I don't own Pokemon, yadda yadda, this is a fan work without the intention of profit, yadda yadda you get the picture.
Warning for some folks who may not be a big fan of such things, this story involves a character from the 1860s. While a Union man, society was still much different back then and the language that was used differs as well. I will not be translating the slang into modern-speak, however, most of it is pretty easy to pick up on anyway.
Chapter One
Cold Harbor
June 3rd, 1864
Cold Harbor, Virginia
4:20 AM
Andrew couldn't think of anyone he hated more than General Grant at this moment—not Bobby Lee, not the bastard rebel that shot his kid brother, and not even Jefferson Davis himself. Andrew was also quite inclined to believe that most of his brothers in arms within the 82nd Pennsylvania, or perhaps even the entire Army of the Potomac, would agree. The high that had been carrying him for over a month since the Battle of the Wilderness had worn off in a nice little slice of Virginia named Cold Harbor.
The 82nd Pennsylvania and several other regiments all feel the tension of the oncoming storm. Hundreds of men, Andrew included, had ripped the paper out of journals or used a torn piece of cloth to write their names down before stuffing it into jacket or pants pockets. For the first time in his three-and-a-half years of service in the Army of the Union, Andrew believes he will die.
With an uneasy glance at the vast sea of shadow-shrouded blue uniforms and grim faces to his left and right, it occurs to him that many likely share the same sentiment. Though he cannot make them all out, he knows that hundreds upon hundreds of glistening bayonets adorn just as many muskets. A reminder of the bloody work they intend to perform this morning.
A thick layer of ground fog coats the area, and Andrew can barely see thirty paces past the Union earthworks. Just distantly, he could make out the dim fires and lanterns that marked the start of the Rebel line. The enemy occupied the higher ground, and Andrew knew their line, composed of zigzagging chest-height earthworks, stretched for at least several miles through forest and other terrains. For a second, his breathing increases as panic threatens to overcome him at the thought of storming such defenses, but he manages to force it down.
With shaking hands, he reaches into the left pocket of his trousers, withdrawing a folded and stained letter. Rapidly, his eyes scan the lines over and over and over again, seeking some small comfort in the piece of home within his hands. With some effort, he steadies his breathing and neatly folds the letter before returning it to his pocket. Opening his mouth to speak, he turns his black-haired head to the left before pausing at the boyish and unfamiliar face that turns curiously towards him in response. Shaking his head, Andrew returns his gaze forward.
'Right, Lewis is gone.' Andrew recalls brief images of his old file partner and childhood friend who had fallen in battle two days prior flashing through his mind.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts and glancing to his right, he makes eye contact with a quiet man named Theodore. He recalls that Theodore had enlisted around the same time that he and Lewis had and gives him a friendly nod. Theodore returns it before returning his gaze forward and visibly exhaling. From the corner of his eye, Andrew can see the blonde-haired man from Philadelphia's grip tightening around his Springfield.
"Have you been in a battle before, sir?" A quiet voice from his left suddenly says, and Andrew absentmindedly pinpoints his accent as somewhat rural. Turning his head slightly toward the boy, he nods.
"I've seen the elephant, yeah," Andrew replies, his tone gruff.
"Seen the elephant?" The voice continues, to Andrew's mild annoyance.
"It means to see your first battle. That moment of the first rush, the first time shot and shell fly by you. Honestly, there isn't anything quite like it." Andrew elaborates, receiving a hum of acknowledgment in return.
After a few more seconds, the boy asks, "Sir, might I kindly impose as-to ask a favor of you?"
With a sigh, Andrew contemplates telling the kid to blow off. After a moment, he changes his mind and replies, "Go ahead. Just stop calling me, sir. I'm not an officer."
"Ah, sorry mister… It's just that my pa would whip me a good one if I didn' speak respectfully to folk, 'specially ones I mean to ask somethin' of."
Andrew comes to a sharp realization, and he sighs softly. The boy reminds him of himself, enlisting with his best friend Lewis to teach those Southerners a proper lesson courtesy of Uncle Sam. Back then, they'd figured the war would be over by Christmas, that it'd be the adventure of a lifetime and a way to get out of the house for a while; Andrew almost finds it funny how wrong they were.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Andrew replies, "It's alright. Just ask your favor already."
"Right… mister, I'd first like to introduce myself, as is right. My name is Thomas Edward Gibson, and well." Thomas trails off before continuing, "I saw you with that letter, and it got me thinking. It's embarrassing, but mister, I can't read or write. So I just wanted to ask if you'd be so kind as to write my name on a piece of paper for me. So that if I die in this here battle, someone can tell my Ma and Pa I didn't die a coward."
