April 15, 1864
Ezra's POV
In 1862 I was asked to leave West Point. As a second year at the finest military institution in the world, I took my studies very seriously, and I was at the top of my class. I also behaved well, and followed the orders of my superiors closely and respectfully. Ironically, the good traits I possessed were what got me kicked out.
South Carolina had just succeeded from the Union, and a war between the north and the south was obviously drawing near. The Union needed it's finest and most educated men to keep it together, and although I was neither the finest or most educated, I was asked to be my father's adjutant general.
My father was a West Point man who valued hard work, and he graduated at the very top of his class. After graduating, he became one of the leading men in the military, which is unheard of under most circumstances.
Maybe his immediate military success was what compelled Gerald Mitchell, a wealthy plantation owner in the south, to give his oldest daughter to my father. My mother, Dianne Mitchell, was a beautiful southern belle, who was raised primarily by slaves in the deep heart of Georgia.
We have relatives who live in Georgia, and my father was in town paying them a visit when he met my mother for the first time. It was at a local ball, and my mother was wearing a silky green dress with shoes all the way from Paris. According to my father, it was love at first sight, and he became determined to win my mother's hand.
I came along about a year after their marriage. As the oldest son of Brian Fitzgerald, I had a lot to live up to, but I embraced the challenge as soon as I was old enough to understand what that meant. A few months after my sixth birthday, my younger brother Wesley was born. My mother borne no more children after Wesley, but that was okay. My mother gave birth to two healthy sons, and that was all my father could ask of her.
I've dreamed of war ever since I was a little boy. Most people see war as a destructive thing, but I never did. My father always taught me that war is opportunity. An opportunity to bring honor to yourself and to your country. After all, how is America to establish her superiority above all other nations without war?
Days ago, I missed the opportunity to bring honor to myself and to my country. I made a grave mistake, that might cost me my life. There was a battle, and I was directing my men with the fearlessness and confidence that I always posses on the battlefield. But something changed. A single moment altered my perspective on war, life, and death forever.
As the battle was going on, a young drummer boy wearing a grey uniform was playing along side the rebels. As the enemies drew closer, I ordered my men to fire. On my first shot, I missed my target and killed the drummer boy.
I've been around war my entire life, and I've seen more dead bodies than the southerners have cotton gins. Some of my best friends have died next to me on the battlefield, and boys as young as fifteen have bleed to death while under my control. I've also been the one to kill on many occasions. In spite of my frequent exposure to death, nothing has ever hit me as hard as my accidental killing of that little drummer boy.
I've always considered myself to be as tough as any man alive. I'm brave, and I'm fearless, and I will not lose a minute of sleep over killing anyone in a grey uniform. Or at least I thought I wouldn't. The boy I killed in battle the other day couldn't have been older than twelve. I remember being twelve. I lived in my family's New York estate, where I was being tutored by the finest educators in the United States. I certainly wasn't out on the battlefield, watching bullets fly above my head.
The moment I killed that boy, was the moment I realized something that would change my life forever. I'm not tough. I'm lucky. I was born into the right family, and I've had every privilege and opportunity in the world. That drummer boy couldn't say the same. Like all of the other drummer boys, he probably enlisted to earn some extra pocket money for his family back at home.
For the first time in my life, I see what this conflict really is. It's poor men, fighting rich men's battles. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.
Maybe that's why I did what I did. I turned my horse around, and deserted my men in the middle of a battle. As I was riding away from the fighting, someone shot at my horse. It died on the spot, and I fell to the ground.
I thought I was a dead man, but luckily my attacker saw my uniform before he raised his riffle at me. The rebel obviously realized that I was of high ranks, because he put down his gun and pounced on top of me. Some of the surrounding men helped tie me, and cart me off to the nearest prison camp.
I never would have guessed that prison camp could be worse than a battlefield, but it definitely is. Food here is scarce, and so are blankets and clothing. It's as cold as it is crowded in my bunk, and I haven't eaten a suitable meal in days. I want to go home. I want to go home right now.
