Post by qohart on Feb 14, 2009 16:51:46 GMT -8
A HUGE thank you to Apple and Pet. Without their help, encouragement and writing/editing skills, this story would still be buried on my pc.
As usual, I don’t own the characters, I just love them.
Regular disclaimer on ownership of the characters applies.
The Night of the Travelers
by Cris Hart
Rome, Italy, 1859
The tall, young man bowed to his appreciative audience, a broad grin lighting his
handsome features. He left the stage arm raised, acknowledging their applause. And still
the crowd continued clapping and cheering.
"One more bow, Artemus," urged his friend Marcus Willard pushing him back toward the
curtain.
"All right, but just one more," Artemus Gordon beamed, slipped between the curtains and
bowed to the audience quickly, and then ducked backstage.
The theater manager, Signore Abbruzzi, was there to congratulate him and the rest of the
troupe on their superb performance of Taming of the Shrew.
"Eccelente, signorine e signori," he told them applauding the company. "Excellent
performance ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will return to my theater soon. Your
performances are always delightful and profitable," he smiled appreciatively.
The leader of their company, The Shakespearean Acting Group, Charles Markland, shook
hands with the manager, "We will indeed, Signore Abbruzzi. This was a most successful
run for us as well."
After more congratulations all around, champagne flowed freely and the actors toasted
each other on their final performance of their engagement in Rome.
Artemus had played the male lead, Petrucchio, captivating the audience each night. His
friend Marcus had played his servant Tranio and a lovely brunette, Sylvia Kase had
played his Kate. Charles Markland came to Artemus, hand outstretched, a broad smile on
his face.
"Fine work, as usual, Artemus," he said shaking hands with his lead player, vigorously.
"Thank you Charles, but we mustn't forget Sylvia, and Marcus" Artemus acknowledged
looking around for his friends. Spotting them across the room, he waved them over
eagerly.
"Sylvia, a marvelous performance," Markland told the pretty, dark haired, young woman.
"Thank you, Charles," she smiled sweetly, then turned and clinked glasses with Artemus.
"And Marcus, well done as usual," he complimented his second star.
"Thank you, Charles. I always enjoy this play," Marcus beamed, coming to stand behind
Sylvia.
The three friends enjoyed their success and stayed until the party ended only a short hour
later. It broke up as all the actors, tired after their late night performance, needed to
change and pack. They were leaving for Bern, Germany in the morning and there was a
lot to do before they could rest. Sets had to be broken down, and wagons loaded before
they could get started the next leg of their tour.
In his dressing room, Artemus answered a knock at the door. It was Mr. Abbruzzi.
"A letter for you, Artemus," he said handing over an envelope. As was his usual, Mr.
Abbruzzi pronounced his name as though it was Ar-tee-moose, rolling the r richly, and
Artemus smiled as he accepted the letter.
"Thank you," Artemus answered reading the address on the front and recognizing his
mother's fine script. "From my mother," he told the manager waving the envelope with a
smile.
"I will leave you to your letter, then," Mr. Abbruzzi smiled back, "I look forward to your
next performance here," he told Artemus, closing the door behind him.
Artemus slit the envelope open and began to read the short letter from home. His eyes
widened and he let out a yelp of delight. Although he was with a renowned company of
actors, a place had become available in the company his mother and father were with.
"They've asked if you would consider joining the company," his mother wrote.
The best acting company of the time, was offering him a job! Artemus reread the letter
twice just to be sure he'd not misunderstood, then folded the letter back into its envelope.
Artemus clutched the letter like it was a treasure, staring off at a distant spot. Home and a
chance to perform with his parents in their company. It was everything he could have
hoped for. Excited and happy, he hummed softly to himself as he grabbed a sheet of
paper and composed his response. He addressed an envelope and sealed his letter inside,
then went to find Mr. Abbruzzi.
"Can you mail this for me, right away?" he asked pressing the envelope into the
manager's hand.
"But of course, Artemus. Everything is alright, I hope?" he asked with a note of concern.
"Securo, si. Most assuredly, yes. Everything is just perfect," Artemus assured him with a
beaming smile. "Have you seen Charles?"
"He is outside, supervising the loading of your wagons," Mr. Abbruzzi answered
returning Artemus' broad grin, knowing that the young actor had received good news
from home..