Caught off-guard by the sheer earnestness of the request, all Andrew can do is nod. Undoing the strap on the haversack secured to his left hip by an over-the-shoulder strap, he reaches in and withdraws a small journal and cedar pencil. Flipping through pages of personal notes and detailed drawings, Andrew arrives at the few blank pages at the back. Tearing one out, he uses the journal to hold the paper steady as he writes before saying, "Sure, kid. Here you go."
As Andrew hands the paper to Thomas, a broad smile adorns Thomas's face as the boy stuffs it into his right trouser pocket. "Thank you kindly, mister. Do you mind if I trouble you for your name?" Thomas asks after he buttons his pocket back up.
"My name? It's Andrew. Andrew Clayburn." Andrew responds, his voice much less hostile than when Thomas had started talking to him.
"Well, mister Clayburn, I'll make sure to remember that, and I promise you that if you get kilt in this battle and I live, I'll tell someone,"
Looking at Thomas incredulously for a moment, Andrew can't help but let out a quick chuckle, the brief moment of merriment seeming out of place.
"Thank you, Thomas. Now, if I get shot, you'd better stick to that promise, or I'll be sure to haunt you." Andrew jokingly threatens, a grin forming when he hears the boy let out a small but genuine laugh.
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, mister Clayburn, and I'll do the same to you if you don't tell anyone I've been kilt either," Thomas says with a grin.
"It's a deal then, and just call me Andrew. Mister Clayburn is my father's na -."Andrew's suddenly cut off due to the distant call of a bugle, answered by several others in rapid succession. Swiftly, Andrew's face drains of all traces of amusement and resettles into a thin line. Turning his head to the left, he observes Colonel Bassett and the regimental command staff stepping to the front of the regiment and assuming their positions: the color-bearers beginning to unfurl the state and national colors.
"82nd Pennsylvania, shoulder arms!" the Colonel bellows, the order repeated along the formation by other lower-ranking officers and NCOs. With his right hand, Andrew vertically raises his Springfield rifle-musket, turning the barrel so it faces forward as he presses it to his right shoulder. With his left palm, he grasps the butt of the piece, his thumb landing on the screw of the butt plate, before he slides the right hand down to the lock and drops it to his side. The same movement is also performed by the hundreds of other men around him and likely throughout the rest of the entire division as the troops prepare to assault their enemy.
The sound of artillery firing greets Andrew's ears as numerous gun batteries on each side begin opening fire. Though Andrew cannot make out much of the results, he's been in enough battles to picture the shattered trees, rough gouges carved into the earth, and mangled men left behind by flying shells. Tightening his grip on the butt of his rifle, he exhales sharply in an attempt to release some of the built-up tension within himself.
In the distance, Andrew can hear one of the many bands attached to the various regiments within the first division of the sixth corps start-up, the familiar tune of 'The Girl I Left Behind Me' piercing through the quiet morning air.
Almost as one, the entire division maneuvers over or around the Federal defenses to reform on the other side, numerous men letting out loud expletives as they trip over roots or holes in the darkness. The fog obscuring the ground made advancing difficult, and several times, Andrew and other men had to call out the location of holes in the ground or roots for the men behind them. After a few more minutes, the fife goes quiet, and the drums begin marching cadence.
'Left, left, left, right, left.' Andrew mentally repeats to himself, timing his footfalls with that of the men around him. It's clear the enemy has noticed their advance when the first shells begin landing amongst the gathered troops, the screams of the wounded and dying already filling the air. Far in the distance, Andrew can make out the sounds of musket fire.
'Someone must've encountered a Rebel picket.' he muses.
Swiftly, the entire division begins the march uphill toward the enemy's fortification. Crossing yard upon yard of ground while exposed to the enemy's guns reaps a horrific toll. Dozens of men are already down all across the line, and all Andrew can do is pray that no one he knows has fallen. Trees are ripped to pieces by shells, and wood fragments convert into lethal shrapnel. The occasional retort of a friendly gun firing in response is of little assurance.
"82nd Pennsylvania, do not load or prime your pieces! We will be driving the enemy from their position by the end of the bayonet. This assault will not be an easy one, but with the Lord as our protector and witness, we'll whip these 'rebs until they're running back to hell!" Colonel Bassett cries out, brandishing his sword towards the enemy.
Andrew watches the First Brigade of the First Division begin marching forward, muskets lowered so that the tips of their bayonets are at eye level. They almost immediately start taking fire from Rebel artillery on the hill, and Andrew watches in horror as a whole section of a line vanishes in the blink of an eye. At least seventeen men are gone in an instant; the only remnants are bloody smears and scattered body parts.