I wonder what's going on in my family's peaceful estate in New York. I can imagine it's feeling rather empty. My father is at war, and I'm in prison camp. The only people living there are my seventeen year old brother, our loving mother, and the many servants who help with house
work.
I bet my father has already written home, to announce that I'm missing. I can only imagine the absolute grief and sorrow than the letter bestowed upon my poor mother's heart. Two years ago, she begged me to stay at West Point and skip out on the fighting. My mom told me that she wouldn't know what to do with herself if I died in battle, but I told her not to worry. At the time, I was arrogant and foolish, and I believed that I was invincible. Surely a West Point man like myself would have no trouble fighting those damn rebels. I never expected to end up here. Under the mercy and control of my enemies.
A startled gasp escapes from my lips when one of the guards, pushes me out of my bunk, and ties my wrists together. What the hell is he doing? The guards have left me alone since my arrival, and I don't know why this guy is bothering me now.
"Sir." I say, as I try to mask my terror.
"Come with me now, Fitzgerald." The guard says through his gritted teeth.
Oh. My. God. Ever since I arrived at camp, I've tried to keep my identity a secret. Being the son of such a highly-esteemed general won't do anything to help me in this situation. If anything, it will hurt me. So how do they know who I am?
I don't argue, or ask any questions as the guard leads me down the hallway. We stop in front of a closed door, and the guard pulls out his keys and unlocks it. The room is dark, and a table with two chairs on opposite sides take up most of it's space. I look up, and gasp when I realize that Andrew Campbell, one of my classmates from West Point, is sitting on the far chair.
The guard pushes me into the room with Andrew, and locks the door behind him. Great. This is just perfect. Andrew Campbell, of all people, will be the one who decides my fate. For some unknown reason, he's always resented me. I never took Andrew very seriously though. He's from a wealthy family in South Carolina, and he was at the bottom of our class. That's probably why he was assigned to work at the prison camp.
"Ezra Fitzgerald. What a present surprise." Andrew says with a wicked smile.
I don't respond. I just look down, and silently pray that this is just a dream. If this isn't a dream, then I'm damned.
"I heard you fled from battle. What in the world compelled you to do something so foolish? We were taught never to run, especially when we're in positions of power. Have you no honor?" Andrew asks with a smirk.
If I could, I'd stand up and punch Campbell in the face. Where does he get the nerve to speak to me like that? In case he's forgetting, I'm an adjutant general. He's the head of a prison camp. I'm obviously the stronger man here, but I have to bite my tongue. Andrew has power over me right now, despite his lowly position.
"I'm sure your father is ashamed of you. How could a coward like you be the son of a leading general like him?" Andrew asks as he shakes his head slowly.
My father and I have always been close. Unlike most of the men in New York, he always put his wife and children first. He did everything he could to turn Wes and I into fine and respectable men, but obviously I failed him. It hurts to know that I've shamed someone I love so dearly.
"Does my father- Have you told him I'm here?" I ask Andrew softly.
"That's actually why I called you in here. I decided to do my old friend from West Point a favor, and give him the choice to escape death." Andrew says as he stares into my blue eyes.
"I'll do anything. Just name it." I say as I sit up a little straighter.
"You're going to tell me where your father plans on striking next. You're an adjutant general, so you obviously have that information. After you give it to us, we'll let you go." Andrew tells me.
No. I can't do that. If I give that information to Andrew, my father could be killed along with his troops. I can't let him die because of my mistake. That wouldn't be right.
"Andrew, you know I can't say anything about my father's plans." I mutter as I avoid looking into his piercing blue eyes.
"Ezra, you're forgetting the most important lesson we learned at West Point. Stay alive under any circumstances. I'm giving you an out here, and you're not taking it." Andrew says as he begins to raise his voice.