"Grazzie, tanto," Artemus thanked the manager and went to break the news to Markland.
"Charles," he addressed his employer as he picked up a piece of scenery and helped load
it into the nearest wagon, "I have some news from home."
"Everything alright with your parents?" Charles turned toward him. He relaxed when he
saw Arte’s happy countenance.
"Oh, yes," he answered, then the smile dropped from his face, "This is difficult for me to
tell you, but I've been offered a spot with the Shakespearean Company of America,"
Artemus stated quickly then turning to hand up another backboard.
Charles' face fell at the news. "You're accepting, of course," he replied flatly taking
Artemus by the arm stopping his loading and turning him so they were face to face.
Artemus nodded solemnly, "Yes, I am. It's the opportunity of a lifetime, Charles," he
began, "I plan to book passage on the first available ship. I hope you understand."
"I do, Artemus, and I'm happy for you. Selfishly, though, I hate to lose the best actor in
my troupe. I hope you understand that," Charles said putting on a smile and shaking his
lost talent's hand.
"Thank you, Charles. I've been very happy with you and learned a lot being with the
company. But I'm looking forward to this. I haven't been home in years," Artemus
answered breaking into a smile again.
"I'll tell the others, if you'd like," Markland offered kindly.
"I'll speak to Marcus and Sylvia, before I leave, but please tell the others how much I've
enjoyed our association. Working with such professionals has really helped me hone my
craft. I'll be taking the next train to Naples and book passage from there," Artemus told
him. They regarded each other for a moment longer, then Artemus shook Markland's
hand again and turned away.
Charles had known Artemus all of his life. Isak and Sara Gordon had been with ‘The
Markland Shakespearean Group many years ago. Markland had seen the young actors
grow as their talent and experience increased. And he remembered the happy time when,
as friends as well as employees, the Gordon’s had shared the news of the expected birth of
a child to the couple. Working around Sara’s pregnancy had been a challenge, but by
taking smaller roles where her growing belly could be hidden from the audience, had
allowed her to remain with the company until the birth of her son. Markland thought
back over those years. The company had been touring across America at that time. The
Gordon’s had left his employ 10 years later when Markland decided to take his touring
Company to Europe, choosing instead to remain in the United States joining the
up and coming Shakespearean Company of America. He had understood. It was a
chance to set down roots, since the Shakespearean Company of America toured mostly
up and down the East Coast. The Gordon’s had purchased a home approximately 20
miles outside of Washington, and asked Sara’s maiden sister to live with them and care
for their growing boy while they were out of town. The Gordon’s had kept in touch with
Charles over the years and when their son had finished his schooling, Charles had been
more than willing to give the young man a spot with his company. Artemus had been
a gifted talent from the start and quickly moved to the head of the line as Markland’s lead
in most productions. The ensuing nine years had been enjoyable, profitable years for
Charles’ company. He could not help feel some regret as he watched the retreating back
of the young man he’d come to think of as the son he himself had never had.
Artemus found his friend Marcus Willard with Sylvia Kase, just bringing their bags from
their respective dressing rooms.
"We have news, Artemus," Marcus said excitedly to his friend.
"So do I,” Artemus smiled. “You first," he replied graciously.
"Sylvia has agreed to marry me," Marcus announced slipping his arm around Sylvia's
waist.
"That's wonderful!" Artemus cried taking his friend's hand and giving it a hearty shake,
"I'm so happy for you both," he went on, turning and giving Sylvia a warm, friendly hug.
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as we get to Bern. There's that simply darling chapel in the town, you know the
one," Sylvia answered smiling ear to ear.
"I remember it. What a perfect place to be married," Artemus agreed.
"You'll be my best man, of course," Marcus said matter of factly. It was a given that his
best friend would stand up for him on such an important occasion.
Artemus' smile left him. "I'm afraid I can't, Marcus," he said truly disappointed.
"Why ever not?" Marcus asked surprised at the refusal.
"Well, that's my news," Artemus continued, "I'm leaving for home tonight."
"Is something wrong?" Sylvia asked placing a concerned hand on his arm.
"Not at all, I've been offered a job with the Shakespearean Company of America. I can't
turn it down," Artemus said, a little less enthusiastic than he'd been before.
