They were coming, closer and closer with every minute. America looked around, taking in the uniforms. Blue, Union. They must be the Confederates.
The camped troops were sleeping peacefully, unaware of their impending doom. America tried to scream, tried to call out to them, but his voice wouldn't come. Desperate, he tried to move towards them, only to find his legs heavy, as if weighed down with lead. Each painstaking movement he took did nothing to bring him closer.
He had to warn them before it was too late. But it already was. Shouts rang out as the sentries took notice of the approaching enemies. Chaos proliferated, half-awake soldiers scrambling up and trying to dress, trying to waken those still asleep.
But it was too late. The Confederates were upon them, awake and ready. Guns went off in quick succession, followed by an incessant chorus of screams, America's among them. He scrambled towards them faster, feeling his heart against his ribs. Pounding, burning. From exertion? Emotion? He didn't know, and couldn't bring himself to care.
All he could see were his people dying. No blue, no grey. Only red. Everywhere, too much. America lost track of time, minutes stretching into hours, hours shrinking into seconds. All relative, all unimportant in the face of this massacre.
A terrible lull in screams and shots, a pause for the gore to sink into the greedy earth, for the blood to drain and leave the corpses gaunt and white.
Reinforcements came during the night. Union, from the blue of their clothing. America felt no pleasure at the change of tide, only dismay. More killing would take place, more death. Why wouldn't it stop? Was it so much to ask, that his people refrain from killing each other?
It hurt. It hurt to look, hurt to hear. Hurt to exist. All he wanted to do was curl into a ball and cower from the pain, will it away with all his heart. But he had to help, had to stop this…
Still he moved onwards, crawling now. He was making progress. The faces of the dead were visible, vivid with a horrible clarity that sent chills down his spine.
The fighting commenced once more, stretching on as he tried to move closer. Death…so much of it. More than he'd ever seen before, more than he ever wanted to see again.
The tears were hot down his cheeks. Dripping, dripping onto his dirt smeared hands. It was red. Red as blood. Bleeding, crimson, dark with the volume…
Stop…stop it…
Please.
"Stop!" America screamed, coming back to consciousness with a jolt. He was in his room, tangled amid the sheet. They were wet, damp with something.
His dream filled in the blank, unbidden. Blood. He could see the darkness on the sheets, against his hands. Violently he scrambled for the edge, and fell heavily onto his forearms with a resounding bang. He couldn't see clearly, couldn't get to his feet. Where was Texas? Wherever his moist fingers flailed, they couldn't catch the elusive frames.
There was a series of knocks on the door. His fall and shouts must have woken someone.
"America?" Lincoln's voice, alarmed.
America wanted to scream to him, yell for him to come in quickly and make this all go away. It was a nightmare, it wasn't happening…
But the words wouldn't pass the growing lump in his throat.
"America!" light was pouring into the room now. His president was at his side, helping him to his feet. Immediately, he glanced towards the sheets. Mussed and entangled, but white and clean. No blood.
"This isn't a joke."
"I know. That's what we've said."
"There's no glory, no honor, just blood."
"But there is. We're fighting for our rights."
"It's just carnage."
Blood, blood…
"America?" Lincoln questioned, shaking him by the shoulders to get his attention. "What's wrong? You're not acting well."
"Blood," was all America would say, staring numbly down at his hands. Clean hands. No dirt, no blood.
"Blood?" Lincoln repeated, concern evident in both his tone and expression. He glanced down at America's hands, wrists, bed sheets. "Where?"
"Everywhere," America answered mechanically, before easing himself back into a laying position. His eyelids felt so heavy…
"America, what are you talking about?" Lincoln was kneeling next to the bed now, eyes narrowed in confused anxiety. "What's going on?"
"I'm just tired," the blond explained, as if that were an answer to all his president's questions. "Don't worry about it."
"If you're sure," Lincoln responded hesitantly, getting up to leave. His Nation's hand caught his sleeve as he rose.
"C-Can you stay?" America looked up at him with pleading, frightened eyes. Like a child after a bad dream. At heart, wasn't that the case? "Just for a little while."
