England decided to stay in France for the past several months. He watched as the prices of trade goods raised and it affected France. It didn't take his mind off of the war for one minute. He was enjoying his time away from home. He didn't have the Prime Minister constantly bickering about how they had to stay neutral. England knew they had to stay neutral. He distasted the thought of people supporting slavery, though. They had fought to get rid of it decades before. England knew it wasn't just about slavery too.

On the streets of Paris, England walked beside France. They both wore their war-time uniforms. It showed they had some sort of stand on the war. As France had put it, it gave the public some sort of happiness, like the two of them were on the public's side. In most cases, England was. The public liked the United States, the Union. That's where England assumed America was. There was no response at all from him, so he wasn't sure. He couldn't make himself believe that America would claim what the Confederacy was. Oppression. It reminded him of the Revolution.

People saluted him and France. He would smile as he knew they had no idea who they were besides high-ranked officers.

"Such a beautiful day." France said as he winked towards some French girls.

"It's quite sunny here." England mentioned. It was common conversation for his people to talk about weather at any given point.

"That's only because you're always covered in clouds. So when do you plan on going back?"

"I still haven't received any word from Fremantle, so I will leave in a week. I must see him."

"What if he thinks your references are not genuine? They are too good for just any officer of the British Army."

England hadn't thought about that. He had been concentrating on receiving a reply. "You're right. He may think it a prank of sorts. Seeing him in person will surely clear things up."

England felt like he had seen all there is to see of France in his time there. He was a big fan of tradition and the culture of it. His home was so rich with tradition.

"Do you think anyone else would like to see you while you're on this side of the water? What about Spain, Germany, or Italy?" France asked him.

He had spent so much time with just France and a bunch of servants, he didn't even think about visiting anyone else. "They probably would be bothered with our issues. We are the only ones affected by the war. Probably best to leave them be." England replied.

"You're probably right. Spain is having his own problems."

"So I've heard," England stated as they reached France's house. Sebastian was at the front, along with France's servants.

"How was your walk, sir?" Sebastian asked with a bow.

"It was quite nice. If you would be so kind, and ask George to be in my room. I'd like to change for tea."

"Yes sir." Sebastian replied.

"Ack, not every meal is tea." France mumbled.

France motioned for all of his servants to head back inside. England changed into his dinner clothes and met back with France in the dining room. France was dressed in his usual clothes, or at least it appeared like it. French attire was rather different in England's eyes.

"So what are we having tonight?" England asked as he took the seat next to France. With little or no guests, it was accustom to sit close together for talking purposes. England liked the parties small, because it was tradition to only talk to someone for so long, before you would have to talk to the person on the other side of you.

"The cooks had made many French dishes. I'd rather not go into detail, because I'd not like to hear about your nasty food."

England's face reddened with anger. "You haven't even tried any of it."

France laughed heartily. His blond hair swayed with each movement. England's expression changed. For a moment there, he felt like life was back to the usual. But in all truth, it wouldn't be for a while.

September 16th 1862. Outside Sharpsburg, Maryland

Orange camp fires dotted the dark field and the feeling was a mixed mess of calm and anticipation. America was growing tired of the fact that beautiful days and nights seemed to always be followed by horrific battles. He found himself on this cool night sitting on a stool next to one of those campfires with his new regiment scattered in the immediate area. The now Captain Alfred Jones stared blankly at the starry sky. His new assignment had come with a promotion. Or as Lincoln and jokingly put it "to take a little of weight off my shoulders and to put it on yours." But little had changed he noticed, an extra bar on each of his shoulders and a few less people to salute was about all.

The 61st New York was a fairly small regiment. Their number barely reached three hundred and fifty men so when compared to some regiments that numbered well over a thousand they seemed very small. But the men were no less ready and able to fight, America had noticed. They were all veterans of the Peninsula Campaign and had seen combat. The men were all close as well and this actually became a disadvantage. The previous Captain that held the command of Company was very welled liked before illness had suddenly taken him which made America's entry into the regiment possible. He wasn't met with outright hostility but far from a warm welcome either. Even now as the men who were still awake spoke happily with one another they all left him alone. He understood this situation though and he thought little of it. His mind was more occupied with the entire army's situation.