"But that's wonderful news!" Marcus brightened, "Imagine being with such a prestigious
company! Artemus, congratulations!" He took his friend’s hand and grasped it warmly
Artemus felt the swell of happiness rising in him again, "I'm really delighted," he told his
friends, "About your marriage as well as my own news. I'm only sorry I won't be there for
you both," he told them sincerely.
"Completely understandable, friend. Just do our little troupe proud," Marcus answered
equally sincerely. "Write to us, let us know how you are."
"I promise," Artemus assured them. The friends hugged briefly, then Artemus went to
finish his own packing.
Three weeks and I'll be home, he thought as he flung his things into his suitcases. He
had never been as excited as he was now. He'd been touring Europe for 9 years and it had
been a heady experience, but to go home, see his family again, tour with them, that
pleased him to no end. He would miss his friends and coworkers here, some he'd known
all his life. The young actor paused. Charles Markland, he thought. He knew his parents
had been in his employ when Artemus was a child and that had played a part in
Markland's taking him on as a young man of 23. He would truly miss the older man who
had been like a father to him these past years. Artemus picked up his bags and left for the
train station with a final glance at the theater he'd performed in so many times in the last
9 years.
Berks, County, The Oley Valley, PA, 1859
The handsome, young teenager stood in his kitchen with his father. His father was not
pleased at the news he'd just received from his younger son, James.
"Jimmy, I can't believe you went behind my back and put in that application," Robert
West said angrily. "We discussed it and came to a decision months ago about this."
"We came to a decision, dad," Jim answered as calmly as he could, though inside he was
shaking with tension and a bit of apprehension, "It just wasn't the same decision. This is
what I want, what I've always wanted. It's my life, shouldn't I be the one to decide what to
do with it?" he tried to reason.
"You are 17, hardly old enough to know what you want for the rest of your life," Robert
countered.
"Dad, you and mom married when you were 18. That's worked out pretty well, I'd say.
Why is this different?" Jim asked, his green eyes flashing his anger though his tone did
not reflect it.
"What about the business? It was going to be 'West and Sons'," his father replied leaving
his anger aside and regarding his young son with wise green eyes.
"That's Frank's interest, not mine. It can be 'West and Son', I don't want to farm and work
in your store the rest of my life. It's," Jim hesitated and looked at the floor biting off the
rest of his sentence.
"It's what, son?" Robert urged him to complete his thought placing an encouraging hand
on his shoulder.
"It's boring, Dad," Jim finished softly looking back at his father. He saw the hurt in his
father’s soft green eyes and regretted having caused it. But he had to do what he wanted
with his life. "Not to you, or Frank, or maybe half the population around here," Jim
hurried to explain, waving an encompassing arm at the surrounding scenery outside the
windows, "but to me, it is. I'm sorry I defied you, dad, but I applied to the Military
Academy and I've been accepted," Jim pulled out his letter of acceptance and
handed it to his father. "And I'm going," he added firmly, hoping to close the discussion.
Robert West read the letter, which, in addition to granting his son a place in the academy,
lauded the young man's academia. His heart filled with pride as he reread the letter, then
looked at his son. Handsome and strong with a will of iron, he thought, and a man of
conviction. No, not a man yet, but well on his way. "Your mother is going to have a few
choice words on the matter, you know," Robert told his son.
Realizing his father had accepted his decision, Jim's face lit up with a broad smile. With
a twinkle in his eye, he said, "its Mom. You can smooth it over for me, right?"
"It's Mom," his father repeated though he sounded like he dreaded the prospect. Then he
too brightened. "If you are man enough to apply to the Academy,” he began, slapping the
acceptance letter into his son’s hand, “be accepted and attend, then I think you're man
enough to handle your mother on your own," Robert flashed the identical smile his son
had and patted him on the arm. "Good luck, my boy," he said leaving the kitchen.
Jim stood there a moment, lips pursed, brow furrowed, pondering what he'd say to his
mother. His older brother, Frank, came in and saw his brother in deep concentration.
"Hey, little brother, what's wrong?" Frank asked pumping water and washing dirt and
dust from the field off his hands and arms.
"I'm going to attend the Military Academy," Jim stated flatly not really paying attention.
