The Rebel Yank

By Steven Ostrega

The Rebel Yank
gallops across the grand panorama of the American Civil War with all the rousing excitement of a full-out cavalry charge. Its June 1860, and young Paul Douglas finds his loyalties sharply divided as his country splits in two. He and his domineering father, his devoted sister, and his steadfast friends are thrust into a whirlwind of conflicting allegiances and divergent paths. Circumstances force Paul to make some hard decisions. Should he marry the enticing daughter of an iron ore magnate to bolster his familys fortunes, or should he declare his secret lifelong love for the beautiful daughter of a Chippewa healer? Should he stay North with his family and fiance and fight to keep the country united, or should he follow his conscience and support the Souths War for Independence? Pauls choices lead him on a kaleidoscopic odyssey through battlefields and bedrooms as he seeks his own separate peace in a nation torn apart by war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477294970

Steven Ostrega

Steven Ostrega’s The Rebel Yank breaks new ground by weaving together American Civil War lore and legend with the clash of forces that shaped American families and society of the time. His unforgettable main character, Paul Douglas, finds himself driven equally by Native American spirituality and Christian ethics, by loyalty to family and desire for personal freedom. Ostrega’s unique ability to carry his readers along by setting a character’s inner turmoil against the conflicts of society at large is also abundantly evident in his previous novel, The Last Martyr, a compelling story of the Apocalypse. Steven lives in a suburb of Chicago with his two children and Rhia, his beloved Golden Retriever. He is fascinated by all things historical, and he loves to tell a good fish story.

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© 2013 Steven Ostrega. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 1/10/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9495-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9496-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9497-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922572

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgment

The Rebel Yank North

South

The North Revisited

The South Revisited

About The Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to thank my parents for their constant support and love through all my years. I miss both of you beyond words. We will be together again. I want to thank my daughter Becky and my son Jim for all of their support and for Becky’s insightful critique. I would also like to thank my editor and dear friend Carol Schultz for her Herculean efforts to make sure this book is as historically correct as it is grammatically accurate. I would like to give special thanks to her husband and my lifelong friend Chuck Schultz for allowing me to monopolize so much of Carol’s time in bringing this book to print. And lastly, I would like to thank you, my faithful reader, for using some of your precious, finite time to read my work. I can never express in words what I feel in my heart.

Other Books by Steven Ostrega

The Last Martyr

THE REBEL YANK

NORTH

The insidious nature of the Beast is to corrupt the soul and defile the innocent. He has succeeded at both.

—Paul Douglas

July 1, 1863

In 1860, while the tendrils of the Beast were still far from the shores of the fledgling Nation, one of Her innocents was returning home. Paul Douglas, the son of a wealthy Chicago iron foundry baron, had just completed four years of study at an Eastern university and earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Chemistry. He was exceedingly proud of his accomplishment. He had not only mastered the difficult subject matter, but he had also coped well with the added pressure of avoiding being a failure in his father’s eyes.

Astride his three-year-old chestnut stallion, Spirit, he rode past the blackened wrought iron gate that guarded the entrance to the Douglas estate, an estate that was commanded by the iron will of Paul’s father, James Douglas. Paul loved his father, though they shared little in common other than blood. James was an aggressive and ruthless man in every aspect of his life, especially where his business was concerned. He was driven by the want of wealth and power, a man with a vision that one day his company, Douglas Iron Works, would become a financial empire with himself as its emperor. To this end, James closely observed the simmering caldron of dissent between the states, disagreements that threatened to boil over into civil war. The personal gain he would compile with such an event overwhelmed him with greed.

The government contracts that would be awarded to him for the purpose of supplying the war machine with its requirements of cannon and shot could make him virtually overnight the wealthiest man in the state.

The truly tragic part, though, was that Paul’s father had not always been this way. There was a time when he was a very different man, a warm and loving man, who possessed a childlike sense of humor that endeared him to everyone he met.

His transformation began when his wife, Amy, died giving their second child life. At that moment, two lives had ended; Amy was dead and James was completely deadened by grief. He withdrew from his family and friends and immersed his whole being into his business. Through the years, he carefully honed his adversarial business reputation to a razor’s edge.

But when darkness fell upon the estate, a different James Douglas surfaced. A spiritually broken, vindictive man could be heard crying bitterly throughout the empty hallways of the great house. Intermittently, thunderous shouts would erupt from the study, as he cursed Fate for stealing his one true love from him like a brigand in the night.