There was going to be a battle tomorrow, a big one, maybe the biggest any America had ever seen.

As time marched into September the rumours that Lee was going to invade the North had become fact. His army had crossed the Potomac River into Maryland and that brought them closer to Washington. McClellan, who had done little since the Peninsula Campaign had ended, had no choice but to pursue. There had been a battle two days before that his regiment did not take part in, but little was resolved from it and both sides went their separate ways but kept in close contact with each other. Now the rest of their forces were gathering it seemed obvious that tomorrow would be the day they would go at each again. The Union men were encamped by a creek called Antietam.

America heard footsteps coming from behind him and noticed it was his commanding Officer Colonel Barlow. The younger looking man got to his feet and saluted. Barlow, a stern looking man with a clean shaved face saluted back but said nothing. He had spoken with America and the other officers before they made camp earlier in the day and explained what he knew of their situation. With nothing more to say to him he gave a nod of understanding and went about inspecting the rest of the regiment.

America watched as he despaired into the darkness and the sinking feeling of the reality of the next day continued to drag his mind down. The sound of a sad violin danced in the air, he sat down again, and looked to the glowing fire.

"Fall in boys!" America shouted out.

It had been five in the morning when Colonel Barlow woke America while he slept in his tent. He was told to wake his Company and have them form up and wait for orders. The rest of their brigade which contain five regiments including their own was told to ready to move at any moment. So now America stood in front of his men and looked down the line to see the rest of the 61st in perfect line and he could just make out the regimental colours of the other regiments on his left and right. This filled him with pride and the worry of the night before seemed far away. They were ready now. It was not like at Bull Run where they were disorganized and undisciplined. Nor was it like Shiloh where they had been caught by surprised. Every man knew his job and could do it.

Colonel Barlow rode his horse down the line and each company commander saluted as he passed. When he reached the end of their regiment, he turned around and started back before stopping when he reached the center of their line next to their colour barrier.

Now all they could do was wait, and it didn't take long before the sound of canon and musket fire came from their right. It was barely five thirty in the morning and the sun had barely appeared

He found himself trying to imagine what was happening by the sounds they heard. The only sound in the area was the occasional messenger galloping by at high speed. Time went by and yet they did not move. The sun went higher and soon it was bright and hot. Some of them men unbuttoned their collars to relieve them of the heat. Something he knew he should reprimand them for it, but he said nothing.

Finally at what he could only assume was nine, the sound of the battle had moved in front of them. Movement could be seen and heard coming from their right and to a man they looked off into the distance as the brigade to their right began to move forward. The pounding of drums and blowing of trumpets erupted in the air. The other men, including their regiment let out cheers and took off their hats. The advancing brigade's colours could just be made out. A green flag snapped in the wind next to the stars and stripes. It was the Irish brigade. They faded into the distance and quiet returned. Only to be broken by the sound of battle that was now close to them which meant they had the added noise of screams and shouts to accompany them. Yet still, they had to wait.

After an hour or so, finally the triumph call came, and it told them to advance.

America drew his sword from its place on his side and rested it on his shoulder.

"Forward!" was heard coming from the left and he along with the other officers echoed it down the line.

"March!"

The drummers started to pound away and the whole brigade started forward at a slow and steady pace. Colonel Barlow could be seen riding up and down the lines shouting things of encouragement like "come on boys!" to which the men resounded with cheers.

All that could be seen in front of them were grassy hills and the occasional cluster of trees. They continued on this way for a few minutes with nothing changing. But then the screaming of a shell ripped through the air and landed with a crash behind them. More followed but most of the men were barely fazed, they had heard the loud roar of the canon so many times now that it was almost beneath their notice. But then a shot hit there line and was first followed by screams of shock and then screams of pain. A few men lay on the ground to his right. They seemed to be in bad shape and were struggling to pick themselves back up. A few of their comrades broke out of line to check on them and that's when America looked away. He felt heartless at first but then he remembered that he didn't have time for that.

