1863

Crimson droplets sprayed forth from a soldier's fleshy neck at the bayonet's strike. The knife lodged in the soldier's jaw, and James twisted it for good measure. His opponent flailed and gurgled, blood gushing in spurting waves. James yanked the bayonet free and whirled round to spear another target. There were none. He stood alone in a sea of lifeless corpses and groaning wounded.

"They're routed! The Rebs are routed!" Union soldiers emerged over a rise. They sprinted past, whooping and hollering.

James took a step to follow, but faltered. His chest heaved. He bent over, one hand on a knee. His uniform was suddenly too hot and every fiber prickled against his arms and legs. Each bead of sweat crawled down his face and back. His head throbbed. He recognized the familiar aftereffects, sensations Jabin had called "the clarity of success," when you'd been pushed to your limits and won. Jabin said that was the time to listen to your body, to rest and glory in your accomplishment. Of course, Jabin also said the trouble with James was his fire couldn't be entirely quenched. Jabin had taught him how to wrest control over his body, but James' heart was like an everlasting flame—you couldn't ever put James West out.

James pulled himself upright. During the war, he'd discovered a new way to tamp down the continual fire in his belly. He took several steadying breaths before striding amongst the dead.

He wasn't really supposed to be this deep into the fighting. He had been sent with orders for General Leggett. His own commander had only ordered him to get a sense of the battle, but as often happened, he ended up in the thick of it.

James wiped at his brow, then removed his hat to wave it back and forth in front of his face. He almost chuckled recalling how upset he'd been about the war's start when he still had six months of college left, sure it would be over by the time he tried to get into it. Turned out when he'd graduated with exemplary honor the war was just beginning. President Gaines' and Senator Browning's recommendations got him swiftly into West Point and then within a year, he was in the field. Capable soldiers were highly prized, and he and several of his classmates were pushed through their courses in record time. About a year into the field, he got noticed by General Grant of all people. And so here he found himself, attached to Grant as his aide-de-camp and twenty miles from Vicksburg.

James stumbled, unintentionally clipping the leg of a curled-up form in Union colors.

"M-mother."

James knelt down. The soldier was young, maybe seventeen. James had been only two years older when he'd entered West Point. That fire every young man harbored, Professor Robey had said, that pushed them to do things like join up in a bloody fight. James unbuttoned the boy's coat. Blood spread across the entirety of the white shirt underneath, turning it red.

James cupped the boy's cheek. "Your mother's here."

"Mother." The boy relaxed, whispering contentedly and stilled. James pushed himself to his feet again. Keep going, keep looking. Tame the fire with compassion. If he found someone to help after a battle, he could forget about himself.

He often wondered if that was the reason he remained so stable when others buckled under the horror.

James caught a wrenching cry near a stand of trees. He crossed through them until he saw a man sprawled out on his back next to a pair of trees that had been blown to matchsticks—canon fire. He approached slowly, his stomach turning for the first time in months. The soldier was a meaty mess, slashing cuts decorating his upper body, but his legs…the lower halves had been shattered to pieces.

James swallowed the sudden, sour liquid in his mouth, pushed thought to the back of his mind, and leaned over the man's tremoring form. He wore gray. A Confederate and by the three gold stars on his collar, a colonel. But that didn't matter. He was a human being and he was dying.

James dug into his knapsack, removing two rolls of thick, white cloth and a wooden dowel an inch longer than the length of his hand. He breathed deeply and was about to start when the hairs rose along the back of his neck. He turned his head. The man was staring at him.

"I'm Captain James West," James explained. "I'm going to help you."

The man's right hand raised ever so slightly. "Let…me…die…"

James huffed a breath. "Not if I can help it." He didn't take orders from Confederates. He unrolled one of the cloths and began to wrap it round the end of the man's left thigh.

"No!" the man screamed, but James secured the cloth, slid his dowel under it, and began to twist. The man screeched, but James kept on, tying off the cloth when it was tight enough. He repeated his actions with the man's other leg. When he was done, he stood and surveyed the colonel who lay deathly still, though his livid eyes were fixed on James. There was hate there, pure and strong.

Maybe the colonel should hate him. Maybe all he'd done was prolong the inevitable.

James stumbled away. Move on. Keep going. Find someone else to help.

"Captain James West. You were to report when you arrived."

The formal address demanded a response, but James kept digging. The shovel in his hands slammed into earth. He dug deep, pressing the base of the shovel with his heel, dredging up a heap of dirt, and tossing it out of his hole. Only six feet down. He had two to go.