As Paul rounded a small bend in the road, he thought about how different his life would have been had his mother lived. How different all of their lives would have been.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely took notice as the great Douglas mansion suddenly materialized beyond the tree line. A moment later, he found himself within a stone’s throw of the front entrance.

Frank Smith trotted up to greet him as he arrived at the lower extremities of the stairway that led up to the mansion’s entrance. Frank was the caretaker and stable-hand at the estate.

Paul grinned and said, Hello, Frank. How are you?

Returning his smile, Frank answered, Master Paul, are you ever a sight for sore eyes. I’m very glad to see you back. This place needs a breath of fresh air from the likes of you.

Paul dismounted from Spirit and handed the reins to Frank. Well, now that I’m back for good, maybe we can get my father to enjoy life more.

Ah, if only we could, sir, Frank answered as he led Spirit toward the stable, where he would feed the horse and brush the burrs from his coat.

Paul stared up at the forbidding structure as he climbed the snakelike stone stairs that led to the massive entranceway. Grasping the highly polished brass doorknob, he pushed the intricately carved oak door inward. As he stepped into the house, the warmth and brightness of the mid-June afternoon was instantly replaced by the shadowy darkness of the house’s foyer. He became engulfed in the silence as years of memories whirled around him, leaving him with a strong sense of vertigo.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a scream. Paul’s attention was riveted to the top of the sweeping staircase. Silhouetted by the sunlight streaming through the stained glass window at the top of the stairs stood Maria, his baby sister. Even though Maria was sixteen years old, he could never quite accept the realization that she had gone and become a woman. In fact, James had become the butt of many good-natured jokes concerning her true paternity, because she was truly a vision to behold. Her long, silky, blond hair cascaded over her softly rounded shoulders and ended mid-thigh in a pool of gold. She had a creamy complexion that was nearly translucent, which formed a lovely frame for her infectious smile and crystal-blue eyes.

Maria had just completed her third year at the Montcliff Academy for Young Women. James thought it was for the best to send her to a boarding school, what with her mother dead and Paul away at school. He realized that he did not possess the time or the patience to deal with a spunky sixteen-year-old girl. James would let the nuns at Montcliff teach his daughter the social graces and manners that he did not have the time to teach her.

Maria’s eyes were alight as she swooped down the staircase. The sudden rush of wind caused her ankle-length dress to billow up. From the fourth stair, she took flight and leaped into Paul’s arms. She showered his face with kisses while he gently held her aloft.

As he lowered her to Earth, she said, It’s been so long since you’ve been home. Without you here this place has felt like a tomb. But now that you’re home to start working with father, the house will come alive again.

Paul, somewhat bewildered, replied, Who said anything about me working with father?

Maria believed that Paul was trying to play a cruel joke on her. She answered in an amused tone, That’s been the plan all along, silly. You finish school and then you start to work with Daddy. You’ve now finished school, so on Monday morning you are going to start working at the mill.

Paul replied in an unusually serious tone that caught Maria off guard. I’m not going to work at the mill on Monday or on any other day for that matter. I have dreams that do not include the mill or even this town.

Maria, near tears, listened quietly as Paul continued, Do you have any idea what is going on in this country?

I know what’s going on in this country, a deep voice bellowed from behind Paul.

Visibly startled, Paul turned to find his father standing in the open doorway. The timeliness of James’s return home from work was such that he was able to witness Paul’s brash proclamation.

James turned to his daughter. Maria, leave us alone. I want to speak to Paul in private.

Maria screeched her rebuttal. Daddy, please don’t ruin the celebration.

James’s reply was short and firm. Maria! Go!

With tears flowing, she rushed from the room. James and Paul stood alone in the gathering darkness of the hall. He gestured for Paul to go with him into his study, then closed the door behind them.

Speaking quietly and deliberately, James addressed his son. Paul, what’s this I heard? You’re not coming to work with me?

Paul responded in an unusually sharp, direct tone. Dad, you sent me to college to broaden my horizons—to allow me to see just a little of what the world has to offer. There is so much more out there for me to see that I can no longer close my eyes and be satisfied to go and spend my days at the mill, only to come home at night and pretend that the money makes the world alright. That kind of life is fine for you, Dad, but it’s not for me. I want more. I need to have a purpose to my life—something to stand up for, something to rally behind. The mill just isn’t enough.

