A Strong Brotherhood in Blood

By Brian L.J. Keator Sr.

A Strong Brotherhood in Blood is a highly historically based fiction novel, commencing with one rural, nineteenth century familys experiences before centrally focusing upon a tight-knit pack of adolescent classmates.

Like many mid-nineteenth century Americans, Taylor, Zachary, and Austin Strong, believe that it will be a swift, thirty-day war, with glory, adventure, and personal prestige going solely to those who swiftly enlist. With an older brother attending West Point, the younger Strong boys are swept with patriotism and commence upon a plan to get their entire and largely underage band in on the adventure.

A natural born leader and icon, Taylor Strong instinctively takes charge of the plan and succeeds in mustering in the entire pack of boyhood classmates. Zachary Strong quickly and romantically notifies the town sweetheart of his departure, but Rebeccas heart has been forever fixed on Taylor.

Despite the warnings and cautions from their eldest and battle-tested brother, Adam, and the undoubted knowledge of close cousins in gray, Zachary and Taylor Strong are resolute to their scheme to fight against the Southern Rebellion.

Through disparity, disease, privation, warfare, and unrest, the strength and endurance of human bonds are severely tested. A Strong Brotherhood in Blood is extensively researched and based upon numerous, primary documents written by the common men who were there, and is a timeless story of psychological change, evolution, survival, and the perseverance of the human spirit.

A Strong Brotherhood in Blood is the first book in a series set, including both a sequel and an innovative Confederate crossover novel that will satisfy both the novice as well as the professional historian.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503522282

Brian L.J. Keator Sr.

Brian L.J. Keator Sr. is an education specialist with a Bachelors degree with honors from Binghamton University with a specialization in 18th and 19th Century military history and warfare, including a premiere emphasis upon The American Civil War. His extensive and unrelenting research of more than thirty years consists of not only the campaigns, events, politics and personalities of the era, but the social history, etiquette and social composition of armies, as well as a deliberate understanding of the strategy and tactics throughout the linear age.

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Copyright © 2014 by Brian L.J. Keator Sr.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014921424

ISBN:      Hardcover     978-1-5035-2227-5

                 Softcover      978-1-5035-2229-9

                 eBook           978-1-5035-2228-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/09/2014

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CONTENTS

I. One Family’s History

II. Early Days

III. Town

IV. Holiday

V. Responsibility

VI. The Design

VII. Camp Curtin Training Camp

VIII. Holiday

IX. The Peninsula

Dedication

TO

Melody Charmaine

For inspiring me upon the initial idea of a work beyond non-fiction, and her endless encouragement, support, sacrifice, constant inspiration and reassurances of hope while writing this and throughout this long process; for this I am eternally grateful

And

To the honorable men of both armies of the war whom are not forgotten

For

Without both of these resources the creation of this book would have not been possible

‘it is the hungry soldier, dividing mere morsels with a hungrier comrade,

the ridding of life from one’s troubled person, before he evens the debt;

the nursing and care when saddened or ill, the binding of each other’s wounds,

or the lending of courage from a brave heart, to another in need. It is these

things that make the tightest bonds, of loyalty above all others; it makes

comrades something more dear, it makes them bloodied brothers.’

I. ONE FAMILY’S HISTORY

New Milford, Pennsylvania

1916

T he pouring rain fell in ruthless moving sheets. The violent, wind-driven waves crashing in near perfect interval, across every rock, every tree, every target. Its incessant strength nearly pastes the sides of the flattened, black, wide-brimmed hat, to the cheeks of the disgruntled man beneath it. A steady stream runs down his long nose, as well as from the sagging brim above it. He uncomfortably readjusts in the saddle, pushing on the portly horse’s neck; as ice-cold water fervently seeps from between his numbing fin gers.

The rider shudders as another bone-deep chill races through his aching body; while similar rivers cascade down the face of the short tromping sorrel beneath him. Both counterparts, fully alienated and soaked through, peer anxiously for any form of shelter with rain-assaulted eyes. With a groan he awkwardly halts the heavily leaden mount, before removing his steamed glasses and pointlessly wiping them with a drenched handkerchief. Scrunching and squinting, exposing nearly all of his teeth to the elements, he peers through the seemingly impregnable wall of rain. Aggressively he replaces the unclear specs, agitated all the more; and dwells upon his arrival at the train station many hours before. A rising anger is quickly transferred into a violent kick; as his nasally voice irately quips,

"Cursed, stupid creatures! Have not been on the back of a hairy mammal since I was six! In a freak-filled circus where these beasts belong! Transportation of the dark ages! And yet some even name such creatures as if their very own! Armstrong… snort!" Armstrong merely slogs on, through the deep, dark, dancing puddles of the rocky road,

No taxis or trolleys, not a coal-box buggy to a carry-all to lease, and they call themselves a livery; they call that a town! Moaning in remorse he heatedly recalls, stepping off the rail car and onto the creaky wooden platform. He had glanced to the dim, gathering clouds and rolling of thunder, and thought ‘This figures on such a wretched assignment.’ before dismissing it as a minor nuisance. Brilliant Win; brilliant! For a mere second, a bright flash of lightening illuminates the landscape, before instantly returning to pitch. He evokes his storming through the travelers while searching for the station office, where his angst unreservedly peaked,

Withered old fool with his ridiculous visor and arm garters; face wrinkled like worn cow-hide! Tibbets I think the sod called himself; standing there at sea while I awaited assistance! His weary eyes close as he tries to convince himself that his misery will soon reach an end; his destination found, and that he was not as cold or soaked as he felt. Another passing curtain splashes across his shivering back,