"Hold the line! Keep moving!" he shouted but did not look back.

They were about to reach the crest of another hill and judging by the sound, they were almost to the enemy. But when they reached the top they surprisingly saw little in front of them. America could practically feel the confusion of the men and he felt the same. Where the hell have they sent us? He thought to himself. But the canon shots kept coming and now the sound of muskets came from their right. When he turned to look he instantly began to evaluate the situation. The field of green far to their right was littered with piles of blue that use to be men. Up and to the right he could see the enemy. A large line of brown and grey with red flags flying were behind a fence on what he could only assume was a dirt road. They were still far off though and only the occasional musket shot flew high over their heads. He now understood what had happen. They had sent brigade after brigade right at that rebel line in hopes to dislodge them, but it had evidently not worked out. And weather by design or accident, he truly did not know which; their brigade was sent far to the right and now had a chance to flank them.

At the moment a ruckus could be heard coming from his own line to the write and he saw Barlow riding down the line at the top of his speed. His commanding officer's eyes meet with his and he slide to a stop, his horse whining in protest.

"The 64th found a damn good spot to fire on the rebs. Shift all the boys to the right at the double quick and follow them. I'll get the rest of the brigade to follow suit." He said franticly but clearly. Barlow stopped to take a breath before wheeling his horse around and shouting over his shoulder. "We can break that damn line Jones!"

After a firm salute the young Colonel was gone.

Needing to be told nothing else America turned and his back heel and began to walk backwards.

"Right wheel, forward double quick, march!" he shouted and swirled his sword in the air to let his commands be known to anyone who couldn't hear him. He turned back around and started his new march. At this point, he could only hope the other companies in the regiment would follow suit. He took a quick look over his shoulder and saw that his men had abandoned the slow march for the semi-in rhythm frantic jog.

The pounding of their feet started to kick up dirt and the dust enveloped their lower bodies. The cannon and musket fire kept coming at them at the same pace and every few steps a men would suddenly not be there anymore, but right on they moved. At last they reached the 64th, which happen to be another regiment from New York. They were at the top of a hill and were pouring fire into the rebel lines. Not needing much instruction his men reformed their lines and fired away. He took a glance and saw with relief that the rest of the regiment was doing the same. He kept his men in line and encouraged them as well has taking a few shots with his revolver when the time felt right. The sound of musket fire and horse screams filled the air. The brown and grey line was quickly been rippled with splashes of red. But they were closer now, and they were starting to take heavier fire themselves. America held his sword over his head and kept directing his men.

"Keep up your fire-"his order was cut short by his own scream. Not a scream of pain but more of shock. A ball had slammed into his right arm and knocked his sword out of his hand. The force of the impact had knocked him down as well. The roaring sound around him seemed to fade away. All that could be heard was his own heart beat pounding rapidly away as if it would burst. His adrenaline was starting to fade; he knew the pain would take its place.

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" he heard being shouted down at him. He looked up and saw the bearded face of Sergeant John O'Neil. "Ya need to see the Surgeon sir! I'll take ya!" the black haired man began to reach down but America waved his good arm up at him in protest.

"Keep the men in line! If the order comes to advance go, I'll be there sure enough just give me time." America blurted out all in one breath. O'Neil looked down at him as if he was unsure if he should obey, but the look in his Captain's eyes were to serious not to what he was told.

"Yessir!" he shouted and returned to the mass of blue.

He let out a sigh of relief and followed it with a grimace of pain. He had to get away; he had to see how bad it was and not be in the middle of a fight like this. He pushed himself up with his left hand and looked at the ground for his sword. It was lying on the ground with his blood splattered all over it. In a swift movement he grabbed the hilt and started hobbling away as it dragged behind him. He bumped into a seemingly endless group of men in blue before escaping the crowd and seeing the field of green and brown in front of him. He sifted his vison from back to right until he found a loan tree. It would have to do. He had to deal with this and get back to his men. He rushed to the tree and through himself down next to it.