The voice softened. "James."

Another shovelful. And another.

The voice became a whisper. "Jim."

James stopped digging at the nickname he'd been given by the man speaking it, but didn't turn around. His muscles ached, throbbing and sore.

"The men will be moving out in hours."

James glanced up at the starry sky. It was midnight? A little after? He thrust his shovel into the earth at his feet. "Surgeons won't. Not all of them." There would be many wounded to tend tonight and others to arrange for transportation to cities with better resources.

"I want you with me now."

James wheeled round, locking eyes with the bearded man crouching over his hole. "Then why don't you get in and help!"

The gray eyes, visible by the lantern James had placed aside his hole, went cold.

James swallowed hard. "I…didn't mean that, sir."

"Move over," the bearded man said gruffly. He snapped up a second shovel James had laid aside in case the one he employed broke and slid down next to James. He dug into the dirt, pulling up even more than James could at his young age, and tossed it out. When James didn't move, he looked over at him. "Well?"

James blinked, then went back to digging but found his arms weaker. He couldn't believe his eyes. Ulysses S. Grant, Major General, was doing the work of a common soldier, hollowing out a latrine of all things.

"You're fortunate, Captain West, to have friends in high places. The penalty for insubordination is at my discretion." The general didn't break stride, continuing to dig. "There's probably a spare wheel somewhere around here."

Heat flashed up the back of James' neck to the tops of his ears. He grimaced. He could imagine himself lashed spread eagle to a spare wheel in full of view of the men, the general's trusted, darling aide-de-camp fodder for mocking.

"Sir," James began, forcing himself to keep digging, "I was out of line. I'll accept—"

"Oh, come, Jim. I'm not going to tie you to the wheel."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Get this latrine dug out and pray that stubborn mule within you sees sense afterwards."

James huffed a laugh. Grant chuckled. For a time there was silence as they concentrated on their task. With a second pair of hands, the latrine was eight feet in no time. James leaped out of the hole and gave the general a hand up.

Grant dusted off his uniform, then checked the sky. "They're probably searching for me." They would be. All the other commanders that depended on Grant's strategies would be in a dither. "So. What happened out there?"

James met Grant's steely eyes. "I'm fine, sir."

Grant stared a moment longer, then shook his head. "I was foolish. I assumed you impervious."

"Sir?"

"I thought war meant nothing to James West." Grant reached into his pocket, retrieving a cigar. He picked up the lantern to set the cigar end to its flame. "Every man has his limits. Apparently even you."

"Why do they keep fighting!" James suddenly shouted, spearing his shovel into fresh dirt so the handle stood upright at his side. "They can't win!"

Grant sucked a couple pulls on his cigar and blew out a haze of smoke before answering. "They think they're heroes. Most men do."

"They don't when they're dying on the field calling for their mothers." James squeezed his hand round the shovel handle. It hurt. He was probably going to get a splinter or two.

"You feel sorry for them. I feel the same."

"Sir?"

"When the battle's raging, I can watch my enemy mowed down by the thousand, even the ten thousand, and keep on fighting. But after, when he's weeping and bleeding, I only care to alleviate his sufferings as a friend."

The colonel with the legs blown to smithereens came back to James' mind, the hate in his eyes. He hadn't seen James as a friend. Grant's firm hand fell on James' shoulder.

"I've decided I don't need you tonight, Jim. Get some rest. When you wake, gather some men and go get me another headquarters."

"Captain West! We've found a house!"

James glanced up from atop his horse, his canteen to his lips. He finished taking a pull and shoved the cork back in as he surveyed the whitewashed manor house surrounded by grand oaks dripping with moss—a proper southern home of the upper echelon large enough to host a bevy of Union officers.

"Boys are clearing it out."

James snapped his attention to the lieutenant. "Clearing it out as usual?"

"Uh. Yes, sir."

James secured his canteen and dug his heels into his horse's sides. He heard the screaming before he reached the mansion's entrance. A soldier was wrestling with an elderly woman.

"Interlopers! Murderers! You have no right!"

The soldier shoved the woman to her knees. James leaped from his horse before it halted, grasping the solider and yanking him away. "Leave her!"

"But, sir—"

"Get inside."

"Yes, sir."

James leaned down to the crumpled woman, hand extended. Fury met his gaze but tears had gathered in the corners of the woman's eyes. Her purple silk and lace dress was a fine affair, though faded. So many of wealth had found themselves impoverished in war.