"You need something Mister? he nastily imitates, Me! Winfield Emerson, renowned journalist for the Philadelphia Enquirer; a mister! And forced to procure my own transportation rather than having their people in wait! Paltry little shack town; New York, Baltimore, Harrisburg to Kaatarskill, they’d be rushing their people to gain my every need! And that livery! Only carriages rented; no shortage of worthless old drunks though! That sickly, filthy one-legged fellow on the stool was of no help; and that foolish kepi must have been seventy years old. If it were not for that lad Sailor, or whatever he slurred, I would be there growing moss still! Black John Pershing; there’s a man going places, perhaps even the Whitehouse. Yes, he will at least be seizing a major role in the European affair; that’s the type of story a man of my caliber should be researching, not some backwoods hillbilly running for senate." Another fleeting flash exposes a gate, of a long post and rail fence. With his spirit slightly lifted, he wipes more water from his face, and violently spurs his exhausted companion through the brutal rain. The gate creaks loudly as it swings minimally in the wind; as Emerson ineptly guides his skittish mount in. As they trek up the rising path, another deafening clap of thunder fells Emerson with a splash,

Son of a bitch! he yelps rising from the mud; hastily attempting to clean his spectacles with the now filthier rag. With growing panic he searches for the mount, before spying him near, ‘Not even a cottage nor shed here; let alone any ranch!’ Damn all to blazes! he bellows again, Not a cursed soul living or dead in sight… mag-nificent! Well, what damn fool would be out on such a miserable night; even in this Godforsaken burg? He ferociously seizes up the reigns, before clumsily remounting,

Wired these people I was coming, do they send someone to greet me or guide me? No! Promised supper and lodgings for the night… Hell, any town would do that, and it wouldn’t consist of quartering with chickens! Lightening now exposes the silhouette of a house, still a number of ridges away. Muttering and cursing all the while, Emerson heavy-hands the weary mount, before reaching the wide, white steps of the most-attractive home. He stiffly and inelegantly dismounts; before stomping past the porch swing and towards the large door. As Emerson is instantly relieved from the heavy, stinging downpour, Armstrong is left to fend for himself. He instantly notes the front door window; skillfully shaped in an exquisite oval fashion and of multi-colored glass. The warm illumination of flickering candles, adorns every window on the face of the dwelling. With three hard knocks, he examines the fine home; shivering and snorting,

At least some exhibited effort to resemble nominal civilization, in this one-horse hog bottom. Increasingly annoyed, he again pounds the door, only to the same outcome. Nearly on the brink of literal tantrum, he removes a small pocketknife from his pebble-filled pocket, and impatiently raps upon the stained glass. As the door instantly opens, a thin boy in his teens, very nearly receives a crack to the forehead,

Pardon me sir, I… The quiet friendly voice is cut off sharply,

My God man, don’t you people believe in answering the door?

I’m sorry sir, I am-

I am Winfield S. Emerson. I have been trying to locate the home of one Thomas S. Strong, rumored to be living somewhere here in this uninhabitable wilderness. Now please be of use, for this is official business and I am surely now pressed for my train out of this bog.

Well yes sir… the boy stammers, I’m Strong, I mean… well, Nicholas Strong Sir; Thomas would be my cousin, but I’m feared he won’t be home for hours yet. He’s been right busy of late, running for state senate and working his law practice; while building his new home off the Salt-Lick.

Well in that case young man are you going to let me in and take these wretched coverings, or are we to continue the evening here in your entranceway? As he is graciously gestured inside, Emerson slaps the sop pen hat against boy’s chest, while immediately spying a large room to the right, and its historic fireplace. Beneath the crackling flame spans a spacious cherry floor, and evenly spaced candle fixtures line each wall. A number of mounted antlers and game are highlighted by the glittering flames. With another vain snort, Emerson sheds his drenched coats; pelting the boy with the garments one by one. Suddenly a feeble yet shrill voice cries out,

Nicholas! Who’s there? Is that Thomas? Thomas I need to speak with you right away! Nicholas! Bring Thomas to me! Stacked to the chin with waterlogged coverings, the boy weakly shouts,

No Sir, it’s not Thomas! It’s the paper man from the letter!

Paper man! Emerson mutters, as the lad awkwardly scurries, I have come a very long way young man, am cold and very wet; is that fire for use or is it to look at from afar? Nicholas looks back with visible embarrassment, eagerly motioning with his nose,

Oh no sir… I mean yes sir; go right in and make yourself home. Only as Emerson enters the room, does he realize its gigantic proportions. Nearing the fire step, he begins to feel the very first sensations of heat, breaking through his stiffened, frigid hands. He struggles to investigate more of his surroundings, but his opaque spectacles have him virtually blind. He lifts out his mucky, saturated hanker-chief, before realizing the futility of the endeavor; and noticing a nearby over-cloth, slowly inches near. Peering about cautiously, he swiftly cleanses the lenses, before readjusting the adorned tablecloth.

Jist a moment sir! Emerson nervously jumps at the sound of the voice, and hurries back to the fireplace. With his vision now restored, he spies a solid oak table, and a host of fine padded chairs. In the left corner, a tattered and outdated Stars and Stripes hangs, while opposite a decrepit Texas flag does the same. Emerson puffs, ‘What is this; prize local candidate from a prominent and native Pennsylvania family; or a mid-stop watering hole on the range-trail?’

I am sorry sir… didn’t mean to keep you waiting… the teen anxiously calls; his hands still filled, but now with a more welcome load. He sets down the large steaming cup, while balancing a woolen blanket and some dry folded clothes,

I reckon… I mean I believe these should fit you well enough mister; they’re near about your size.

