Saints and Angels

@ gaiasabre11: I think I'll pass on having someone do that to me, but if I remember correctly, they were going to do another more brutal thing to him (Something that we would wouldn't even want to discuss, so I'll leave it at that). As for ideas, I think I might take you up on your proposal, but of course, the end is coming near regardless for this AAR.

@ Enewald: I think the Yanks still think they're superior even after the losses they've suffered so far in 1861 . The AI wouldn't have a clue in RL! :rofl:

At least it's been somewhat historical so far in terms of gains in 1861.

@ Erie_Patriot: Yes, at long last we have a victory in Union held Kentucky! A very proud moment for the CSA indeed!

Chapter Seven

Mr. Smith picked himself up from the floor of his family room, the cannon explosion had hit the edge of his house, destroying the wall behind him; sending him falling to the ground in the massive rock that hit the house. Inside, the smoke from the debris kicked up all over the room, it was hard to see a few inches in front of yourself in the room. Inside, he could hear the coughing of his family; he whipped his eyes clean, squinting to see if he could a good picture of anyone in the room.

“Is everyone alright?” he called out.

No answer, only coughing.

“Is everyone alright?” he called out once again.

From beneath some of the rubble, Jeb pulled himself up through the debris that covered him. He had some minor cuts and bruises over his body. Seeing this, Mr. Smith worried about Elizabeth and Daniel, the youngest of his children.

Jeb, coughing, answered, “I’m fine father.”

Through the wreckage, he and Jeb started filing through the room; one by one they found everyone in the room. Amazingly, no one was seriously injured from the explosion, but everyone besides Mr. Smith, and to some degree Jeb seemed to be shell shocked from the experience they had just been apart of.

Mr. Smith, walking through the rabble, glanced outside to see the Confederate forces spreading out, the gunfire was now faint. The dark clouds loomed overhead; his face was covered with the debris and dirt.

“So is everyone alright,” he said with a deep sigh of relief.

“Yes father,” replied the children.

Mr. Smith looked at his wife, he was pondering a thought in his mind that was, to him, something brilliant.

The next morning, the fields outside their home was filled with dead and wounded. The mucky fields had taken the soldiers in, many of whom were Union soldiers rather than Confederates. On his porch, he had around 15 soldiers (12 Union and 3 Confederate) being treated for their injuries, left their by their men at the moment. He walked over to his wife Rebecca and began, “I think we should send the children away from here right now; at least until the summer months come or until the war is over.”

“And where do you suppose we send them William?” she contradicted him.

“Your sister Mary’s, she’s only about twenty miles north of here. They’ll be safer up there than down here, and I don’t want them here with that freak of a man Evan Harris running up and down this town,” Mr. Smith answered.

“Perhaps he died in the battle,” his wife responded.

“I doubt it,” he said to his wife.

“Father, father,” Jeb interrupted him, pointing out to the horizon. Out of the woods came a column of Confederate soldiers, led by several men on horseback, carrying the colors of the south.

The column was heading directly towards Mr. Smith’s home. He walked to his front steps and, his hands to his side, awaiting the arrival of the Confederate officers that were coming to speak to him most likely.

“Regiment, halt!” shouted an officer.

“Thank you major,” replied a voice from one of the men on horseback. The party on horseback came riding forward to Mr. Smith. The man on the horse had a distinct uniform; he first looked to his left, than to his right, than back to Mr. Smith.

“Should I assume you are the man in charge here,” the officer said.

“That is I,” Mr. Smith replied, “and with due respect, my I ask you who you are?”

“I am Brigadier General Benjamin Franklin Cheatham, Confederate States Army of the Tennessee,” the man replied. “I am the subordinate of Major General Leonidas Polk, the commanding officer who just led us to victory here.”

“Well general, it is an honor to see you guys up here,” Mr. Smith said being smarter than his actual intentions.

“Well sir, I must thank you for caring for our soldiers. Major Taylor,” the general called out.

“Yes sir,” the major asked and saluted at the same time.

“Gather up our wounded,” General Cheatham ordered.

“And what of the Union wounded?” the major asked.

“Take them with us,” the general answered. General Cheatham looked back Mr. Smith, “Well sir, thank you; and I’m terribly sorry about all of this.”

