his tent and start rewriting his goodbye letters, on a night like this. There was a groan of protests as he ended the music and stumbled to his feet.

"C'mon, Miles!" Lockewood whined. "Play a couple more. Baby Jesus ain't even born yet."

"Y'all play a c'ple more," Lang slurred, and stumbled again, this time off toward his tent. I picked up his banjo and began plucking random notes, reminded of those first months in the Brigade when we had all still felt immortal. I had been the one playing back then… but my banjo had been stolen along with the rest of the supply train in Colorado. I hadn't had the heart to replace it yet, not when I couldn't replace the men we'd left behind.

"Haven't heard you play in a while, Major," Moore said hopefully.

I ignored him, bending lower over the instrument in concentration. I was a little drunk myself now, and while I wasn't seeing double, the strings were wobbling in a way they shouldn't. But a tune emerged nonetheless; I didn't know any Christmas carols on the banjo, but I could play "Durang's Hornpipe" with my eyes shut. My fingers stumbled occasionally, numb with cold and whiskey, but it came out all right. The men were soon clapping and stomping along, nodding in appreciation.

I finished with a loud strum and bowed at their applause. Moore passed me another lidful of whiskey, which he said I had to earn with another song. I played "Bonnie Blue Flag" and "Dixie," and then downed the shot before picking up the banjo again. I only got a few notes into God Save the South when I completely lost track of the tune, and started laughing along with the rest of them. It was just so funny, that I could pick off a Yank at five hundred yards, but I couldn't get the banjo strings to sit still. And it was so funny that we, the famed Fifth Mounted Rifles, were going to turn pirate. I should get an eye patch…

I blinked, and the fire was suddenly lower. I felt warm all over now. I started humming "The Holly and the Ivy," clutching the neck of the banjo like the neck of a bottle. This was a good night. These were good people. Good, good… good. When did Moore grow two more hands?

"I got a ghost story," a new voice announced. It was one of those mealy-mouthed Virginians. His buddy shoved him rudely.

"It's Christmas, you dope," he said. "Nobody tells ghost stories on Christmas."

"Tell it," I commanded, smiling peacefully. "We'll all be dead'n a week anyhow." Every eye snapped back to mine, and I muttered an oath to myself. This is why you don't get yourself drunk, remember? I forced another laugh out, just to show how absurd my statement was. Fortunately, they were just as drunk as I was, and the laugh echoed carelessly around the circle.

The Virginian leaned in toward the fire, rubbing his hands together. "We just got here last week with Magruder. Sam here and I been hearing stories from the locals. They say these parts is haunted lately."

"'Lately'?" Lee asked. "Ain't ghosts supposed to be dead ancestors, haunting their old mansions?"

"Not this one," the Virginian said, his voice dropping to an eerie bass. "There's people going missing lately. An old man here, a little kid there. Sometimes they find the body, sometimes they don't. And when they do find them…" He paused, and the rest of us leaned closer. "They ain't right. The blood's all gone, and the throats are ripped out."

We all shuddered, and the younger ones laughed. "Thas' a lousy story," I slurred. "They just got grabbed by a bear, is all."

"Bears don't drink your blood," he said triumphantly.

"Vampire?" Lockewood offered, grinning.

"Not a vampire. They got fangs, remember? These poor louts got their throats torn clean out, I tell you. Got their souls sucked right out of 'em, along with their blood. There's something out there, something right unholy."

His buddy shoved him again. "You're sick, you know that? Major, why don't you play us some more of those Christmas carols?"

"Don't know any," I sighed. I picked up the banjo anyway, fumbling with the strings for a moment. "You know you boys are the best, don't you?"

Those who knew me rolled their eyes, and Moore wiped at his cheeks, pretending to cry. I wasn't a gloomy drunk, like Lang, and they knew it; I was a sentimental drunk. I'd probably have myself crying in a minute.

"No, I mean it," I said in a gushing tone. "This regiment's the heart and soul of the whole sandblasted Confedr'cy. I think President Davis oughtta put that on his next batch of nickels. The Texas Fifth, five cents." I burst out laughing again, amazed at my own joke. I hiccupped loudly, and strummed hard across the banjo strings. "We're gonna show them Yankee seadogs what for, boys. We're gonna be the pirate heroes of Galveston Bay. We're gonna be the swashbucklingest cavalry that ever was. Make way, men, th' horse marines have arrived!"

I hunched over the banjo laughing again, and this time the whole group roared along with me, repeating "horse marines" to each other. They seemed to like it. Their approval warmed my heart, burned my eyes. I studied the banjo strings again, waiting for them to stop wobbling before I put them to work. I carefully started plucking out the notes of "Silent Night," and the chatter quieted again. The fire hissed and popped, keeping in time with the song. I felt a tear trickle down my face as I played, moved by my own speech, by the music... by the honest courage we all shared. It wasn't the homiest Christmas my men had ever seen, and it might be the last one they'd ever see. But so long as I could stay awake, I would make sure they had a good one.

The battle is in the next chapter! But in the meantime, I highly recommend "The Major's Last Ride," a one-shot by staringatthesky, which details the events just after the second battle. It's a wonderful little story, and definitely influenced this one.

I probably won't be updating anything again until after New Year's... so I wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2015! :)