James’s complexion reddened. You ungrateful little lout! I sent you to college for the sole purpose that you would obtain a degree in the Metallurgical Sciences. Then you and I could take this company far beyond its present limitations. You needed to learn about the new advances in metalworking and the new alloys so that the two of us could set this industry on its ear. I didn’t send you to school so that you could get this wanderlust and move on. Suddenly growing morose, he continued, Son, I want you here at home with me. When you were born, your mother and I had hoped that the company would someday be known as Douglas & Son. Please, Paul. I love you. Work with me.

At that moment, a tear coursed down James’s cheek. Paul stood stunned in front of his father. Since the time when Paul was a young child, his father had been hard and unyielding. Now Paul was faced with a man who was opening his heart, baring his soul, placing himself in an uncharacteristically vulnerable position. Paul unconsciously stepped forward and threw his arms around his father.

Dad, I have waited a very long time for you to tell me that you love me. Why now, as I plan to leave, do you finally express your feelings to me?

His father, pulling him even closer, pleaded desperately with him. Son, please reconsider leaving. I’ve lost too many years mourning the loss of your mother. I do not want to lose any more mourning the loss of you, too.

Paul loosened the stranglehold he had on his father and broke the tension of this overwhelmingly emotional experience. Dad, I’m going to go to the Lone Wolf Pub to see if any of the old gang is still around. I will promise you one thing, though. I will delay my departure until I have thoroughly evaluated your offer versus the plans that I intend for myself.

James nodded, realizing that any further attempt to convince his son to his way of thinking would, at the present time, jeopardize what small foothold he perceived he had achieved. He congratulated his son on graduating college. For the first time in their lives, he told Paul, I am truly proud of you, son.

James bowed his head and walked out of the room. Paul stood dumbfounded, but a glowing grin soon coursed across his face. He left the room and strode toward the front door. There he saw a sweet angel blocking his way. Only her icy stare belied what her fragile form had concealed. Maria’s eyes, welling up with what appeared to be the prelude to a flood of tears, flashed with fiery rage.

I thought that we were going to be a family again! she growled with a wounded hiss. But instead you’re running out there. Her trembling arm pointed to the horizon.

Paul responded with equal anger. Is this the sort of behavior they teach at Montcliff? Do they teach young ladies to listen in on private conversations? I bet your little ear was pressed so hard to the door that you were able to listen in on the termites’ conversations as they sat down at their dinner table!

Paul doubted whether Maria had even heard much of the last comment. She had bolted from the room in a torrent of tears and ascended the staircase two at a time. But Paul had continued firing this last volley in the event that she was not quite out of earshot. He was never one to let an argument rest without that one final, decisive blow.

Muttering that this was not the way he had envisioned his homecoming, he assured himself that after a brief cooling off period things would return to normal. That is, whatever the state of normalcy was in the Douglas household.

He left the house in silence and walked down the front steps. His riding boots, in concert with his spurs, sent a musical clicking sound resonating up the great ivy-covered walls of the mansion. But instead of proceeding to the stable, he turned to his right and began to walk down a finely manicured flagstone path that led away from the house. It coursed down until it reached the edge of the woods that ran along the western side of the house, a distance of about two hundred yards. A footpath continued from there down to a peaceful grotto lying next to a purling stream that ran through the wooded part of estate. It was here that Amy Douglas had chosen for her final resting place.

The edge of the woods designated the border between James’s world and Amy’s. James’s world was one of order, where everything had a purpose and needed to be kept in its proper place. The grass was evenly cut, the trees pruned to perfection. James’s world had an artificial aura surrounding it.

Amy’s world, on the other hand, was wild and free. She believed that everything that existed had a purpose, even if we didn’t comprehend one—from the deer that roam the forest, to the fallen tree, down to even the smallest seed blown free from its shackles atop the dandelion. Each one needed to be allowed to soar until the appointed time arrived when it, alone, must land to be reborn.

Though the day was bright and hot, the forest was steeped in shadows, and Paul noticed that the air here was much cooler and fresher than by the house. He continued down the path, where he saw three deer bound over a downed oak and melt silently into the thickening shadows. The forest was alive with activity. He had strolled another hundred yards when he heard the familiar sound of the stream lazily running its course over the rocks beneath it. It was here, some fifty yards from the grotto, that Paul had, only once, heard the voice.

A few months after Amy’s death, when Paul was six years old, he had ventured alone down to the grotto to be with his mother and to talk with her. His father strictly forbade this, because after a hard rain the stream could become a raging torrent, capable of sweeping unsuspecting little boys off to be with their mothers in heaven forever. Besides, black bear were still occasionally found roaming on the estate. Being eaten by a bear was no way for a little boy to go see his mother, either. But Paul was desperate to be close to her, and with James at the mill, no one was around to take him down to the grotto. So he would go by himself.