With that, the Confederate soldiers gathered upon his porch and took the wounded from the care of the Smith family. The column started marching out back towards Wilson’s Creek, where General Polk had established his headquarters overnight, planning out the next move for his forces.

Mr. Smith and his family, especially Jeb who had developed a strong Southern sympathy to their cause, looked out as the men marched away from their home. Later that day, Mr. Smith told his children of the plan of moving them to their Aunt Mary’s house; to which they all detested with some degree, not wanting to be separated from their parents, which was fully understandable.

Back in Wilson’s Creek, Evan Harris was in a grief after what had happened to his town. The battle had ruined most of town; thankfully no one was actually killed in the engagement.

“And what should we do with Mr. Smith?” asked Peter Savage to his superior.

“We’ll march to his home tomorrow,” replied Evan with a smile. “We’ll see what he’s really made of then.”

@ BritishImperial: The gentlemen within the Confederacy wouldn't haven't any other way, and what better way to win over the hearts of those in the border states than be like General Cheatham?

Sometimes the only way to gain support is to win over the people... sometimes.

@ Enewald: And everything that is rebuilt shall be ruined again.

@ Hardraade: Not to play a spoiler or anything, the men are on a path for a final showdown as planned out in outline for this AAR, but I shouldn't say this, but will anyways... it won't happen as quick as you may think. :rooleyes:

@ Erie_Patriot: Well, a showdown between the two was inevitable right? But when it will happen, well, let's just leave it at this point - I have the power to dictate that.

Chapter Seven

By mid-afternoon the following day, in the road beside the Smith home, Mr. Smith was out walking to his old shed where Mr. Carlisle was talking to him.

“I hope you’re fine, you can spend the winter with us until we can repair the side of your home,” Mr. Carlisle told Mr. Smith.

“Nah, thank you though,” Mr. Smith replied, “I think we can manage. Actually, I’m thinking of sending the kids to live with their Aunt a little way north of here.”

“Well, if I can say one thing about this war, I’d never thought in all my years I’d see a battle in my own backyard I reckon,” Mr. Carlisle said.

“You’re telling me that,” Mr. Smith quickly replied, taking off his hat and brushing back his hair soon after.

Up from the hill, several horses could be heard quickly approaching. From his room, Jeb peered outside and yelled out to his father, “Pa, they’re coming!”

Mr. Smith sharply turned and rushed to his house, Mr. Carlisle was shouting at him as he ran inside. When he got inside he told his wife to lock the door, and told Jeb and Dill to barricade it as well. He also told them to get their muskets and stand guard by the family room where someone could easily walk through the debris and enter the home in grand fashion. Mr. Smith rushed upstairs to his bedroom, taking out a small wooden box with a lock on it; he was then quick to pull out the key for it, opening the box to grace his trusty and prized Henry rifle that he received only a year back by his old naval commander.

Outside, with the scent of winter in the air; and the frozen mud on the ground; the men on horseback could have their breath, as well as that of their horses be seen from near a mile away. “Let’s go,” said one of the lead men, the other men quick to follow him from behind.

The men were shocked to see Mr. Smith on his rooftop pointing his rifle down upon them, the men halted in their track, on of the men was thrown off of his horse.

“Halt, not a step forward,” Mr. Smith called out to the men on horseback.

“Yeah, well what are you gonna do if we don’t,” replied on of the men.

“I’ll blow you all to hell and back,” Mr. Smith said, aiming his rifle steadily at the man that was talking to him.

The men rode closer when Mr. Smith suddenly shot at them, the hat of the lead rider was knocked off his head and Mr. Smith, with the men coming closer in complete surprise yelled out, “Another step and next time I won’t miss!” The men were quick to halt, “And reach for those pistols and I won’t hesitate to shot either!”

The men were simply staring back at him, “Evan Harris,” began the lead man once again…

“And what about your pretty boy hero?” Mr. Smith began, “he sends his little men to do his work for him? That’s the sign of a coward, not a man enough to come out and deal with his problems like a gentleman. And as for y’all, just like most people in this world, cowards who don’t want to take part in anything like what you’ve been told to do; otherwise you’d have done it already.

“See, that’s the problem with society today, the majority hid behind their so-called leaders. And that so-called leader of yours is just like you, only having more charisma than you can ever have; and probably a little smarter too. The average man doesn’t want to have problems with his life; he’d like to settle down and tend to his family like a good man should and most do anyway. But poor saps like yourselves don’t want a part of any of it, because you’ve shown your true colors by listening to me. Don’t even think about it there boy!