"You're forgetting another rule we leaned at West Point. Don't betray your men. I'm not going to say anything to put them in danger." I tell the southerner seriously.
"You goddamn fool! You already betrayed your men! You willingly left them out on the battlefield, remember?" Andrew asks as a look of absolute furry washes over his face.
"I know, and that was a mistake. I don't have to betray them twice though." I say, trying to convince him and myself.
"I'm going to give you one more chance, Ezra. Tell me what I want to know, or you're going to suffer the consequences." Andrew says, practically screaming.
"I already told you. I'm not saying anything." I say with a breathy sigh.
Line Break
After my talk with Andrew, a group of guards came into the room and grabbed me. They stripped me of all my clothes, and now I'm completely exposed to them. The men lead me outside, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I've seen the sun in weeks.
"Stand with your back facing us." One of the guard growls, as he stops abruptly.
But I can't move. I'm frozen with fear. What if they shoot me right here? My poor mother will be heart-broken if I die at only twenty-three years old.
"I said, stand with your back facing us." The guard says as he begins to raise his voice.
When I don't move, he pushes me to the ground forcefully. Seconds later, I feel something hit my back. The same object hits me again, and it feels like my skin is on fire. What the hell is going on?
I look up, and gasp when I realize that the guards are all holding whips. They're beating me in the same way they beat their helpless slaves. I am their slave now. They can do whatever they want to me, and there isn't anything I can do about it.
I want to cry as the whips dig against my soft skin. This is by far the most painful thing I've ever experienced. I know not to cry though. At West Point, we were taught to hold back tears, no matter what.
It's better to take it like a man, than to let the enemies see your weakness. If you cry, or complain, you're letting them win. I will not these damn rebels beat me. I won't.
Okay, maybe I will. I'm being whipped so hard, that I can feel blood tricking down my back. This pain is unbearable. I'd rather die than endure this for a second longer.
"Stop! Please, stop!" I cry out in pain.
The guards don't stop. They just laugh, and continue to strike me violently. I start to sob. I haven't cried like this since I was ten years old, when I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. My mother ran out of the house, and scooped me into her arms. She kissed me, and told me that everything was going to be okay.
I wish my mother were here now. She wouldn't be able to stop these men from hurting me, but she'd lay down next to me and whisper comforting words to help me get through this torture. I miss my mom. Will I ever see again? What if these men kill me before the war ends? It's too much. All of this is too much.
"Mommy!" I cry out through my tears.
Something peculiar happens. The guards stop whipping. They stop whipping, and start laughing. This is humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
"Did you hear that, men? The little boy wants his Mommy!" I hear someone say through the laughter.
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy." The guards chant.
"Come on. Take him to the bunks. We don't beat little boys." The head guard says as he picks me up, and hands me to the other guards.
It occurs to me that I've broken three of the most important West Point rules.
Don't betray your men. I betrayed them on the battlefield in a moment of weakness. As their leader, I took off and ran, leaving them exposed to the Confederates.
Stay alive under any circumstances. I had a chance to escape, but I didn't. I chose to stay here, and let Andrew and his men beat me. There is a good chance they'll kill me if I don't starve to death first.
Don't let the enemy see you cry. They didn't just see me cry, they saw me weep and beg for my mother. I'm pathetic. Why did I give them so much power over me? I've dug my own grave. Now they think I'll be easy to crack, and they'll torture me until I give them the information they want.
But I'm not just breaking West Point rules. I'm breaking a rule that my father taught me as a young boy, and I've lived by that rule for as long as I can remember. Be fearless. Fear is death in war. The realization makes me even more afraid because I do fear. I've never feared so much in my entire life.
AN: What did you think of this chapter? Did Ezra's insight and situation surprise you at all? How do you think he'll meet Aria? The next chapter will take place about a year later, after the war ends. Any thoughts on what might happen? Let me know! Please review and tell me what you liked and didn't like about this chapter. Thanks for reading :)