1861

"Now is the time! The plight of the black man can no longer be ignored. Have no doubt, he is a man with every right the constitution can afford. The Southern states will never recognize his right unless they are forced to. War is coming! It will come and it must come!"

James sat stock still, his arms folded over his chest. The speaker punctuated his last statement with a punch to the air. The audience murmured agreement, some even applauding.

"If what I have to say does not stir your hearts, then listen to our fellows of humanity." The speaker gestured to his left. A woman and a man climbed the steps to the pulpit. The woman was darker than any black person James had ever seen. The man echoed her in hue and stood nervously before the podium, twisting his hat in his hands.

"I was born free," the man began. "I grew up around here. Most of you know me, David Finley. I've worked hard, but I gave it up because my brothers aren't free." The man coughed, but puffed out his chest, gaining his courage. "I've been down South and what's happening there is the worst of humanity. It isn't right; it isn't constitutional. We have rights just like any man."

Several in the audience clapped and nodded.

The man cupped the elbow of the woman next to him. "You may have seen my wife. She's southern born, enslaved from the moment her mother birthed her. I ask you to hear her story and judge for yourself the inhumanity of those who've called themselves Americans."

The woman surveyed the crowd, then took a breath and spoke. "I'm Evaline." She nodded briefly as if greeting those she met in the street. "My mistress. She was a hard woman. First thing I remember is her slapping me. I guess I was maybe three then." Her hand brushed her cheek. "There was a lot of rules. I tried to obey, but they just didn't care. I think they liked to hurt us. My mama, she got in trouble. I wasn't there, but I found her after, laying in bed." Evaline's eyes grew wet. "My mistress had her whipped. Her back was ripped, bloody. I had to clean her."

James' nails bit into his arms, his jaw set hard as stone.

"Later, when I grew, the master, he brought me into the house to serve. One day, I—"

"Hoooo-weeee! You havin' an abolitionist meetin'? You think old Lincoln's gonna free the slaves? Negroes is an abomination, and you just wait until Virginia secedes! You'll get a boot in the backside!"

All heads turned to the back of the church. A man stood in the doorway, potbellied, stringy dark hair, worn out clothes. He sneered at the man and woman at the podium.

"You think ones like them"—he jabbed his finger at the couple—"can live on their own? They're infants. What you think you all're doing here? You're a disgrace, every last one of you!"

"Sir!" the pastor who'd been speaking previously approached. "Vacate these premises immediately."

"This here's a church, ain't it? I got every right to be here! It's them who've got no right."

James' fists clenched and he slowly stood. "The preacher told you to leave."

The man in the doorway scanned him up and down then cackled. "Who're you, boy? You're a whippersnapper."

"Sir, I ask you again to leave peacefully," the pastor entreated.

"I ain't leaving till I've said my piece!"

James slid past those sharing his pew and marched down the aisle. "Get. Out."

The man laughed. "You gonna make me?"

"I can."

"James..." the pastor started.

James passed the preacher and sidled in front of him. "Go."

"You think you can ignore Southern rights, eh? They"—the man indicated the couple again— "need a father to tell them what to do! They ain't nothin' but dirty children. They—"

James flung himself at the man, gripping him around the arms and shoving him out the church door. Surprised, the man stumbled backwards, losing his balance and tumbling down the stairs. James planted his boots on the top step, glaring down at the man.

The man groaned and picked himself up. His brown eyes flashed at James. "You want a fight, sonny?" He raised his fists.

James began to descend, but a hand caught his arm. "Let him go."

James peered back at the preacher. "I won't swing unless he does." He descended to the bottom step. "Leave."

The man snarled and threw a fist at James' head. Finally, an excuse. James leaned back so the man's swing hit air. He raised his own fists, connecting with the man's stomach and chest. The man doubled over and sucked in a strained breath. James knocked his feet out from under him. "Stay down," he warned.

The man made to stand and James kicked him in the side. The man growled, but didn't move as James bent over and rumbled into his face. "You get out, or you'll receive a beating no one here will ever forget."

The man glanced around. They'd been surrounded by people interested in the proceedings. Fear crept into his eyes, but then receded as he swayed to his feet. "You ain't heard the last of me! Elias Tucker has connections. Mark my words! The weight of the South will crush you one and all!" He pulled back, pushed through the gathered crowd, and scuffled away.

The crowd began to disperse, but some joined the meeting in the church, curious about what had caused such a commotion.

"Well, James," the preacher whispered next to him, "I can't say I'm sorry about what you did, and I don't think the Lord would lodge an objection either."

James shared a smile with the man at his side. He shook out his hands, sore after punching what felt like a solid gut, which was strange. It almost felt like he'd hit a bag of sand, not a body.

"Come back in," the pastor encouraged.

James shook his head. "I wasn't supposed to be here anyway."

"You skipped class again?"

James nodded.

"Your father—"

"Don't tell him."