"You take our freedom," the woman growled, refusing James' hand as she pushed to a stand. "You take one of my sons. And now you take my home?" She fell into James, pummeling his chest with both fists.

James grasped her forearms, pushing her back and holding her at arm's length. He held on until she stopped hitting him and began to sob. "This is war," he spoke decisively. "This is what happens."

"Does that happen?" the woman yelled, jerking away from him and throwing her hands out towards her home. Crashing and breaking came from inside. Yes. The usual. He disapproved of it but he understood the temptation to take out your own experience of death and suffering on others.

James gently clasped the woman's arm to direct her to a white stone bench. He pushed her down so she sat. "Your home has been commandeered for the Union army. You'll be given time to collect what you wish and then you'll be transported somewhere safe."

The woman cackled as if James had said the funniest thing in the world. She stood, pushed him aside, and stumbled down the drive, cursing as she went. "May fire from heaven pour down upon you and consume every last bluebelly in that house!"

James watched her, debating if he should go after her. He decided against it and turned back to the mansion. From what he remembered under Father Thomas' tutelage, God wasn't in the habit of calling down fire on the righteous. Sounds of destruction continued to drift from the house. He heard Father Thomas' voice speak in his ear. Love your enemies. Do good to those who spitefully use you. Grant had said something along the same lines. Funny how a father and a general could say close to the same thing.

James marched into the house. The inside was spacious, all colored in red from the papered walls to the furniture to the rugs. Family heirlooms, porcelain, and portraits were being attacked with vengeance.

"Stop! That's an order!" James' shout halted the destruction and all eyes fell on him. "The next man that so much as drops a pin will be bucked and gagged." The eyes widened. James rarely doled out punishments. That was probably why pretty much all the men snapped to attention after his declaration. "Lieutenant Baker."

"Sir?" The lieutenant rushed up to him with hand raised to his hat in salute, though he licked his lips nervously.

"Get this mess cleaned up. I'm going to scout the perimeter."

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant whirled round. "You heard the captain! Fix this place up! Now!"

James relished the air rushing through his hair as he galloped through grass and tree. Digging the latrine last night had tired him to the point of exhaustion. He'd slept well, but he hadn't woken rested. His muscles still ached and the inner fire he'd managed to control threatened to burn up his chest.

James' hands tightened on the reins as more of Father's Thomas' gentle tones ran through his head: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. He tightened his jaw. "Doesn't that apply to Johnny Reb, father? You know what he wants to do? Put a bullet in my head!" There was right and there was wrong. And men ought to be stopped from the wrong whatever it took to do it.

James brought his horse to an abrupt stop, listening. Were those voices up ahead? He scanned a clump of trees nearby, then slowly dismounted. He led his horse to the edge where he wrapped his reins round a branch, then continued on alone. Perhaps it was the elderly woman's family? The house had seemed deserted except for her.

The voices grew clear as he drew near.

"How many soldiers?"

"Darn near 75,000."

"You have their locations?"

"Right here. Drew this here map myself."

"We'll prepare ambushes."

"You gonna run like you did yesterday?"

"Elias Tucker, if you hadn't been loyal all this time, I'd think you liked those Billy Yanks. You've worn that uniform too long."

Elias Tucker? The name rang a bell. James sidled up to a tree and peeked round. Two men. One in a Confederate uniform, the other Union blue.

"You tell old Alexander Baskin if he gets the hankerin' to test my loyalty he can come on down and get his own hands dirty. I'm Southern born and bred and I'll stay that way till the day I storm the gates of heaven."

James' breath stuck in his throat. The man in blue was a Confederate in sheep's clothing. He drew his concealed pistol from his coat and showed himself. "Get on your knees!"

"Elias!" the Confederate shrieked and turned tail. James got off a shot, but it went wide and struck a tree.

The snake in the Union uniform tried to run as well, but James was on him in the blink of an eye, throwing him to the ground and kneeing him hard in the back. The man groaned. James flipped him over then blinked in surprise. He'd seen this man before. He'd punched him. Outside a church where an abolition meeting was being held.

The fire in his belly raged to flames once more.

Author's Note: I thought those who've followed this fic (I'm so very thankful for each one of you) might be glad that I've taken a break from writing my original story to write at least four chapters of this fic! I know it's been a bit of a build but I want to show how James and Artie come to find they're the right partners for each other. They've got some baggage that will matter as they learn more about each other. All that said, by the end of the next four chapters, we'll be all set up for entering the Secret Service program. Then it's onto training, their first mission and all that fun steampunk-like, spy, Western fun we love.