"Okay," Lincoln smiled, pulling a chair over to the bed's side as America nestled into the covers. And so he sat for the next few hours, as his Nation succumbed to a deep dreamless sleep.
"You've got to get some sleep," Lincoln insisted, a few months later. "With the least offense meant, you look terrible. Pale as a sheet, and tired as the dead."
"Sir, I can't," America frowned, thinking back to his last attempt to do so. A few days ago. Rain, blood. More death. He knew there was more fighting going on as they spoke, and he couldn't bring himself to sleep, dreading the images he knew would come. It might be selfish, but…he couldn't bear to see such things happening to his people.
"I'll stay with you, if you want," Lincoln offered, resting his forearms on the desk. "That seemed to help the last time, did it not?"
"I just…not right now," there was a measure of desperation to his voice. Pleading. "I can't bear to see their faces," he added, in a tone almost too soft to be heard.
"America…" Lincoln made as if to stand, before stopping midway, awkwardly braced to stand, though reluctant to complete the action.
"I can't find Texas," the blond continued, as if the two sentences had anything to do with one another. "I haven't for some time now."
Lincoln thought back to what little he'd been told of America before taking his presidency. Texas…that meant… "Your glasses?" Lincoln questioned, as his mind filled in the blank. With a half-hearted nod, America confirmed his statement.
"Oh. I thought it a bit odd you weren't wearing them recently, but I didn't think to ask, given the circumstances," Lincoln ended with an almost apologetic tone.
"It's fine," America assured, leaning against the chair's backrest. "I can still see without Texas."
"Then why do you wear them?" Lincoln inquired, nonplussed.
"I suppose it just…feels right," America murmured, desperately trying to keep his eyes open as they began to slide shut.
"We're getting closer, almost there now."
"You won't get to Richmond, we'll make sure of it!"
"So you think."
"Correctly, of course. McClellan's a damned coward."
"He isn't. We trust him."
"Lee will win…he's got this."
An image of Stonewall…various soldiers moving. A sense of apprehension. Plans about to succeed or go awry. A trap? Attack…fight…another battle to come.
No…no more. Please, don't make me watch this.
"But we are you, and you are us…shouldn't you get to see what's going on?"
"Shouldn't you watch us? This is your fight, and yours alone. You know that, right?"
"You've got to make a decision."
"Choose…you've got to pick a side."
I can't…I…
And he jerked awake then, nearly hitting into Lincoln who was standing in front of him, concern clear on his face.
"Another dream?" his president asked knowingly.
America swallowed. "Sort of. A nightmare, really."
He didn't clarify on the contents. Lincoln didn't need to know that he was hearing voices, nameless, unidentified voices. He didn't need to know what they were saying, all the insecurities they were bringing up, and pressure they were inciting.
He didn't need to know that his Nation was slowly losing his mind.
Historical Notes: Many of the Plains Indians sided with the Confederacy because of their dislike of federal policies. Most of the white settlers from Colorado to California were pro-Union. In March 1862, a Texan army clashed with a Union force in the Battle of Glorieta Pass. It was an indecisive battle, but the Union unit managed to destroy the Texans' supply train, causing them to retreat behind the Rio Grande, and ending the Confederate threat to the Far West.
Meanwhile, larger Union forces under Ulysses S. Grant invaded Tennessee, capturing Fort Henry and Fort Donelson and taking 14,000 prisoners, by the effective use of armored gunboats. He then headed towards Corinth, Mississippi—an important railroad junction.
To stop Grant's advance, a Confederate force of 40,000 under Albert Sidney Johnston attacked suddenly at Shiloh on April 6th, 20 miles north of Corinth. The soldiers were caught off guard, some half-dressed, others still asleep in their blankets. But they stood their ground. After a long day of fighting, Union reinforcements arrived in the night, and on the second day, the tide turned in their favor. The Confederates fell back towards Corinth, exhausted and demoralized.