"I won't have to. The college will."

James sighed. He hoped not. He tipped his hat to the pastor and began the long walk to his college dormitory.

"James! Where have you been?"

James stifled a sigh. If this had been any other time… He closed his door none too gently. "You aren't supposed to be here."

The girl in the floofy pink, flower-patterned dress trilled a laugh and shook her blonde curls. "Now don't go moping. You're not as handsome when you mope."

James strode across the room, rubbing at knuckles that still hurt from the punch he'd laid on the heckler. How did such a rotund, flabby tub acquire such a solid gut? He poured water from a pitcher into his washbasin.

"Jaaames," the girl whined, ringing him round the neck from behind.

James ignored her, dipping his hands into the water.

"James, come on, I want to go out."

"I have class."

"You're skipping class."

James didn't defend himself, just kept massaging his aching knuckles. The girl hadn't even glanced at them, didn't notice he'd been hurt.

The girl moved to his side, then leaned close to kiss the base of his neck. "Well, if you don't want to go out, we could stay here. I'm fine with that." She kept kissing, traveling up his neck, over his chin, up his cheek, then—

James yanked his hands out of the basin, whirled round to grip her shoulders, and firmly pressed her back. He stomped over to his bed. It creaked as he sat.

"James, you are positively boring me." She was pouting; he knew even though he wasn't looking. She'd pouted the first time, they met, too. He'd thought her pulled down lips cute. She'd giggled and teased and ran her fingers through his hair, then finally occupied his lap. The other college boys had wiggled their brows at him. They'd all caught her at one time or another. It was his turn.

And he'd relished it. He'd gone out with her almost every day for a month, devoured her like sugar in pretty much every corner of town. She'd hung on his arm, her chin tipped up, proud she'd snagged him. And they'd talked about nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"What do you think about the Southern States?" James asked.

The girl frowned. "The Southern States?"

"The seven that seceded. The papers say more will join."

"Is that what's troubling your head? Newspapers?" The girl laughed again and bounced over to him, sliding down next to him on the bed and playing with the bangs falling across his forehead.

"They're saying war will come."

"I say serves them right."

"Why?" James turned, facing her head on.

"Well, because they don't like Lincoln, I guess."

James huffed. "It's more complex than that."

The girl tugged a little harder on his bangs. "Forget about all that." She grabbed his hand and placed it against her waist. "We don't have to think about any of it." Her lips approached his.

"I want to think about it."

"Don't." She batted her eyes, her beautiful, glossy, vapid eyes. Her lips met his. Soft, supple, delicious, tasting like cream puffs. And suddenly he was whisked away to the past, to the branches of a tree and a girl, a youth his age at the time, with roughened hands and chapped lips whose stolen pecks hinted at onions and peppers. Maria had listened. Really listened. And pushed him to do the right thing. Go to college. Go here.

James abruptly stood, pacing away.

The girl on his bed scowled. "What has gotten into you?"

James thought of two men standing on a train station platform, two good men who expected more from him than dallying about with a girl all over town and skipping class. "This isn't a good time."

"Well, James West. If you don't decide it is a good time, you won't ever see me again." She planted her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

"Fine."

Her mouth fell open. It might have been funny, her gaping like a fish, if she hadn't surged across the room, slapped him hard, and flounced out the door.

James stood frozen, mouth clinched into a grimacing line. He hadn't expected that. Though, now that he thought about it, maybe he should. He hadn't given her any reason to assume his affections weren't genuine. He shuffled back over to his washbasin, this time cupping water in his palm and leaning over to douse his throbbing cheek.

"Trouble, James?"

James dropped his hand and looked into the mirror above the basin. Professor Robey stood reflected in his doorway.

"I just passed a rather irate girl and..." the Professor stepped into his room and pointed at James in the mirror. "I think I might have heard an impact."

James couldn't help but huff a laugh and nodded. "You don't have to dig deep to discover my troubles, do you, Professor?"

Professor Robey smiled. "No." The professor taught history and desired nothing more than his sabbaticals into foreign lands where he shoveled the dust and dirt of the earth to extract ancient mysteries. The Professor ambled into the room, taking stock of James' flaming cheek, then his knuckles.

"I didn't hit her," James defended quickly.

Robey grunted. "I know you didn't. But you were fighting again. Fighting instead of listening to my lecture."

Heat rose in James' cheeks, heightening the throbbing in his left. "Professor, I—"

Robey raised a hand, halting James' explanation. "I intercepted the messenger. Or tattler, I suppose."

"Who saw me?"

"Reynolds."

James rolled his eyes. Short boy. New. Rich. Attitude beyond arrogance.

"Do you know what might have happened if he had made it to President Gaines? Expulsion, James. Why do you insist on using those fists so much?"

James sighed, pacing away from the mirror, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "This heat, it just boils in me until it comes out. It always has. And now, it just...it just...it needs more than this!" He waved at the room, encompassing the campus beyond as well. "Classes and studies and exams? Do you know what's going on outside of here?"