As he approached the grotto that day so long ago, he heard a soft, angelic voice call out his name.

He responded with a good-natured, Who’s there?

After waiting silently for several minutes and not hearing a reply, young Paul ran down the path to the grotto. When he arrived at the clearing, he spread apart the branches that sheltered the entrance. There he saw his mother sitting on the sarcophagus. She was dressed in dazzling white. Her face, soft and pale, seemed to have its own internal glow. Her smile lit up as he sat down beside her on the intricately designed marble vault, which was carved with Amy’s favorite scenes from the Bible.

She told him, I will always love you, and even though I can’t be there to hold you and kiss you goodnight, I’ll always be with you. If you ever need me, all you have to do is think of me and I’ll be there.

He was smiling up at her, just happy to be with his mama again, when he heard his father’s heavy footfalls coming down the path. Suddenly, the branches covering the entrance were sheared away as his father tore through them, his face red with rage. He strode across the clearing, grabbed Paul by the upper arm, and dragged him back up the path to the house—all the while screaming at Paul for disobeying him and coming down to the grotto alone. Paul was exasperated. Surely his father had seen his mother talking to him, but he acted as if he was alone. He was going to question his father—after all, he must have seen her—but he chose not to. Even at the young age of six, he had learned that there are times when it is best not to say anything and just take your punishment, whatever it may be. As they reached the house, however, at which time Paul figured his butt would soon be the color of his father’s face, he saw an amazing and completely unexpected sight. Instead of rage, Paul saw compassion and understanding in his father’s eyes.

James said, I am not going to punish you for what you did. I understand that you miss your mother terribly, and that’s a pain that time and not a father can heal. But I want to make it very clear, you are not to go to the grotto alone again. The next time, the punishment will be severe.

The small boy, still crying, hugged his father and gasped, I love you, Dad, and I promise that from now on I will listen to you in every way.

The memory of that episode flowed past Paul as he walked down the path to the grotto. As he came upon the bushes that hid the sarcophagus, he stood quietly for a moment. A warm, stinging tear caressed his cheek. It fell from his chin and plummeted silently onto the soft ferns that covered the forest floor. Paul pushed the branches aside and stepped into the clearing. There he saw his mother sitting on the marble lid, just as he had seen her those many years before. A small cry escaped his constricting throat as a rapidly forming lump threatened to block his breath. But unlike before, he knew that this vision was merely the exquisitely carved marble statue that James Douglas had commissioned the famous Italian artisan Antonio to create.

He had the statue carved a year before Amy’s death, just in time for her twenty-third birthday. The statue was intended to be the centerpiece of Amy’s intensely cared for botanical garden that was to ring the estate. The statue was an exact duplicate of her form—so perfect, in fact, that it made one believe this impostor would one day stand up and walk away. She had spent much of her last full summer of life posing for the artist. Her pose was very revealing, and Amy was extremely shy about her body. She was embarrassed to be seen like this by any man other than her husband. But James really wanted to bring out her sensuality and passion, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. So for four months she posed, with her left hand pulling up her dress and exposing her long, silky right leg. At the same time, her right hand angled downward and appeared to reach for something hidden, lying just out of view. Her back was arched slightly forward, with her long, full hair flowing over her shoulders and fanning out across her back. Her gown was sheer, revealing the naked goddess beneath. One breast was fully exposed, while the other was tantalizingly hidden. The detail of the statue—from the slender fingers with the long, manicured nails, down to the delicate curves of her sensuous form—was enough to make any man’s heart skip a beat.

It was with her face, though, that Antonio’s true talent became apparent. Her face, angelic in life, was captured to perfection in marble. Her high, exquisitely structured cheekbones and full, luscious lips, which parted into a sensually devious smile on the statue, were flawless. Her eyes, though, were by far her most endearing feature. Almond-shaped and large, they radiated tenderness and vulnerability, like the eyes of a doe. The artist had captured their shape and size, but it was impossible for him to capture what lay behind them. The sensitivity and unbiased love that she showed to every living creature was something that could only have been experienced in knowing her.

Amy’s closest living likeness was Maria. She displayed most of her mother’s traits, both in looks and personality. In fact, it was said by many that Amy transferred her life’s essence to Maria at the time of Maria’s birth, thus easing the pain of Amy’s death.