Thirty seconds later, the Second Brigade begins following them, and by then, the First Brigade has made it into the range of Rebel musketry. The hill becomes obscured by a growing level of smoke as hundreds of muskets fire. Soon after, men start falling like puppets with their strings cut, the advancing line of blue leaving dozens of limp and writhing blue-clad bodies in its wake.
The wails of the wounded split the air like a call from hell, only to be answered by an ever-increasing amount of gunfire. Andrew's eyes are drawn from the terrible sight as the Third Brigade begins marching, joining their brothers in the fray.
Upon making it halfway to the enemy position, the First Brigade halts and begins to return fire on the Rebel works, though Andrew cannot make out any of the southern men falling in the darkness. Soon, the Second Brigade pauses and begins to fire as well, and as if by some great invisible signal, the First Brigade resumes their march at a swifter pace than they previously had.
More men are falling now, and the figures of the walking wounded dragging themselves toward friendly lines start to become visible within the smoke. The commander of the Fourth Brigade bellows an order Andrew cannot make out in all the noise, though he correctly assumes it to be for the beginning of the advance as it's relayed down the line by bellowing Sergeants. He feels someone bump into him from behind as the line begins to move, though he doesn't turn to see who it is.
Taking a deep breath, he plants one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed squarely on the enemy position. He tries to ignore the carnage that surrounds him and makes a point to avoid looking at the fallen altogether. In a desperate attempt to block out the noise of the screaming wounded, he hums a soft and nameless tune to himself.
Marching uphill is never an enjoyable experience, especially with a determined and veteran enemy force pouring fire into you from an enfilade. Andrew can quickly feel any shreds of confidence fading as the sharp whizzing noise of a mini-ball in-flight passes him, and he feels a wet splash hit his right cheek, followed by a thump. He doesn't turn to see what happened, just gulping as his arm gets bumped due to the advance of a man from the rear rank to take the place of the fallen.
'I hope it was just a wound, Theodore. Maybe God will have mercy upon you and let you see the end of this hellish war.' Andrew can't help but hope.
"Keep it up, boys! Keep moving forward! Don't show those bastards any trace of fear! We'll whip them good, by god, I say!" A lieutenant cries out seconds before he collapses to the ground, the left side of his face eviscerated by an enemy sharpshooter.
"Huzzah, Huzzah, Huzzah!" Cries out over a thousand voices as the First and Second Brigades get close enough to the enemy works to begin a charge. Andrew can make out men falling one after another, the Brigades leaving a carpet of blue that nearly covers the entire ground behind them as Rebel cannons open fire into them with double-packed canister shots. The two brigades don't even touch the enemy line before men start hurling themselves to the ground and using their bayonets or hands to dig some kind of cover or flee altogether.
Soon, the Third Brigade follows them, making it a few more feet farther than the others had before their resolve fails them. Somewhere along the line of the 82nd Pennsylvania, Andrew can make someone cry, "The Colonel's been shot! By god, the Colonel has taken a shot!"
For a few seconds, a faint hope sparks; perhaps the doomed advance may come to a halt, but it's quickly dimmed when someone bellows, "Keep moving, boys, keep moving! We'll take this point; by God, we'll do it! For your president, for your country! Charge them out!"
The pace of the march changes from a quick walk to a full sprint. For a few seconds, the typical euphoria of a charge envelops Andrew—those few brief moments of feeling like one is no longer an individual but a sweeping tide of fury ready to fall upon the enemy. Andrew tries not to think about the men falling around him, and tears fill his eyes when the all-too-familiar sensation of someone moving up from the rear line is on both his left and right sides.
"Huzzah!" He finds himself screaming, and several men around him briefly take up the same cry in an attempt to achieve any boost to their courage that they can. Andrew's boots are caked in the blood of the fallen and dust by this point, and he can't help but be grimly thankful that he'd gotten the heel plates on his brogans replaced the day before. While moving, he wonders if some enterprising Rebel will become the one who profits from the replacements by the end of the day, prying the shoes from Andrew's cold and lifeless feet.
The Fourth Brigade struggles to reach the same position the three prior brigades had advanced to, the ground so clogged with the screaming wounded and glassy-eyed deceased that soldiers become bogged down. Some throw themselves to the ground to avoid getting killed; others are dragged down by the survivors of other brigades, trying to prevent any more brothers from dying.
"Don't do it, boys! Don't do it! That way lies the gate to hell!" A desperate voice cries, but Andrew tunes him out.
'Curse you, General Grant, a curse upon you and your kin for what you've forced us into today.' Andrew thinks spitefully.