"But that's a good thing, Jimmy. It's what you've always wanted," Frank was excited and
happy for his brother, "So what's the problem? Is it Dad?"
"No, I've got Dad convinced. It's Mom," Jim answered, coming around and tossing a
towel to his older brother.
"Dad can handle her," Frank smiled drying off. He twisted the towel and flicked it at his
younger brother.
Jim dodged left avoiding the sting. "He can, but he won't. Said if I was man enough for
the Academy then I could handle Mom myself. I just don't know how to tell her, Frank.
You know how she feels about having her 'boys' at home," Jim shook his head but had to
smile. The love of his family had been ever present all his life and he cherished them
whole-heartedly.
"Just tell her the truth, Jim," Frank suggested. "And don't beat around the bush about it."
Jim looked up in surprise. His older brother had called him Jim instead of Jimmy. Frank
always called him Jimmy, everyone did.
"I figure Jimmy isn't really what an officer in the army should be called," Frank grinned
reading his sibling's expression perfectly.
"Thanks, Frank," Jim grinned back. He extended his hand and Frank took it. But instead
of shaking it, he pulled Jim in and wrapped his arm around his brother’s neck, holding
him head down and knuckled him on the top of the head. "Cut it out!" Jim cried good-
naturedly and broke his brother's grasp easily.
"Mom's in the parlor," Frank said with a smile, leaning against the sink and twisting the
towel again..
"Time to beard the lion, I guess," Jim sighed and went to tell his mother his news. He felt
the sting of the towel on his backside and jumped as he left the kitchen.
Maggie West was knitting and glanced up when her younger son sat on the ottoman in
front of her.
"What did you do?" she asked knowingly, seeing the serious expression on his face.
"Nothing bad, Mom," Jim answered immediately. He flashed her a smile. "How do you
know I did anything?" he asked. It amazed him how his mother always knew when he’d
done something.
"I know that look. I get it every time you have to tell me something that I'm not going to
like. Like when you broke your grandmother's serving dish. So, what is it?" she smiled
back at him.
"Mom, I'm going to the Military Academy. I leave next week," Jim said, his words
pouring out in a rush.
His mother laughed. "No seriously, Jimmy, tell me what you've done?" she asked not
believing.
"That's it, Mom. I'm going to the Academy," his face and tone was serious.
Maggie laid aside her knitting. "I thought it was decided you were not going to apply. Are
you telling me you did anyway?" she asked sternly.
"Yes, Mom. I've been accepted. Dad read the acceptance letter," Jim told her.
"Robert, you knew about this?" Maggie asked, incredulous, turning toward her husband.
"Only for the last 5 minutes, dear," Robert answered casually not glancing away from the
paper he was reading.
Maggie looked from her son to her husband and back again. "Well I won't have it," she
cried. "What about the business, Robert? You're too young, Jimmy," she tried to reason
with both at the same time.
"Dad supports my decision, Mom. I'd like your support, too," Jim took his mother's hands
in his.
Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want you to do this, Jimmy. Family is what's
important."
"I know that, and you all are important to me. But, this is what I've always wanted, you
know it is. Try to understand," he cajoled, "It's quite an honor to be accepted to the
Academy."
As her tears spilled, Maggie West put on a smile before replying, "I guess you've grown
up."
Jim knew she'd accepted the decision and he now smiled, looking forward to the
beginning of his career.
Washington, DC, April, 1861
Artemus sat in a chair in his parent's dressing room, backstage at Ford's Theater. He
leaned forward, forearms on knees, his face serious, eyes downcast.
"But you don't have to do this," Sara Gordon told her son with a worried expression and
an equally worried tone.
"No, I do have to do this, Mother," Artemus stated flatly.
"But you're not a soldier, Son," Isak Gordon agreed with his wife.
"I'll learn, Dad, just like everybody else," Artemus answered sitting back and regarding
his parents soberly. "I can't just sit aside while our country is at war. It's the right thing to
do."
"You've already made your decision, then," Isak said softly.
"Yes. I've enlisted and join my company the day after tomorrow," Artemus answered in
the same soft tone.
"So soon? Where will you be?" Sara asked sounding close to tears.