First of all stop referring me as merely mister; I am Mister Emerson, and secondly, surely you do not expect me to conduct an interview wearing the man’s very own clothing do you?

Oh no sir Nicholas replies, These are my uncle’s fallow clothes, and well, he’s not here anymore. Contemplating the well conditioned but outdated dry clothing, versus his expensive, waterlogged ones, Emerson seizes the stack reluctantly; still inspecting them closely. On the inside collar of the shirt and the vest, he sees a finely embroidered Z.T.S.

Well that’s all very interesting, but do you expect me to change here or is there a room I may use.

Yes sir, we have a room for you surely, but it’s a spell about the house, and well sir, my mother is poorly, but not poor enough to skip a whoopin’ on me for spreading water on her finished floors. You may change your effects here by the fire, ain’t no one to disturb you; and I could hoist this blanket for you fore I take in your things. Nicholas swiftly pulls the blanket taunt to afford him more privacy; while turning his back and waiting rather jauntily. The crotchety journalist moans,

As I don’t care to contract pneumonia, I see I have no choice! As Emerson redresses, he stares in disgust at his clearly ruined suit; Nicholas now attempting to drape the blanket around his shoulders,

That will do boy! he snaps seizing the blanket, while suspiciously examining the cup. Nicholas gathers the bulky armload,

I hope you’re comfortable; drink your coffee and then…

Delighted! Emerson sneers, I shouldn’t suppose there would be tea, as I am not much of a coffee man? Instantly he grabs at the wet, passing clothing; rifling out a soggy notebook, his watch, wallet and keys. He then removes an encased set of spectacles, and then most earnestly, a silver cigarette case. Water streams from case’s corner like a spout, as he disgustedly caresses his temples,

And might you see to that creature outside after you bring me my cases; and mind yourself coming! I do not expect to find them dropped or mishandled. Emerson’s eyelids flutter as he vigorously rubs, a snore might even escape; before he instantly startles. He shrieks aloud as he opens his eyes to an old, half-grinning, half-crippled man. With enormous arms for a man his age, he powers himself from door to chair, to table and so on, dragging his near useless and misshapen legs. Beneath his unsightly, off-white mussed hair and incredibly unkempt muttonchops, his friendly grin does nothing to alleviate Emerson’s complete alarm.

Taylor! Taylor? the old man squawks, tilting his head, and peering coldly with moist and heavy eyes. They appear on the verge of wholly cascading down the leathery and desert-like cheeks. Emerson jumps nervously, dropping the blanket to the floor,

Mist… Mister Strong I presume? The old man’s face now softens and his light smile fades away; his eyes still filled and full of confusion, yet refusing to give way,

You’re not Taylor… you’re not Taylor are you? Utterly baffled, Emerson awkwardly fumbles with both his spectacles and composure,

I AM WINFIELD S. EMERSON OF THE ENQUIRER! he shouts tensely, as if warding off an entity with a powerful spell.

You’re not Taylor. the old man repeats self-convincingly, I am truly sorry. He apologizes most sincerely, as if having horribly wronged, a dear and lifelong friend, I was mistaken… an error, forgive me; I know where I am now. As Nicholas rushes in, a loud, heavy crash jars the ceiling from above.

Father… Nicolas pleads, …you know you’re not supposed to rise without one of us with you. Frantic stumbling clamors atop of the obscured staircase, before reckless descending is heard,

What the Hell’s the ruckus down there? another aged voice cries, Thomas! Nicholas! Where are you! It’s the middle of the Goddamn night! Nicholas hastens towards the voice with Emerson nervously following; rather than remain with the ancient, twisted man’s eerie stare. Half way up the elaborately detailed and hand-carved polished staircase, slumps another old man with a dusty black eye patch, and a long dilapidated nightshirt. He leans against the spacious wall and sports the same untidy side burns; and with his knotty crooked hands, unsteadily clutches the railing, and a shotgun. ‘What have you gotten yourself into Winnie boy? It’s that damned Ferguson son of a whore! He’s always sought me out! Can’t keep up with real journalism; this is his snipe-chase to get me out of the light!’ His attention instantly returns to the unfolding crisis at hand, but Nicholas has already reached the disoriented man. With seeming experience and an outstretched hand, the youth merely smiles and gently guides the man,

It’s okay Uncle Adam, it’s alright; it’s just Mr. Emerson here…

Emerson! Emerson? The aged man quips; his sole eye roaming wildly.

The man who wired us his coming… for Cousin Thomas I mean. Nicholas kindly eases the man back, while carefully balancing the shotgun. It becomes instantly evident that the man’s right leg is far shorter than his left. While looking as though he would never dare take the weapon, Nicholas merely keeps on aiding the man. As they reach the top, the boy patiently waits, until the elderly man reluctantly concedes; and shakily replaces the gun to its cabinet, before painstakingly descending. As the teen eases him into a padded chair, Emerson’s jaw hangs gracelessly open,

‘What order could arise from this asylum? Is this the future senator’s family or an old folks’ home for the criminally insane?’ Nicholas impetuously scampers near with an expression of gauche,

I apologize Sir, that’s my Uncle Adam, he’s going to be eighty-four… well, I hope; his health has been to poorin’ of late, but he’s a true American hero! You mought do a story on him too!