“Another problem is they listen to others besides themselves. Just look at yourselves, you’re all good examples of this. How many of you actually decided to come out for me? Or was it your brilliant leader Evan Harris that told you to come out for me? Think about that for a good minute, you’re all dependent on another man to make your decisions for you, for better or for worse, usually for the worse. But you’re all to blind to realize this, hah.

“And what is it that you really want? If you want to kill me, by God’s grace go ahead and do it right now, or go back to your petty little rat and tell him what you really have on your mind.”

And for this moment, Mr. Smith spread his arms out and exposed himself for all eight of the riders in his yard to see; any of them could’ve easily taken a shot to kill the man right then and there but couldn’t bring themselves to do so. The leader however, after moments of started reaching for his pistol in his holster, but was appalled to see the men beside him doing the very thing Mr. Smith was trying to persuade them to do.

“I’m out,” said one of the men, undoing his holster and having it fall to the ground, then riding off, not in the direction back to Wilson’s Creek where Evan Harris and his troupe were situated, currently helping out the townsfolk repair their homes before winter proper would come in leaving her mark on them.

“I’m with him,” followed up another man, leaving the party that was in front of the Smith residence. Quickly, two other men abandoned the party and went off in their separate directions; the remaining four men paused and looked at each other. By this time Mr. Smith looked down at the men that remained, cocking his lever-action rifle into place and staring down at the men.

The three men outside of the party leader where looking at the ground, not at their leader who was looking at them to see if they would back him up in a potential gunfight with the mad-man on the roof of his own home. The man pulled out his pistol from his holster and started to bring it forward into a shooting position, only to be quickly gunned-down by Mr. Smith, who gently moved his repeater into the sights of the man trying to kill him. A single devastating .44 round came spilling out of the rifle, striking the man through chest and out the other side. The rider fell to the ground dead, his blood spilling out the two ended wound through his body.

“Anyone else?” Mr. Smith commented, the other men had flinched and started backwards only to halt themselves.

Hours later, in the town saloon the three remaining men arrived. Evan Harris demanded to know whether or not they had killed Mr. Smith, they men made up a clever (yet truthful) lie.

“No,” said one of the men who had the will to answer up to Evan Harris.

“What?” Evan asked back.

“No,” said the man, shivering in some fear in the presence of Evan Harris.

“What? He’s still alive?” Evan asked.

“Yes sar, he knew we was coming I reckon,” the man began. “We’re all that remains, the others were killed in the ambush gunfire he put on us.”

“God dammit!” shouted Evan who began to pace across the floor. The eyes of the devil appeared from his face, “I’ll kill that stunted slim myself,” he remarked with his men around him.

Golf Trip

I don't think I've mentioned it to anyone before, but I'm an avid golfer. I love to golf (though I won't say I'm good by any standard).

Anyhow, starting tomorrow all the way to July 13-14 I'll be off playing golf (more than likely every day if not most) and playing it up on a lot of golf courses down in South Carolina! (Hopefully I won't get banned by making a lot of divots! -- I'm not that bad)


So I won't update until I return (probably by mid or late July). Hopefully I can score somewhere around par with my handicap (6 handicap) .

Thanks,

- volks.

@ Enewald: Hmm, a little sympathy for Harris do you have? Or is it just human nature? Well, Mr. Smith is certainly gambling with his life with Evan Harris and his men anyway...

@ Hardraade: The future is dark for the Smith family that's for sure, especially since Harris controls the town, the townsfolk, and has a handful of men including the Marshal on his side. Can Mr. Smith really hold them all off?

@ BritishImperial: The speech was a nice touch wasn't it? I don't think I would be able to pull something like that off in a moment like that, but then again, I'm not like Mr. Smith, nor is he like the majority of the other people that live in his town, let alone the Victoria version of the United States of America. The future will only bring further combat for him and Evan Harris, I can promise you that.

@ Erie_Patriot: Thanks, yeah... South Carolina was nice, it only rained once while down there, and at that it was before I had reached the greens, so all was good except having to golf on wet greens and fairways. The Open Championship is up next, that's on my to-do list (fly over to England/UK to watch the Open Championship).