Robey huffed. "All this because you harbor the fire of every young man your age."

"There're people hurting other people out there. People who won't stop unless we make them stop." James' hands balled into fists and his knuckles pounded. He should've decked that heckler more than once. When the potbelly had risen off the ground, he should've punched him straight across the face. That would have accomplished more than he'd ever accomplished here!

Robey stared at him and James' cheeks burned all the more. He respected his Professor. He didn't mean to miss his classes, but he'd heard about the abolitionist meeting and it just felt far more important than dead history.

"James, sit." Robey motioned to his bed. James dutifully obeyed, slumping on its edge. He was a bit surprised when Robey laid a hand on his shoulder. "The world is changing. That's the way of history, my boy. And there will always be pains and injustices in need of righting. Even when you graduate."

James hissed through his teeth. "There'll be war."

Robey nodded. "There will. But you won't need to be part of it."

"I want to be!"

Robey squeezed his shoulder. "James, I know the feeling. The call. But you're smart and studious. You deserve your degree."

"But—"

"I have a letter from your father."

"My father wrote you?"

"Hm." Robey reached into his robes, retrieving a folded piece of paper. "He appealed to me. Begged me to keep you in line for six more months." Robey laughed. "Me. A confirmed bachelor with no idea how to parent a child, much less a rebellious one."

James didn't laugh. His father didn't really know either. He'd dumped him in an orphanage when he couldn't afford him anymore and then picked him up when it was more convenient. His father had tried to make up for it, had in many ways, devoting most of his income to James' health and education, but there was still that awkward gap between them that neither could close.

"I'm asking you, James, to stay here. To study. To work hard. To stop running off to town to play. Three months. Give me three months."

James swallowed hard. Three months. Three months and the nation could be at war. "What does a diploma matter if war starts?"

"You give me the next three months, and I'll make sure President Gaines recommends you with highest honors to West Point. If you still lust for action, of course."

James raised his eyebrows. West Point? The military school?

"If war does start, that school will be in the thick of it."

"Professor..." James closed his eyes. West Point. War. His fists could officially punch the right things. He could release all the rage boiling in his heart without repercussion. He could do right by Jabin and Father Thomas. James straightened. "All right, Professor. I'll stay."

Professor Robey squeezed his shoulder again. "You swear? You promise?"

"I promise on my honor."

"Good. Now—" Professor Robey backed up a few steps. "For your rules. No more girls."

James opened his mouth, but the Professor rushed on.

"No girls for three months. Certainly you can manage that. Besides, it's probably best for your self-preservation." The corners of the Professor's mouth curled up as he motioned at James' cheek. James smiled, though it hurt. "No meetings. No going into town except for essentials and approved breaks. I will check this room at curfew every night and expect you to be present."

James folded his arms tightly to his chest, feeling the walls of his room close in on him.

"Anything else?"

"It won't be as bad as you assume. You'll be glad for it in the end. You'll make your father proud. You'll make me proud. And you'll have something to show for all the time and effort you've put into this place. Don't let the last three years lead to nothing." Robey pulled himself to his full height. "Come on, lad! Show me the spirit of the boy who says he wants to be a man and go to war."

James uncrossed his arms and rose to his feet, standing as straight as possible with his arms stiff at his sides.

"Now, I believe you have a class to attend."

"Yes, sir."

The Professor nodded crisply and departed. James gathered several books from his bedside stand. He didn't hate studying. Truly, he didn't. But it just didn't hold a candle to the fire turning his heart to ash.

James walked to his door, moving into the hall, then out the entrance to his dormitory. No girls. He could do that. He could. If he didn't leave the campus and didn't inhabit any local saloons.

James paused along the path to the granite classroom building. Someone was hollering up ahead, running with a newspaper thrust into the air. Students gathered round. James cocked his head, picking up his pace to get close enough to hear.

"It's war! War! They attacked Fort Sumter! We're going to war!"

The inside of James' lip stung as he bit down hard. His left fist clenched. He'd sworn. He'd vowed. On his honor. He had to stay. He had no choice.

Three Months. Just three months. Then West Point.

And he'd start punching more than a single, solid, potbellied heckler.

Author's Note: Soooooo, it's been a long while, hasn't it? I finally decided to pick up this fic again and thanks to everyone who still is following after all this time. I've been working on an original, but I plan to work on this fic as a more relaxing break between chapters. To whet your appetite for what's to come, we'll finally get to see James mired in the Civil War. But before that, Artie needs his chapter! What's Artie up to in 1861, the day the war starts? We'll find out!

Notes for WWW Fans: Professor Robey appears at the beginning of the TV episode "The Night of the Druid's Blood." I always thought he seemed like a wonderful professor and hated how he perished at the beginning. I get James so desperately wanting to find out what happened to his beloved professor.