Yes, I am sure. Emerson sarcastically remarks; as Nicholas now aids the first twisted man into an adjacent chair,

This is my father Tot, er… Scott Strong, but my uncle there is a gallant hero from the war with Mexico! Scott chuckles, pointing a finger,

Mexico! Yes… now there’s a story; and Santy Annie’s second licking at ourn hand! And that man right there was side by side with ourn kin and Captain Longstreet as they all charged in! The one-eyed man visibly ponders, reflecting on a time long past,

Mister Strong! Emerson pleads, I am a factual correspondent, my columns include articles such as current world events, politics Mr. Strong; business transactions, railroads, deeds, subjects based on fact. Not fabricated anecdotes of days gone by. We will be experiencing a genuinely great war, and a new age of inventiveness and evolution. It is 1916 and we are on the doorstep of unimaginable technology and change Mr. Strong; and unlike many puffs in Congress, I believe we will enter and persevere through the momentous struggle in Europe. We shall take our rightful place atop the world stage; and those Mr. Strong, are the things that people want to know about… prosperity and progress; not the past and tall tales of…

Tales! Tall tales! Adam shrieks pointing, I’ll tell you mister, the past’s history is what makes us who we are, and shapes what we’re bound to be; and no progress is worth forgettin’ how we got here or what is was for those who gave all nature for it! If you want a story on Thomas and who he is, you need to quiet yourself and take from the people who know where he came from! Emerson blinks, lost for words at the old man’s sudden awareness and precision. Adam waves a warped finger; his murky eye alive,

Now drink your coffee and pay heed; Nicholas! Get to tending the man’s baggage and mount! Now my grandfather, Harry Benson Strong was born in 1755, here in Connecticut! He served in the first war agin the King, under Gates and Washington he-self. After Yorktown, he settled in peaceful with a bride and started our family business with a long line of subduing forests. In ‘07 he had his first child Jacob my pa, while piking Strong Turnpike, and in ‘16 my uncle Joshua; my Aunt Sarah year next. Emerson sighs impatiently, As the mill thrived and grew, so did the boys and by 1828 both were married and starting families of their own. Sarah would move to the old state of Franklin; and later Uncle Joshua to Winchester, where the Strong Timber name was greatly expanded. In November, my beloved mother Ellie Marie, God bless her soul, gave birth to their first child Winona May; known to us as ‘Winnie’, and years later to myself in ‘32. But when I was four, they lost a child; would be six more years afore our little brother Andrew Jackson, known to us as A.J. was born. Regrettably my mother did not survive and Father melancholied, and became increasingly dependent on a Georgian named Cardine who’d become the chief…

Mr. Strong… Emerson interrupts, fretfully reexamining his cigarette case, …I understand the importance and pride in which you feel on such a subject, but I fail to see any… Adam snaps candidly,

Well if’n you hold that tongue down one hay-minute, you might be able to keep up and identify! Clearly agitated, Adam pulls out a deer-antler pipe and a small bag of tobacco; then leans forward, offering his surly guest a smoke. Hesitantly Emerson takes the pipe from the scarred, crooked fingers, visibly disturbed at the thought of using dismembered animal parts to ease his gnawing cravings. Adam chuckles at his tentative grasp, scratching beneath the eye-patch,

Don’t be afraid to hold onto that Mister… it ain’t bit no one in years! In ‘43 Jacob remarried a marvelous woman by the name of Melody Anne Margaret, or Megan as she was known. Initially wed for his desperate need of a mother, Pa would fall in love with her, and she with all of us as her very own. Emerson, now engaged in his newfound method of smoking, exhibits more patience, yet still blindly stares.

She took us as if we were blood, but longed to provide Jacob with a son herself. Her dreams were dashed when a child died after birth, and utterly distraught, they resumed their lives as they could. They was to suffer the same fate year next; her womanly pride hurt and her faith in being able to match Ellie’s feats in doubt, she became increasingly silent, though always smiling us from her pain. Her vigilance and prayer was rewarded though, with the birth of Taylor Thomas on January 13th, and again on December 14th with Zachary Tyler; both in ‘45! It was to my fathers greatest delight and near daily boast, that no other woman, no other mans’ wife, could even her feat of two strapping sons in the very same year! Apparently tiring himself with enthusiasm, Adam rests back, slowly closing the eye. Seizing on Adam’s fatigue, the boy’s father breaks his silence,

Winnie’d promise herself to a David O’Hara fella’, who in ‘46 left with Pa, Uncle Joshua and Mr. Travis Parker, my daddy’s foremost fellow; for the war with Mexico to do their share. To Mother’s greatest sorrow, my brother Adam there, wasn’t the sort to be left with the boilers. He said his good-byes to a weeping Nellie Parker, the town beauty and sweetheart, to whom he was to wed; her suffering was great, bein’ she was Travis’ daughter. Pa was receptive to the idea of three Strongs’ fightin’ side-by-side insuperably; always promising that it’d surely be the adventure of their lives. Nicholas noisily stumbles back into the room, sodden and laden with the reporter’s large saddlebags,

Here’s your belongings Mr. Emerson, and all in order. Your horse is unsaddled and eating in the barn; and as soon as I get these wet things off I’ll rush your bags to your room. Emerson blinks, somewhat appeased yet still visibly pretentious,

Yes, I am sure you’re quite capable of housing infernal creatures young man, but do be careful with those things; there is material in there more valuable than you could attain. The comment goes politely unnoticed as Scott rises and turns his backside to the crackling fire,

Capt’n and all fit from Palo Alto to Vera Cruz, Cerro Gordo to Mexico City, without a single drop of Strong blood lost…

Captain? Emerson blurts, visibly puzzled, Wait… Captain who?