Chapter Seven

~ Clinch Mountain, Tennessee.

The winter was brewing in full force now, especially in the Tennessee Mountain ranges. Inside the old cabin, Tom and Jennifer sat on the sofa while Jennifer’s Aunt was in the kitchen. Tom was blindly staring out at the snow storm that was harshly being moved from side to side, making visibility quite difficult. The many trees were now mere shadows or small figures of cardboard out in the distance, as the white flakes borrowed up against the window and door of the cabin.

Beside the nice warm fire, Jennifer was mixing a soup that her Aunt was preparing. Tom walked over with a smile, “Excuse me dear, I think you’re doing that wrong,” he said.

“Really,” she replied with a smile, “and how would you prepare it sir.”

“Well,” Tom said, “first off, you need to add some of this basil,” he said, putting the basil into the pot. “Then you need to stir in a circular motion,” he said with a laugh. Jennifer pushed him out of the way with a smile.

At dinner, the winter storm seemed not to be letting up. With Christmas already in the pass, the new year of 1862 was quickly approaching. The small tree that was in the corner, serving as the Christmas tree was still alight with the candles that were hanging from the tree’s branches. Tom was far more silent than usual, he was just spinning his soup in a constant circle with the spoon he held in his hand; the soup being in a small stone bowl.

“Is there something wrong?” Jennifer asked him.

Tom sighed and sat farther back in his chair, “I just think that I should be home right now, with everyone: my father, mother, Jeb, Dill… Bill.”

“Still upset about the death of your brother are you?” she asked him again, her Aunt got up from her seat and walked to the sink.

“I feel a little guilty, not that he died… but that my family doesn’t know, and they will more than likely never see his grave in that… goddamned place south of here.”

“My sister, Alicia, if you can remember her…”

“So how old is she now? Sixteen or something like that now?”

“Actually she’s fifteen, but she still has a thing for you younger brother Jeb. I have a few letters from her; especially since she knows I talk to you a lot, more recently now than in the past. So she’s been bugging me to ask you about your younger brother.”

“I don’t know what to say I reckon. I haven’t seen him since the summer,” Tom said with a minor laugh.

After the dinner, the troupe eventually settled into their rooms to rest, for tomorrow would be December 31st, for the next day following would be January the 1st, 1862. As he slept, Tom once again was a bit uneasy as he slept.

“Do not be afraid,” said a voice.

Tom was staring at the ghostly figure.

“Do not be afraid, reach for the light,” the voice said, the face becoming more visible as it circled around him.

“I don’t know what it is,” Tom said to the voice.

“Well of course you do,” said the voice, “and if you didn’t, it didn’t stop you from enlisting. Like you knew what the war was going to be like…” the voice once again said, the face becoming more visible as the time went on.

“I don’t know…” Tom said.

“Well, reach for it!” the voice said. “What’s wrong, don’t believe me?” the voice said, becoming clearly visible.

“Bill?” Tom asked in horror, the face of his brother was.

“Reach,” Bill said to his brother. As Tom reached out, he saw the sight outside in clear daylight despite of the harsh winter night.



“Wait,” Bill said.

The ghostly figures were very apparent; they rode off to the familiar hills, the same of home. In the hills the pointed down-hill to the small town that was just beyond, it had an eerie similarity to his home: Wilson’s Creek.

“What, home?” Tom questioned with an obscure face.

“Watch,” Bill said.

Tom watched as the town was filled with gunfire, he noticed several figures: his father and his some of the other townsmen battling it out with many other figures, eventually they would all be gunned-down by the men he didn’t notice.

Tom looked up at his brother, “What’s going on? Is this going to happen to them?”

“Watch,” Bill said.

Tom turned back to see his younger brother Jeb at the gallows that were constructed in the center of the town. His young brother was struggling against the men that placed the rope around his neck, and then he awoke right as the men in the dropped the hatchet and sent Jeb falling to the ground.

Tom was breathing heavily, he looked out the window, the sunlight was trying to peer through the frost on the windows.

Jennifer walked in, “Tom, Tom, Tom? Are you alright?”

“Yessum, I’m fine,” he said, though he had his head full of many thoughts. Inside, he was burning up. As Jennifer left, he placed his hands over his head, he muttered to himself, “I need to get home.”