Paul believed that his mother’s death after childbirth was nothing more than an all too frequent tragedy of the times. He tried not to think of her unstoppable hemorrhaging and subsequent raging fever and infection. Instead, he comforted himself that her death had mercifully ended her suffering.

But her death had occurred more than a decade and a half ago. Another lifetime for a young man who was but a babe then. Paul stood staring at the sarcophagus and the statue that reposed by the edge of the stream. Then, with all the courage this lonely, scared little boy hidden in a man’s body could gather, he scuttled to the tomb, finally slumping to the ground next to the statue. Paul sat silently, looking at his mother’s face, caressing the lid of the tomb, listening to the stream murmur of quiet meadows and of a millennium of seasons past. Then subtly, like a whisper, a soft, cool breeze drifted through the clearing. Though the coolness was nothing more than a cold front vanquishing the stale, warm air, Paul would later swear that he heard his mother’s voice sweetly riding the winds.

He heard her say, Do not be troubled, my precious little one, for I am always with you.

Paul cried bitterly. This was the first time in a very long time that he had been able to release his pent up sorrow. He conversed with Amy as if she were there to answer his questions. And in a sense, she was.

He said, Mom, Dad told me that he loves me. But he also expects me to work at the foundry with him. Again he controls my life. He demands that I follow his wishes. But this time, I won’t do it. I have my own life to lead. I have my own dreams to live. He’s lived his life, and he has done with it as he chose. I intend to do the same.

He then spoke of his sister. I am also getting severe pressure from Maria. She depends on me to be always there for her. I know that because you were not physically with us, and because Dad was always at the mill and not home taking care of us, Maria looks upon me as her confidant, her big brother. I feel, though, that I’m chained by this suffocating sense of obligation to stay and work with Dad at the mill and never to leave Maria’s side again.

Paul sat dejectedly with his back to his mother’s statue. He felt physically and emotionally drained. The grotto had darkened while he wept, as the passing front had brought with it molasses-thick clouds. At his lowest moment, a ray of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds and beamed down streaks of gold. He looked up as the sunlight danced off the flowing stream. It shimmered off the marble face of the statue, … suddenly, the marble seemed alive. Then he heard that sweet voice again.

Oh, how you are like I was. You have the wanderlust, the free spirit that comes with unbridled youth. Your sister has your father’s steadfastness. She, like him, needs to be grounded, to have the knowledge that when they wake every day, they know exactly what to expect. No surprises, no mysteries. They need to feel that they are in control of the circumstances that surround them. As for you, my sweet child, the decision is yours to make, and you should not be intimidated or swayed by anything other than what is truly in your heart. You are greatly loved, and no matter what your decision will ultimately turn out to be, know that the love which surrounds you will not diminish.

He looked up into the luminous face of the statue and felt the love of his mother traverse the abyss between their worlds. Suddenly, the sun disappeared behind a cloudbank and the grotto was once again plunged into deep shadow. Though he was physically alone, Paul did not feel alone, for he felt a warmth about his heart, which moments ago was aching for love.

Paul sat a while longer until he became aware that it was almost dusk. Hurriedly he stood up, but before leaving the grotto, he hugged the statue of his mother. He couldn’t help but notice the unearthly warmth that seemed to emanate from it. He kissed its cheek and stepped carefully out of the grotto so he would not bruise any of the branches that jealously guarded the entrance.

When he reached the top of the path where the woods met the garden, he noticed that the first stars were appearing. Paul ran across the garden to the stable. He hoped that it would not be too late to ride to the Lone Wolf Pub. He hadn’t seen his friends for many months, and he was very anxious to catch up on the scuttlebutt. He was especially looking forward to seeing Sarah and Rachel again.

Because Spirit needed to rest after the long trip, Paul instructed Frank to saddle up his father’s favorite mare, Amaria, named for the two closest women in James’s life—Amy and Maria. Amaria was fifteen years old, mothered by Amy’s favorite mare, Whisper. Frank hesitantly complied, knowing that if anything were to happen to the mare, he would find himself both unemployed and homeless, because he would lose the small but comfortable cottage that had been built for the estate’s caretaker and his family. Frank saddled up Amaria and looked pleadingly to Paul not to let anything happen to her. Paul swung up onto the mare’s back. Then, reading the anguished concern on Frank’s face, he grinned as he slapped Amaria on the rump. This sent her rushing hell-bent out of the stable and down the lane leading toward town. Frank stood in the stable doorway shaking his head and running a hand through his thinning hair.