Oh pardon me mister, the old man replies, I guess I am so unaccustomed to strangers that I oft forget; now the town we all growed in had a peculiar habit of nicknaming the local prospect, the boy wonder if you will, of every generation… Capt’n. Every town, city and burgh still has one, whether it’s the village genius, the local quarterback or the next president of these United States; the one who will go the furthest and put you on the map! Scott licks his chapped lips, and wipes the pasty mouth, Now some folk call Thomas Capt’n, for me it was always my brother Taylor. Afore him it was Charles Little; and afore that my brother Adam. All wrath from Nanna to the mayor called him so. Emerson glances to the dozing, mumbling, one-eyed man, and perhaps for but a moment, ponders what he may have once been.

Afore that was D. Crockett O’Hara, how Sister Winnie was smitten on him; well so on and so on from generation to the next. Now that Taylor’s gone, all creation still calls Adam Capt’n; just seems natural I guess.

Yes Mr. Strong, I suppose as well… but how does any of this…

Damnation Sir! the old man snaps, his face reddening, I’ll jist hang my fiddle and leave it to others to tell you the very same if’n you can’t sit peaceful without interrupting; lessen you’re keen on extending your stay here I mean. Emerson, possibly for the first time in his entire cranky, opinionated life, sits dumbfounded; resigning to a stubbornness clearly equal to his own,

Forgive my manners; do go on. The old man, seemingly contented, still maintains his burgundy glow,

In ‘46 at Resaca… we hurt less than forty men; but one was Mr. Simon Cardine, my pa’s Georgia friend. Saber parted his cheek and a ball tore up his arm; months later he bitterly returned to manage Strong Timber. Resaca’s what gives Adam the begeezers at night and his fear of water.

Water! I’d go in the water Clure! Adam cries out, I’m not feared, jist busy’s all! He nestles back into the chair, while his dull, murky, non-responsive eye stares coldly at Emerson. The latter uncomfortably cups his mouth with a hand,

No Mister Strong, he was… Scott chortles loudly,

No, no; don’t bother yourself there Mr. Emerson. He’s stone asleep; eye jist comes open on its own time to time. At Buena Vista O’Hara was listed a missing; afore we found later, was kilt after capture. Winnie was wrecked, but during Monterrey Mother bore Austin Barclay; was three months old when Pa got the word on the eve of battle. He vowed it an omen that they’d all survive, then came Chapultepec, where the Strong name strived!

Yes I am quite sure we have all heard tell of the halls of Montezuma Mr. Strong. Emerson replies, his disinterest fully visible.

"Well you have never heard the Strong story sir! Three Strongs stormed them walls with Captain Longstreet himself, who fell carrying the flag afore passing it to a feller named Pickett. Adam would save their lives as they charged in the fray; besting two Mex’s out of their arms, and chasing the others away! But his moment was short, as a ball took his left eye and felled him sudden-like. Nonetheless, he was back up in a blink and solely to their safety! Can you imagine? After the city fell it became sacking and disorder; chaos and firing. While aiding my Uncle Joshua, it was one of these shoots that took Adam low the knee. He would spend months in what we’ll call hospitals, and with Santy’s surrender in February, the men came home. Winnie got the word about O’Hara, and Adam wouldn’t go see Nellie; who in turn couldn’t bring herself, hearing of his disfigger’n. But after a lot of tears they announced an understanding, with Adam re-adapting at the mill. Travis Parker came home to all of his pre-war savings, and more that Ada had earned whilst he was away. He saved his Army pay diligently and they purchased the town restaurant; which supported the two youngin’s, Nellie and Tex. Nellie wasn’t the homemakin’ type though, and that boy was always disgruntled; oh how that girl would puff at the labor of opening an envelope! Resentful of war, ‘silly ol’ business’ she was always to saying even to Adam, with that damnable fan of hers. With an uncle murdered at Goliad, then news of O’Hara I reckon’ I can see why. Nicholas now finished with his tasks, scoots to the center of the floor, Are you writing this all down sir? he asks politely, Did you get my Pa’s name down? It is Mr. Scott Alexander Strong, 1849."

Quiet yourself son! the wheezing, old man blurts, Are you here as a listener or a teller? Nellie tried a spell, but was resigned to never labor the rigorous jobs her mother had done, and after a month or so cancelled them arrangements. Adam was wrecked all to pieces; stopped comin’ out to work with the crews, stopped comin’ out nearly altogether. Took his first drink in that room and followed with a hull many more. Pa’d try to dole him doable tasks to get him up and about, but typically to failure. When the winter of ‘51 took Pa seriously ill, Adam had to acknowledge corn and run the hull company. Uncle Josh continued our Winchester affairs and word was frequent. In the fall of year next, dear mother lost a third child and seemed she could take no more. Pa seemed more indifferent with each loss, almost like fallen fellows than children. Mother, like all mothers, one is very much like the next, took every one so to heart, and grieved in growing silence. Adam was increasingly finding disputes in the ledgers and shipping statements, afore confirming rumors of Cardine’s pocketing and extortion; false requisitions, family threats and the like. Though best pals with his son Clure, Adam dismissed him. Clure begged him to reconsider; it was another hard straw on Adam’s growing stack. He became even colder and solitaire, obsessin’ on Strong…

What do you know about it! Adam barks, sitting fully erect and rubbing at the red swollen eye, You weren’t a thigh high yet! I held Clure, even offered him a position to stay on, but he wouldn’t abandon that father or where ‘they really belonged!’ My mania was necessary at the time! I recall the rides with Pa to fetch you all from schoolin’ for some real work…