Grant, shaken, let them escape. This cost him his reputation gained in capturing Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, and he was relieved of his command. Although Corinth was eventually fell and New Orleans was captured by a naval force under Captain David Farragut, Vicksburg—key to control of the Mississippi—was still firmly in Confederate hands.
Shiloh had a staggering amount of causalities on both sides. More Americans died there in two days than in all the battles of the Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Mexican-American War combined. Union losses were over 13,000 and those of the Confederacy around 10,699 including General Johnston. Technology was largely to blame for this, due to more accurate guns that could be fired much quicker than the earlier muskets, and other more powerful artillery. Generals began to reconsider their tactics, and to experiment with field fortifications and other defensive measures. The people, North and South, stopped thinking of the war as a romantic test of courage and military skill.
In Virginia, General McClellan finally began to move against Richmond. His plan was to transport his army by water to the tip of the peninsula formed by the York and James rivers in order to attack Richmond from the southeast, rather than traverse the difficult terrain of northern Virginia. After the battle on March 9, 1862, between the USS Monitor and the Confederate Merrimack—the first fight in history between armored warships—control of these waters were in northern control. Although his plan alarmed many congressmen as it left Washington relatively unguarded, it solved the problem of keeping the army supplied in hostile country.
However, McClellan had an old fashioned view of battle, as a "gentlemanly contest". He wanted to capture Richmond, not to destroy the army guarding it, figuring it's fall would be spur the Confederacy to acknowledge defeat and return to the Union. Beneath his bravado, he was also a bit insecure, continually calling for more men, and not eager to start the fight.
Bu May 14th, he established a base at White House Landing, less than 25 miles from Richmond. A swift attack might have ended the war quickly, but McClellan hesitated, despite having 80,000 men in striking position and large reserves. As he continued his slow approach, the Confederates attacked part of his force separated from the rest by the rain-swollen Chickahominy River. The Battle of Seven Pines resulted in more than 10,000 causalities, despite being indecisive. During it, Confederate commander General Joseph E. Johnston was severely wounded, his leadership of the Army of Northern Virginia passing to Robert E. Lee.
Lee was a brilliant solider, if a reluctant supporter of secession. Unlike McClellan, who didn't take the time to understand his opponents, Lee observed each Union general and made his plans accordingly. "Where McClellan was complex, egotistical, perhaps even unbalanced, Lee was courtly, tactful, and entirely without McClellan's arrogant belief that he was a man of destiny."
To relieve pressure on Richmond, Lee sent "Stonewall" Jackson on a diversionary raid in the Shenandoah Valley, west of Richmond and Washington. Jackson struck hard and quickly, winning a number of battles and capturing equipment from the scattered Union forces. Lincoln sent 20,000 reserves to the Shenandoah to stop him—to McClellan's dismay, a she wanted the troops to attack Richmond from the North. But after the Seven Pines, Lee ordered Jackson back to Richmond. While Union armies headed towards the valley, Jackson slipped between them, reaching Ashland, directly north of Richmond, on June 25th.
Up until this point, McClellan had had the clear majority in troops, but now, that advantage lay with Lee, who attacked the very next day. For seven days, the fight went on. Lee's plan was too complex for his untested army, and so their full weight never hit the northern force at any one time, though it was still formidable. McClellan, who was talented with defensive maneuvering, fell back with intact lines, causing much damage. He eventually managed to bring his troops to a new base on the James River at Harrison's Landing, where the guns of the navy could shield his position. In the Seven Days' Battle for Richmond, the North lost 15,800 and the South almost 20,000.
Again you are drowned in notes. I blame my inability to simplify war events ._.' Always end up nearly rewriting the chapter in my notes. Enjoy the long chapter.
just another fma fan: You bring up a good point with Texas…maybe that's why America seems to have such trouble finding his glasses lately? I don't know…sort of want to go back and change this now. Ah well, what's done is done. Though, looking back…I haven't actually mentioned Texas in the past few chapters…so this could work. Heh. Anyway, though I'm still glad you're enjoying it…you told me not to say so. Thanks for the review ^^ EDIT: I think you see what I did there…