Once he was out of Frank’s sight, Paul slowed Amaria to a trot. He always enjoyed toying with Frank’s mind, but he wasn’t about to experience his father’s wrath if he should run Amaria hard enough to have her heart explode.

He rode the mare sensibly to the pub, a distance of about seven miles. He breathed in the refreshing coolness of the evening, with its mild, westerly wind blowing off the Great Plains. To Paul it seemed that the winds were alive and beckoning him to follow them. As he reflected on what had transpired over the past several hours, he could only imagine what kind of reaction he would receive when he informed his friends of his intentions.

When he was still a couple of miles from the pub, the dense forest relinquished its hold and gave way to a swaying sea of corn. The clear, starlit sky transformed to heavy overcast. On the western horizon, a long, arcing flash of lightning slashed through the dark. Amaria jolted nervously as Paul gently spurred her to quicken her pace. They both wanted to be safely sheltered when the approaching storm finally made its grand appearance.

As they rode up to the Lone Wolf Pub, Paul guided Amaria to the livery stable next door. He tipped the stable-boy an extra fifty-cent piece and instructed him to rub down Amaria and give her the freshest stall in the rear of the stable, away from the front doors and the brunt of the storm. Nodding in agreement, the boy led the horse away. Satisfied, Paul went on up to the pub.

He took hold of the cast bronze wolf’s head doorknob, and with a fluid turn, he pushed open the door. Stepping across the threshold, he closely surveyed the large crowd scattered about the bar and assorted tables. Not seeing anyone he recognized, Paul milled about the room and checked the tables further in the back—the ones not able to be seen from the entrance. No one. Paul couldn’t believe it. He had sent a letter weeks ago to John, his closest friend, to tell him that he would be home today. John’s reply was for Paul to come to the Lone Wolf Pub at eight o’clock on Friday night. This Friday night.

It’s now almost ten o’clock, Paul thought. I can’t imagine that no one would wait, especially John.

But here he was, alone among strangers. Suddenly, above the din of the crowd, a shattering thunder blast split the air and a deafening crash shook the floorboards of the pub. Paul’s enthusiasm wavered. Not only did his friends not wait for him, but he now had two choices: leave and go back home through what was going to be the worst storm of the summer thus far, or stay with a bunch of strangers and wait the storm out until morning. He decided to have one more look around, just to make sure. If he couldn’t find them, maybe they would see him.

Paul moved deeper into the pub and maneuvered around the tables near the bar. The group sitting on the left consisted mainly of iron-mill workers, spending their week’s meager wages on liquid solace and trying to convince themselves that they were truly in command of their lives. On the right were several political figures, councilmen who regularly met in this out-of-the-way spot in order to burrow their way below the watchful eyes of their constituency. The worst thing for them would be to have some no good do-gooder squawk in the public forum about their vices. The middle tables were made up of various combinations of men and women discussing certain services and the prices of said services. Paul did not recognize any of these people, nor did he care to.

He turned his attention to the bar, where sat more iron-works employees not allowed in the former group, a few local farmers, and a couple of soldiers in clean, blue uniforms and apparently on leave. Paul continued moving down the bar, closer to the back of the pub. As he walked past the second soldier, their eyes met. The look he gave Paul caused his heart to drop into his stomach. Paul reversed his direction, but not fast enough. The second soldier nudged his accomplice, and moving as quickly and smoothly as cougars, they sprang from their barstools. Before Paul could react, they had both of his arms twisted behind his back. As his fingers touched each other, Paul let out a cry of pain and surprise, but with all of the noise and merriment around him, his plight went unnoticed. Besides, these were soldiers, and everyone assumed that they had a good enough reason to harass him.

The two soldiers rushed Paul into the back room before some drunken, brave soul might decide to become a hero and get involved in matters that didn’t concern him. Paul’s face was tomato-red with rage and speckled with droplets of nervous sweat. He dug his heels into the floor, but to no avail. The men pushed him roughly through the door that led into three medium-sized rooms, which usually served as the living quarters for the owner and his family.

Once they were inside, a third soldier kicked the door shut. Paul was released and shoved into the center of the room. He spun around, looking to punch the nearest soldier and hoping to do as much damage as possible before the other two could react. But instead of having to administer a lightning-quick attack, Paul watched as all three soldiers doubled up with laughter. Only then did he recognize two of the soldiers not as adversaries but as his friends John and Zach.

Paul cursed them out. Damn you two. What the hell are you trying to do? Break my arms?