II. EARLY DAYS

New Milford, Pennsylvania

1852

I nside the small white church, a finely dressed man with a snow-white van-dyke and thick eyeglasses prepares to dismiss his classroom. A fluffy, cloud-like ring of hair, curls around his bald, shiny head like a cradled wreath upon Caesar. A young, hushed voice mocks the teacher’s sharp, broken Dutch accent, as it sternly assigns the evening lesson. With three crisp claps, the instructor concludes in his daily fas hion,

V’emember students, it is your obligation, it is your duty… to educate yourselves ‘und to seek to educate yourselves at every opportunity! In order to best serve yourselves, to best serve your Country! Dismiss! Immediately the air is pierced by the sound of screeching pews, the tinkling of lunch-pails, and a violent stampede of twenty-some pupils for the large double doors. As the children burst outside, it can be seen that a large group of them form an inner circle, of particular friendship. The distinct band of compatriots, immediately turn the corner of the old structure, before taking cover behind a row of coarse hedges. Many frantically shuck their fine clothes into large bags, before redressing in badly worn ones. A well-groomed and spectacled walnut haired boy, seats himself atop the church steps sternly looking on,

You’d best fold them clothes tender-like, or Pa is gonna put a lickin’ on the four of us. He frowns completely unnoticed, And we ain’t got time for horse play today. Father’s to arrive right quick with the extra clearin’ to be done; and we still got our home chore’n to boot! The scholarly youth puffs at the disregard, Fine! You are to your own; just wait and see what Capt’n says! He descends the wooden steps to the base of an oak tree, before dropping down and opening a large sketchpad.

Oh calm yourself A.J. a scrappy, large-eared youth implores, We got time for a quick bit of fun! A.J. snorts in disapproval; lifting his squinting eyes,

That’s what you say all weather Bunny, regardless of fact or responsibility. Bunny extends a conceded crooked grin, before he and the other classmates dart through rising dust. A lone child with short, curly hair and a troubled expression draws near to A.J.,

What’re they to playing to? A.J. merely scowls, as the frowning boy tips his hat,

My name’s Wahl, Church Wahl; don’t like it much neither, that’s why fellers call me Tucker. My Pa just got a place down off Belknaps’ way.

Just call me A.J., and this… he groans, gesturing outwardly, …is a primitive and vicious contest the Pack calls ‘eliminate’; the object being to scramble about and fight for a number of hard, filthy sewn globes; and hurl them at one another, thereby knocking fellows from the game. It frequently produces wholesale bruises, bloody noses, cuts and torn apparel. Tucker spans the frolicking youths,

And are you part of this pack? A.J. turns with a look of chagrin,

Some may count me but besides Arnold, I’m the oldest now and must be the smartest; if you want to stay hearty and well, stay clear of the Pack.

We’ll see who the real Captain is! a handsome, black-haired seven year-old calls out; swiftly arriving at a ball. The exceptional build on a boy his age is vivid as he heaves the sphere; narrowly missing the ear of an obese and oblivious member of the Pack. TWAP! Instantly a ball viciously impacts the handsome youth’s head, with enough force to knock him to the ground,

Yes we will brother Zack! a larger, almost mirror image of the boy remarks; grinning victoriously at the downed sibling from afar. Even fitter and quicker than his victim, the boy continues to boast with yet another ball in hand. Through a disoriented haze, Zachary spies the much smaller, dirtier and leaner Bunny, lurking behind, like a great cat. His enormous ears protrude through the ragged black hair, and support the wildly oversized and battered slouch hat. As he creeps in threadbare clothing he presents a savage sight; but his facial features so strongly resemble the two participating siblings that he could be mistaken for kin.

Don’t be sure it’s to be you Taylor! the excited little ruffian shouts; visibly thrilled at having the larger boy dead in his sights. Instantly Taylor mimics a throw high into the air, as the boastful boy responds accordingly; and stares into the sun’s bright glare, Twap! A brutal, stinging sensation spreads across Bunny’s ear, as he is instantly seated in the hot and rising dust; slowly coming to the realization of how badly he’s been fooled, while Taylor laughs aloud,

It takes more than cob toughness and an eagerness to fit to be Capt’n Bunny! An impeccably dressed 10-year old with short sandy hair, and round wire-rimmed spectacles adds in from afar,

Yes Bunny, in short, it takes brains, and that’s an asset you are glaringly deficient. Seemingly offended and visibly confused, Bunny quickly rises, before angrily rushing towards the studious youth,

Defish… definis… he stammers with rage, and a quickening pace, I’m smart enough to know you got no chance… Chance!

Aww Bunny, don’t! pleads the obese boy, converting from mere target to hopeful mediator.

Taylor! Taylor! a well-clothed Negro child shouts, bounding down the far embankment, Is they time fo’ me to play today? Taylor chuckles,

We’ll always have time for you Samuel… you’re jist like one of the Pack; but that colored school holds so late, and Capt’n don’t procrastinate bout getting the four of us to chores. A slim, freckle-faced participant with fire-like hair and a wide-brimmed cover of his own scampers near, before being violently struck in the hip by a sphere. Taylor snickers stretching out his arms,

Now hold shots fellers! Ant, go ahead and let hold of Bunny, and let’s keep to playing whilst we can. The rotund, wincing, 120-pound seven year-old cautiously maintains his tenuous hold as if grasping a lion by the tail; while Chance quietly leans to the boy with the fire-like red hair,

Strawberry, I don’t know why Taylor encourages Black Sam to play; I mean I like him too, but when the borough set up that darkie school out of town, I thought he’d make some fellows of his own kind. The slouching ginger shrugs indecisively, as the thick and often-dreaded Irish brogue calls out,