Now close enough to the enemy position that he can see clearly, Andrew starts to make out the dim faces of the Southern soldiers. For a moment, his eyes lock with a skeletally thin man with sunken blue eyes and shaggy brown hair. The world almost seems to be still for a few brief seconds as Andrew realizes the man can't be any older than him, and even more so, he could almost swear he'd seen him sometime in the past, during more peaceful times.
Then his eyes register the rifle the man is pointing at his chest, and his ears can somehow make out the one specific crack as the rebel's rifle fires. Andrew's whole world becomes one of absolute, unending agony as the shot impacts his chest, flattening itself against a section of his rib cage and blowing the bones inwards so that they pierce one of his lungs before exploding into fragments that lodged themselves throughout his chest.
Torn scraps of his coat are brought into the injury, along with bits of earth and filth already present on the ball, starting the process of an almost immediate infection. Not that Andrew would have to worry about it, as he falls forward, his body landing on the edge of a pit and rolling so that he ends up face-first in a small puddle of water as another advancing man's foot pushes him in.
Throughout it all, Andrew still maintains an iron grip on his Springfield. His knuckles turn white with the pressure exerted as his vision slowly fades to darkness. As he lay there, dying, a small part of his brain registers a green glow to the water his falling body had disturbed, and then, with a sudden green flash, his vision finally goes dark.
Andrew awakens to the sensation of something dragging him by the crossed straps of his cartridge box and haversack. The old soldier's instinct, drilled into him for nearly three straight years, immediately notices the lack of the familiar presence of a musket in his hand. The more logical part of his brain then picks up on one key fact: he was still alive.
Keeping his eyes closed, Andrew instead chooses to use his attention for listening and feeling. The sound of bird song and the swaying of leaves greets his ears. Next, he picks up on the sound of his body slowly being dragged along the ground. Now and again, he can feel something furry brush against his neck as whoever is dragging him slips slightly. Finally, he can feel a cool breeze, so distant and relieving from the scorching sun and temperatures of Virginia's summer that he'd been under in what felt like moments ago.
Taking a few moments to gather his thoughts, Andrew decides to maintain the facade of unconsciousness. He eventually decides to wait until a situation where he'd have the advantage rolls around before he gazes upon his captor. His mind racing, Andrew finally diverts his attention to the most pressing question he has.
'How am I still alive? Why can't I feel any pain? I should be dead.' He thinks, actively resisting the urge to furrow his brow in confusion. Familiar with the common occurrence of Confederate troops looting Federal soldiers, sometimes while the men were still alive, the familiar weight of the knapsack upon his back brings Andrew to the conclusion that whoever is dragging him isn't some rebel looter.
'But if it isn't a 'reb, who could it be?' Andrew is left to wonder.
After what must have been at least twenty minutes of keeping his eyes closed and listening, Andrew hears the sound of a door creaking open. Then, the feeling of ground is replaced by that of hardwood, and it takes all he has in him not to swear loudly when his head smacks against what feels like the bottom of a door-frame. A dull throbbing sensation starts to spread throughout his head, and he can't help but think, 'That eliminates the no-longer able to feel pain theory. Perhaps this is all just a delusion of a dying man. Or perhaps the Lord has looked favorably upon me to grant me another chance, though for what pious deed of mine He'd grant such a favor for, I haven't the faintest clue.'
It deeply troubled Andrew; the concept of being granted another chance at life. Andrew's thoughts couldn't help but drift back to his younger brother, Charles. How Andrew had held his hand as he died, screaming in agony from a shot to the stomach at Fredericksburg. Then his mind drifts to the countless others he'd seen die, and the only thought he can muster is, 'Why me?'.
Before his mind can delve into any darker places, he's pulled from his thoughts as whoever is dragging him releases him, and his head and upper body hit the ground; several loud clanks from his canteen and the tinware in his haversack bumping against another audible. Fortunately, the distance is small, and the blue Kepi that adorns his head absorbs the impact, preventing further aches. Staying still for several more minutes, Andrew picks up on the sound of muffled steps, though somehow they seem wrong, with what almost appears to be the sound of nails clacking against the wooden floor.
The sound of a rifle cocking causes Andrew's eyes to fly open, and the sight that lay before him renders the man speechless. The cabin he's found himself in looks to be the oddest thing he'd seen in all his years, some strange tri-bladed contraption hanging from the ceiling, an odd-looking box with a glass front sitting atop a wooden stand, faced by a ratty old couch on the opposite direction, along with the oddest stove he'd ever seen. Despite the strangeness of it, there was a hint of familiarity in how run-down everything looked upon closer inspection, with small holes visible in the walls and a faint smell of mold in the air. However, the centerpiece of all the madness was the creature standing in the middle of the room, with one of its crimson eyes, pressed to the barrel of the rifle as if to see inside.