But all this outburst did was to send his two friends into new convulsions of laughter. Eventually, they regained control and hugged Paul.

John sputtered, If you could have seen your face. You were so scared, you were about to shit gold doubloons.

Paul shot back, You worthless piece of crap. You’re just lucky that I recognized you when I did. I would’ve hit you so hard, both of your eyes would’ve ended up in the same socket.

They all burst into renewed fits of laughter. At that moment, Paul was taken aback by their army uniforms and the full beards that both of them were sporting.

He asked, Hey, John! What’s with the costume? Is this some kind of joke, or are you two just trying to catch some vixen’s eye with the ole ‘man in a uniform’ ploy?

John told him, It’s no joke. We really are in the army. We joined five months ago. Oh, I almost forgot. Paul, this mountain of a man here is my commanding officer, Lieutenant Michael O’Malley.

Paul shook O’Malley’s hand and said to John, It seems a lot has changed since I was last home.

John grinned. Yep, Zach and I joined as privates, but now I’m a Master Sergeant and he’s a Private First Class. See, it pays to volunteer early.

This turn of events came as no surprise to Paul. After all, John was always the aggressive one in the group. He pushed himself and everyone around him to the limits.

Zach was more content to take life at a slow, quiet pace and go as far as his relaxed attitude would take him. This usually led to stagnation in most aspects of his life. But he was happy, and that’s what mattered most to him.

As far as the beards were concerned, John explained, It’s the thing to do if you’re young and gunning for a promotion. Nobody wants to have a baby-face leading them, especially the older, more experienced soldiers in the company who are dead-asses and were never, nor will they ever be, promoted. The full beards give the perception of age and experience, and in a leadership role, perception is everything. If they think you’re good, even if in reality you’re not, they will follow you. And if you really are a good leader, but you’re not perceived as such, you won’t even be able to lead a waltz!

Paul couldn’t contain himself any longer. Why are you two buffoons in the army anyway?

At the mention of the word buffoons, Paul and Zach broke into uproarious laughter.

Abruptly, John looked at Paul with the same stone-cold stare that when they were younger used to send chills down his spine. You know what’s going on in this country, Paul. It’s a smoldering powder keg. And when it finally blows, we’re all going to be metamorphosed by it. I’m just choosing my own course of change, instead of having the time and manner by which I’m changed chosen for me. When I told Zach about my decision, he agreed and decided to join with me. Besides, since we joined early, before anything really happened, there’s a good chance I— well, we—can get promoted quickly above the common soldier. Then we can get a few extra privileges now and the money and position later, after the war’s over. Anyway, you’re treated better when you join up. You won’t have the same choices available if there’s ever a draft. Besides, if there ever is a war, it’ll be over so fast you won’t have time to join.

Paul stood dumbfounded. He believed that in the end there would be no war. Somehow it would all be worked out diplomatically. That was the way our forefathers had written the Constitution. You differ among yourselves, but you always maintain a united front.

John McLeisch, on the other hand, was a young man driven by money and power. In fact, his mentor was James Douglas. He faulted James in one aspect, though. James wasted the best years of his life before he finally realized what’s really important. Since the other members of the group were more conservative with their approach to life, there was an underlying resentment at times towards John for the unnecessary tension he caused among the group by what he termed friendly competition. John was strikingly handsome with an athletically muscular body. With his square-set jawline and his medium-length hair, he reminded one of the Greek figure Perseus. As desirable to women as John’s outward appearance was, there was one flaw in his personality that was his consistent downfall. He had a constant need to be the best at everything in every situation. The need to dominate the less driven of the group regardless of the feelings or needs of those around him was paramount. He used to refer to this as simply, Character development for the masses. The masses in this case were their small group of friends. But if a man could accept this quirk in John’s personality and look beneath the façade, he would find a highly intelligent, warmhearted young man with a slightly twisted sense of humor that made him well liked.

Zachary Adamson had his nickname Leech for most of his young life. He owed his name to John’s aforementioned sense of humor, though at the time his nickname was first pronounced, it was uttered out of sheer frustration.

The story behind Zach’s nickname demonstrated the peaceful nature of his personality. Paul, John, Zach, and their neighbor, Matthew Mazur, went fishing on Zach’s father’s flat-bottomed johnboat in July 1850. They spent a good portion of the early morning first push-poling and then rowing to their favorite spot on the Illinois River. There the four of them planned to fish the day away before rowing back in the early evening.