Yeah, but ya see London; y’ar tea-bag arse is permitted to play wit us while w’ar to hopin’ you’ll off to y’ar kind someday! Chance squints vengefully,

I don’t recall including you to the discussion Mickey! The feisty, blue-eyed blonde sternly spits,

My friends may, but that’s Michael Sir to you, you little Limy bastard! Par’haps ya be requirin’ another poke to help you recall! An uncovered wagon, laden with tools and supplies, draws up to within eyesight of the boys. The older of the two men, with his bushy spiraling mutton-chops dancing lightly in the breeze, grins seemingly mesmerized,

Hard to believe you’re already twenty Capt’n; wasn’t that long ago when that was you out there. Slumping with an elbow on his elevated knee, Adam peers with his one exposed eye, towards the gaming children,

Father… we really need to gather them quickly for the MacManus… A swift simple raising of a hand, silences the aged young man,

Let them be for a moment or two Capt’n; it’s good for them to make such bonds. Clearly annoyed, Adam grudgingly heeds, while vigorously rearranging the dusty black eye-patch and caressing the aching knee.

Cans I load fo’ you Taylor, can I? Samuel excitedly pleads. Taylor lovingly teases the chubby Ant, while mussing Bunny’s unruly hair,

No thanks Sammy, load for Ant; it’s much harder for him to reach the ground! Almost immediately, the large-eared ruffian’s expression reverts back to good humor and the contest at hand. Mickey openly taunts,

Or ye might for Prince Chance-alot… while he awaits his tea!

That’s it! Chance yells, scrambling to seize a ball from the towering Swedish behemoth, directly beside him,

Ner! D’is wern’s mine! the simple voiced, platinum-haired giant pleads in his horribly broken English; merely holding his ball upright, and far beyond the jumping boy’s reach.

Come on now Petr! Chance pants in futility, You’re too gentle to throw it anyhow; fearing you’d injure some bird while standing here all livelong day holding a single one! Now give it to someone who’ll use it on the leprechaun! Sammy swiftly delivers two balls to Ant,

Here Ant, who you gonna out? A nearby boy with a lean, fragile frame stammers with great effort,

Na-na… not mmm-me to-today! As the frail boy painstakingly articulates, he is struck soundly in the side of his head; while Sammy gleams with wide shifting eyes,

You got Studder! Can I throw one Ant? Taylor pauses briefly,

You know better Sam; we can’t have you hurling at white men.

Y’all ain’t no white men Capt’n… the wiry, well-groomed child protests, …you jist boys like me. Taylor places a hand to the boy,

You know your place Sam, we all do; you know we wouldn’t mind, but what if’n someone was to hear about a hurt from you? It’d mean a world of grief for your kin surely; got to look ahead with things that jist is, and yourn Pa’d lose his job at the livery surely. Dejectedly Sammy stares to the ground, before Taylor visibly revives his playful spirit, Now C’mon Black Sam; lets give some what-four instead of frettin’ on things that have always been. Keep loading Ant and… watch out! A ball barely passes between the boys’ noses as Taylor pushes Sammy away,

Fine then! Shots back on! Get the leprechaun first! Strawberry, you and Stewart run that a way; and take ‘Ol Benedict with you! Edgar! Round the other and I will send you a ball! Petr’s eyes race excitedly as he grips his sphere tightly,

Wha’der I t’er do Cap? Jacob now stands forcefully clapping,

C’mon boys! Finish now for your Pa; there’s timber not carin’ for itself! Adam fidgets in visible irritation, painfully readjusting the misshapen leg,

I know they’re still boys Pa, but we got orders a mile… Jacob affectionately silences him again,

Adam my dear son, you know why your sweet mother and I named you Adam? It was because you were our first boy, our first man; it only seemed fittin’ at the time. We knew you’d do great things, venture outside the borough; make a name of your own; well now it’s these boys here that are up and coming. They’ll have prices demanded of them surely, and they’ll take part in furtherin’ this company and this country to its next age; shouldering the cumbersome weight we once did, still do I suppose. It is what every flock must go through to preserve the progress we have. Our glory days may be past, and ourn place may be behind the curtain now, but f’er them their play of life is still in but the opening act. Let them frolic while they can, for my boys here, all four of them, will take their part and go far soon enough. I know this in my bones as I did with you. Their places and fortunes still lie ahead of them, and they’ll lead where they go, and Taylor… Taylor will be there, in front of ‘em all; my goodness how that Tex boy has growed!

Tarnation! Hold still Tay, and I got you now! the western clad boy shouts, as Taylor darts through the maze of children while seizing nearly every ball. He then leaps, poking the ball from the gentle giant’s grip, before cleverly snatching it on the full run. He takes careful aim, before striking the heads of both Strawberry and Chance with a single orb; then instantly pivots, knocking Benedict, Edgar and Ant from the game. Stewart Masonovichsky, the fleetest of the boys, backpedals wisely out of Taylor’s lethal range.

Aw c’mon now Lightening… Taylor calls laughing, before stinging both Mickey and Petr. He then suddenly spies an unsuspecting non-participant, far off in the dusty distance. With his customary precision, the final ball finds its mark; striking the bowl-cut golden-haired boy, squarely in the spectacles. As the pug boy’s eyeglasses fall to the ground, Arnold Baines gasps with wide wild eyes,

Bejabbers! That must’a been ninety ya’ds and hit Pet Baker first-rate! The obese Ant jiggles as he laughs,

No argie there Benedict! What a shot!

You go to the big furnace Taylor Strong! the victim shrieks, Mr. Schmelling’s gonna’ hear on this sure as short-sweetening! Still squawking, he stamps up the church steps before disappearing inside.