The creature stands on two digitigrade legs like a man would and has a coat of fur in a bizarre color combination of predominantly blue and black, with a cream-colored torso. Andrew also notes the fur on its legs gives them a similar appearance to the baggy trousers that Zoauve regiments wear. Upon the back of each paw is some sort of spike that appears metallic, with a similar one in the center of its chest. Crimson eyes on a head that reminds Andrew predominantly of a coyote complete the picture, and he thinks of the stories his mother told him and his brother when they were children, of vicious creatures that come to take those that misbehave into the dark of night. The strange appendages attached to the back of the creature's head don't help Andrew's impression either.
Never in his twenty-four years of life on Earth has Andrew seen such a sight, and it nearly drives the breath from him. Nervously, a hand drops to his bayonet scabbard, relief and surprise flooding him when his grip lands on the familiar metal tool. Pulled for a second from the sight before him, Andrew realizes that the Springfield the creature is looking into is not adorned with a bayonet and almost looks brand-new compared to his battered piece. Looking down at himself, the same is true with the rest of his clothing and equipment. His haversack feels stuffed, and the familiar weight of a filled cartridge box brings him comfort.
Andrew's attention returns to the creature when it grumbles something indistinct, and Andrew can't help but wince when it drops the rifle, which lands on the wooden floor with a sharp thud. Quickly rising, Andrew pulls the bayonet from the scabbard that hangs at his left thigh and grips it by the socket, blade facing forward. Following the noise of his rise, the creature turns to face him, and its crimson eyes widen as they meet his narrowed blue ones, the strange appendages attached to the back of its head rising slightly for a few moments before falling again.
A stand-off quickly ensures, with neither side making any movements. Andrew keeps his eyes locked on the creatures, unnerved by the spark of blatant intelligence within them. Cautiously, he takes a step backward, then one to the right, as the creature's head tracks his movements. Eventually, he manages to put the couch between it and him, feeling slightly unnerved when it rotates to keep him in eyesight. Again, those strange appendages on its back rise before falling moments later.
"Easy now, fella. I don't know what you are, and to be frank, I don't care to know either. I appreciate you dragging me here, so long as it weren't for nothing nefarious, but I need to get goin'. So you just step away from that piece there, and -" Andrew cuts himself off as he realizes what he's doing.
"I'm talking to a damn animal. I truly am going mad, aren't I?" He mutters to himself, causing the creature to tilt its head slightly at him. Andrew can't make out any blatant hostility in it, which lowers his guard slightly. He notes it seems more curious than anything, though he could almost swear it narrows its eyes at him when he calls it an animal.
Right before Andrew can decide on a further course to take, something happens that he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams. The creature opens its mouth and speaks.
"Cari? Rio. Caro lu." it says, crossing its arms and continuing to stare at him in an all too human-seeming stance.
"Oh, holy Father in heaven," Andrew murmurs, his eyes widening. As fear overtakes him, he makes a split-second decision driven by the pure animal instinct that comes with encountering something one cannot comprehend. He turns and sprints for the nearest window, throwing himself through it.
This is probably one of the most niche things ever posted on this website, but hell, ain't that the purpose of it all? For a long time, I've read through various fics, some good, some not so good, and one thing always sticks out to me. Most OCs or SIs are always some modern feller tossed into a situation where he knows everything there is to know. There are a few exceptions, but not many and so this has come into existence! Here you have a guy who hasn't even seen a light bulb before, much less knows anything about Pokemon, and I just find the Civil War interesting. As to why I chose Lucario as the other main character? Well, that was my favorite Pokemon as a kid, honestly no other reason. Started by heavily editing an ancient school writing project I rediscovered recently
(And I mean heavily edited, I wrote the first part in eighth grade and I'm in college now) that involved the Battle of Cold Harbor this story now exists! I'm not sure if I'll continue it, and I make no promises on keeping consistent quality or upload schedules, but depending on if there's some positive reception we might just see where we can go with this, yeah?
M rating is primarily for the opening bit, as well as a few scenes that may come later. Nothing more extreme than some heavy violence and language though. He is still a soldier after all!
To close it off, I would like to say now that Andrew will not have any 'special powers' or any of the such. The only thing he brings to the table here is himself, and An Alternate Perspective on Pokemon.
Thank you kindly for reading, and I will be sure to respond to reviews as each chapter is released. Be sure to let me know your thoughts, good and bad.