Now that he was as alone as he could get at the moment he finally looked at his right arm. The blue of his uniform had been turned black with his blood. It looked like the shot had entered at his elbow and travelled up his arm before exiting at his shoulder. Moving the limb was now impossible. It was mangled, and he knew the only remedy for an injury like this.

Amputation.

He had been injured, even killed before, but he had had nothing like this happen to him. Would it grow back? If it did, how in the world would he explain it? He had too many questions and no answer. In the end he decided to go with the one thing he did know. If he had enough time, it would heal. Even now he could feel the dozen of bone fragments that use to make up his arm slowly moving back to their proper place. But how long would it take? He had no idea, but he had to get back, they could move at any time. He decided to wrap his arm the best he could and hope for the best. With his left hand and a pocket knife he kept in his pocket he started to cut a long strip of material from his pants. It wasn't too hard to use his left hand for this. He was more or less ambidextrous though his right was the dominate one. He started at the top of his shoulder and began wrapping it. He gritted his teeth and held back the scream of pain that wanted to erupt from his throat. Finally he reached the bottom and pulled it tight. This time he didn't hold back his voice.

"Dammit all!" he hissed.

When it was done he looked down at his work. His arm still looked bad and the new fabric was quickly turning black but it would have to do. He pushed off the tree with his good arm and stood. He nearly fell back down from light-headedness; he had lost a lot of blood, but it didn't matter. He retrieved his sword from the ground and returned it to its scabbard on his side. Looking back at the action to his left he saw that the sea of blue was starting to move, and that they were leaving several blue spots on the ground behind them. Swiftly moving forward he grabbed his revolver from his side and check it. Three shots, he would have to be conservative. He found his company fairly quickly found his company and shouts of encouragement rained down on him.

He looked back to where the enemy had been before he went down. Their line had almost dissolved and what was left was retreating. Some more organized then others. Seeing that the other officers around were having their men advance he did the same.

"Come on boys follow me!"

Away they went the tidal wave of blue rushing towards the fence and the where the men in grey had once been. A few shots where still coming at them from some of the rebels before they turned and ran. His company reached the fence and went around being met with a grim sight. The sunken road was filled with mangled bodies dressed in brown and grey and splattered with blood. He didn't want to look, nothing was decided, and he had learned long ago that there was no reason to care about the dead when there was still living men struggling. They followed their retreating enemy and this brought them directly over the fallen mass of men in front of them. The men at first were hesitant but then pushed forward and tried not to trip over the tangled limbs and bodies.

"Sorry." A younger man muttered as he nearly tripped and kicked a former rebel in the face as a result.

"Shut it boy!" an older man next to him hissed.

America understood that. If you give them an apology it's a reminder that these 'things' were once men and it is easier if that fact is forgotten. But right as they got passed the road and horse and rider appeared right in front of him. He looked up and saw Major Collins of his regiment.

"Hold up here Jones! Our orders are to maintain this position." The older man explained intensely while looking down at him. As if his words didn't register America replied back immediately.

"Sir, where is Colonel Barlow?"

Collins looked down and away before turning back.

"His been hit, it looks bad. I've taken command of the regiment." He explained in a slower pace. America now had a better understanding of the situation but he still felt lost.

"Sir, why do we not advance?! The rebs are on the run, if we push forward we could split their whole damn army!" he shouted back.

Collins looked away and readjusted himself in his saddle. His eyes looked over the men and then looked behind them with a look of anger as if cursing someone.

"Those orders come from McClellan himself." He said through clinched teeth as if in discuss. "Deploy skirmishers and take a defensive position Captain." With that he galloped away and said no more.

America was in shock. Too many thoughts ran through his head for him to even begin to know what to do, but he felt the eyes of his men on him. They were waiting for his orders. With a click of the tongue and a sinking feeling in his gut he relented.

"Deploy skirmishers…"