At the time of this little expedition, Paul and John were eleven, Zach was ten, and Matt was eight. Matt idolized Paul, and since Paul was fishing with worms, Matt naturally followed suit. John and Zach were fishing with leeches. There was a wide variety of fish in the river, but the boys were fishing for anything that would bite, even if it turned out to be a wayward turtle.

By noon the day had heated up to ninety degrees as the sun reached its zenith. Paul and Matt were having relative success using the worms; they had caught two medium-sized catfish and a few small walleyes. Matt had hooked into a large bass, but it had broken his line. John and Zach were skunked up to this point. Disgustedly, John also switched to fishing with worms.

Thirty minutes later, he hooked into a very large gar, which began pulling the boat—along with the four boys—downriver. After nearly a half-mile, the boat grounded on a mid-river shoal. John continued to fight the fish, finally bringing it close enough to the boat for Paul and Zach to gaff the huge creature and drag it into the boat. That was a nearly fatal mistake. The fish had not taken too kindly to having a gaping hole punctured through its armor-plated body, not to mention a large hook embedded in its bony jaw. As it thrashed about the bottom of the boat, the demon-fish furiously knocked sideboards loose and sent the boys scurrying to the relative safety of standing on top of their seats. With a maniacal look in its eyes and with its gaping maw lined with needle-sharp teeth, the gar signaled its desire to take a chunk out of one of its little tormentors’ pink legs. Eventually, the fish tired enough for Paul and John to catapult it overboard. The boys witnessed the beast’s final act of defiance and victory, as it ate the fish that Paul and Matt had caught earlier and had hung on a stringer over the side of the boat. Satisfied, the gar swam back to the depths of the river.

The boys rocked the boat until they finally dislodged it from the sandbar. They rowed back upriver to their original fishing spot. By three o’clock, they were all set to start fishing again and re-catch the dinner that was so unceremoniously devoured just an hour before. With all four of them using worms, they quickly ran out of bait without catching another fish. The only alternative was to go back to using the leeches, which had proved effective in the past when used during this time of day.

John and Paul sat on the middle seat, where they each manned an oar. John instructed Zach, Get the can of leeches from under your seat and put it in the middle of the boat, so everyone can reach them.

Zach reached under his seat only to find that during the excitement with the gar, he had accidentally spilled the leeches across the bottom of the boat. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem. Just refill the can with water and pick up the leeches. But this day, with the temperature hovering in the nineties, the water from the can and the leeches that it had once contained had dried up on the bottom of the boat.

John, wondering about the delay, shouted, Zach, will you bring out the leeches?

Zach leaned down and, with a shaking hand, picked up one of the dried leeches and showed it to his three pals. It wasn’t my fault, he insisted. If John would have cut the line, we wouldn’t have had that thing in the boat and none of this would have happened.

John realized that this fishing day was over and that they somehow had to get back upriver in an unstable boat. He lashed out at Zach. Well, if nothing else, at least Paul and I can still fish. We’ll each just use one of the two leeches that are mating on your forehead.

John was referring to the curious way Zach’s eyebrows met between his eyes. This gave the appearance of two leeches mating tail to tail with their bodies extending in opposite directions over his eyes.

Paul roared with laughter, while John sat scowling. Zach just sat there, bewildered, shrugging his shoulders and wrinkling his forehead. This caused his eyebrows to gyrate, actually giving them the appearance of two leeches in love. The sight made Paul laugh to the point of tears. Soon they were all laughing, including Matt, who at eight years old had no idea what mating even meant.

When they had all calmed down, they decided that their fishing was over. More importantly, they had a long trip back to the dock in a boat that was leaking slightly from the loosened boards. So they knew they had better get started back home. Paul and John each manned an oar and began to row upstream. Matt and Zach (whose nickname had now forever changed to Leech) stayed at the back of the boat. Going against the current was tough. The harder the two boys rowed, the less progress they seemed to be making.

The sun was hanging just above the tree line when Paul suggested, We should all tie ourselves together. If one of us falls overboard, we’ll never find him in the dark. He’d just get pulled under by the current.

They all agreed. After untying the rope from the flat rock that served as their anchor, they knotted the rope around their waists and then started to row again. The constant stress the oars applied to the already weakened sideboards caused the rusty, square-head nails to pop loose. The boards began to separate, allowing trickles of water to stream into the boat.

Almost an hour had passed when Matt said, Hey, the bottom of the boat is getting awfully wet.

Nearly two inches of water sloshed across the floorboards. Paul suddenly noticed the low, creaking sound of the weakened