Alright boys! Jacob shouts, Pile on in; sun ain’t gonna’ last all creation and there’s bushels to be done. Taylor, Zachary, A.J. and Bunny climb onto the wagon, before Zachary hops out. Speedily he retrieves the forgotten bag of clothes, before promptly regaining his seat. With a crisp snap of the reigns, they embark on the scenic ride home; and to the estate of Strong Acres.

Numbers of pews scrape across the flooring, as Schmelling reiterates,

V’member al’vays; for yourselves for community, for your country! The Pack pours from the stifling church and into the bright sunlight, as if they’d been underground for an eternity. They immediately commence upon their near-daily routine, of bagging their school clothes for the contest of the day. Taylor eagerly pulls a well-hidden bundle from the bush, before handing Strawberry a finely crafted bow. He passes out creatively carved muskets and tomahawks; and to Chance another hewn bow. Bickering immediately commences in the crowd, as Chance disgustedly hands his toy to a panting Samuel. Nine-year old Edgar blurts aloud,

It must be A-1 to possess a lumba’ biz’; with your Pa making such prime playthings!

Maaa! Maaa! the red-haired boy screams, towards Parker’s restaurant, I don’t want to be a savage again! I’m an Indian every time! I mean, c’mon guys, have you ever seen a red-headed freckled Injun! As he protests, he spans the sandy center street, as if hoping to see the dust of rescuing cavalry; or more sensibly ‘Ma’.

I don’t make a very good Indian either Chance adds, bobbling his books, pail and glasses case. Strawberry turns to the large-eared boy, in the floppy tan hat,

Take a turn Bunny! You don’t need be a Strong every time!

You’re one of the Injuns Straw-berry! the scrappy boy sneers, driving both hands into the ginger boy’s chest. An audible Ooof! escapes the recoiling youth, as the towering Swede adamantly pleads,

Stoop it Boony! He right ‘und it be fair to me. Bunny spins towards the behemoth, standing but a third of the gentle boy’s height,

Well ya know Petr, you may have a right good…

CRACK! An instantaneous roundhouse sends the huge Swede to the ground; a mammoth cloud of dust rising all around. As the colossal twelve-year-old sits up and rubs his jaw, the entire group of close-knit boys, including Bunny, helps him back to his feet. After dusting him off as high as they can reach, all the boys smile momentarily together; before resuming their typical day’s play.

III. TOWN

NEW MILFORD, PENNSYLVANIA

October, 1859

J acob snorts in displeasure as he snaps the paper cl osed,

A sin to Moses and all creation! I cannot imagine any Godly man, pro or free that would hold with inciting niggers to murder men and boys!

Please Jacob… Megan softly pleads, …don’t call the darkies that word, it is so condescending; and what if that nice Isham at Mason’s heard you, or his little Samuel?

Alright Mother, I will remember dear; but it is these accursed and violent, fanatical abolitionists rousing things up, and the newspaper vultures piling it on. Any minded Christian man knows the peculiarity will slowly die out, as it largely has in the north; but it must be in gradual emancipation and not through ruthless and godless acts. Now Isham there is a damn fine nig… darkie; a peaceful Christian who pulls a man-sized portion everyday heat nor hail! Fine contributor to the community and a family man, but dear, the darkies you see and know up here are vividly different than the millions in the deep fields. It is true that they have many well-domesticated tradesmen and all, especially in Washington and the middle states; but the scores of uncivilized, unenlightened, unemployable slack-jaw fielders towards the gulf, are a far different breed. One must never judge a race dear, for I have seen a wide range of them in my days from Delaware to Mexico; I am well versed to their own complex hierarchies, and most are cared for and contented. But these notions of wholesale emancipation, upon ourn economy and soil… they just would not fit here. Adam noisily crashes into the foray,

Here are the shipping requisitions Father; I checked the crews and they’re all running, but I’m still awaiting tool req’s from three crew chiefs, and there’s revenue problems with…

Remember when Simon Cardine was chief foreman? Jacob utters, How that Georgian could manage figures. Quick minded… Adam snorts,

Yes Father, distinctly. It was his figuring’s that veiled cheats, embezzlements, and blackmail of folk; never putting a foot wrong! Adam caps his mounting temper, as Jacob scratches his chin,

That man will forever be bitter for his lack of promotion; ambitious as Lucifer, but feels all creation owes him somehow. Was always quarreling with junior officers; especially that Jeff Davis fella’, do you recall? Adam frowns with disinterest.

Tough as cobs when Mary died in his arms afore Mexico.

Yes Father! Adam bursts, I’ll get all the other forms together by candlelight and oh… afore I forget; the state has bolstered the militia requirements since the Virginia unpleasantness; and more than a few at the mill and in town, have been talking of enlistment. A chance of the older boys at school are thinkin’ on it surely and it has become a disruptor in the forest Father; I hope you’ll swiftly douse any foolhardy designs that Taylor or the boys may be conniving! There are plenty of contracts, including Mr. Masonovichsky…

Masonovichsky… Jacob murmurs, staring off, …I haven’t made it over to see him since that dreadful storm broked his roof. We ought pay him a call personally today Capt’n. Adam tugs at the dusty eye-patch,

I’ll send the boys or a couple of the men; I’m worn today and…

Son, you need to get outside more…

Outside! Adam squawks, I am in the forest more than my office because we have new crew leaders that don’t know a loaded tree from a loaded bogger! Jacob swiftly raises a hand,

"Capt’n now settle yourself; that is not what I meant. Jist want you