"I don't know yet. I'll write you when I can," Artemus offered placing a comforting hand
over his mother’s. He hated that this was causing his parent’s pain and worry, but he
knew he had no other choice. It was the right thing to do.
"If you'd only married Suzanna, you wouldn't be doing this," his mother chided quietly.
Artemus sat upright in the chair, exasperated, drawing his hand back from his mother’s
quickly. "I'm so anxious to go over this for the nine hundredth time, Mother," Artemus
retorted sassily, "I don't love Suzanna. And even if I did and had married her, I'd still be
going. It's the right thing to do," he repeated in an irritated voice.
Artemus loved his parents very much, but at 34, they often treated him like he was still a
child and it frustrated him. And lately he'd been feeling restless, pursuing interests other
than acting. That was still his chosen profession, but all his other interests seemed to be
crowding him, pushing him toward...what? He didn't know and couldn't make his parents
understand the yearning he often felt for something more.
"Maintain a respectful tone with your mother, young man," his father told him sternly,
almost angrily.
And at 34, they still had the power to reduce him to childlike repentance. Artemus
signed. "I'm sorry. Both of you,” he apologized sheepishly. “But please try to
understand," Artemus implored.
"We're just taken by surprise, son. And we'll worry about you," Isak told him. "War is a
terrible business. It is death and destruction and we don't want that for you."
"I don't want it either, but the President needs as many able bodied men as possible if the
country is to be rid of slavery and oppression and unite as a nation," Artemus answered
holding his father's gaze. He rose. "I have a number of things to take care of before I
leave."
"Is there anything we can help you with," Isak offered, sadly resigning himself to his son's
decision.
"I won't be able to sell my house before I leave, Dad. Can you take care of that for me?"
Artemus asked.
"Of course, but you'll need a home when you return," his father answered.
Artemus did not reply to his father's statement. Instead he asked another favor, "I'm going
to have a will drawn. I'd like you to keep it for me," he spoke softly but placed his hand
on his father’s arm letting him know how serious he was.
Isak could not answer. He could not think about losing his son, but realized his son had
thought about the very real possibility of his not returning. Isak nodded quickly, unable to
speak around the lump of emotion that choked him.
"I'll come by later," he told them. He leaned down and kissed his mother's cheek and left.
"Oh, Isak," Sara took her husband's hand and wept softly.
"Don't worry, dearest. We should be proud of our son. He is a man of conviction," Isak
soothed his wife even as he dreaded the choice his son had made.
May, 1861
The company of the First Manassas, in the Union Army of the Potomac, under the lead of
Maj. Gen. Irvin McDowell, engaged the Confederate Army at Bull Run, Virginia.
The battlefield all around him rang with gunshots and cannon fire. The smoke was so
dense, Artemus could barely see where the enemy was. Huddled with several other men
in a trench, he gazed at the faces of the others with him and wondered if his own showed
the same fear he saw in the eyes and faces of those around him. They weren’t men, these
were boys, their entire lives still ahead of them. That is if they survived.
“Artemus,” asked the quivering voice of Thomas Trent, “think we’ll get out of this?”
The 18 year old, red head leaned his back against the side of the trench and turned his
fear filled eyes to Artemus.
“We just have to follow our commander, Tom,” Artemus tried to encourage the
youngster. “Now come on, let’s go,” he said with more confidence in his tone than he
actually felt, and raised himself above the rim of the trench and followed the rest of his
company into the thick of the battle.
Firing as they charged forward, bullets whizzing past, it was clear to Artemus that the
Union outnumbered the Confederate troops. He took a moment to hope this would mean
a victory. But that hope died as he saw man after man felled by Reb bullets. And still the
commanders ordered them to charge forward until night began to fall. The sounds of
battle finally ceased as neither side dared to continue in the dark. Artemus regrouped
with his company. Sitting around the small campfire, Tom Trent joined him.
“We lost Mitch, Seth, and Joe,” Tom said sitting next to Artemus and offering him a cup
filled with weak coffee.
Artemus looked at the offered cup. “Don’t you want it?” he asked without
acknowledging their lost comrades.
“Don’t like coffee much, but I thought you might,” Tom answered offering a smile that
looked more like a grimace. “They were with us in the trench this morning, remember?”
he asked as he continued the thread of his opening conversation.
Artemus nodded, “I remember,” he sighed sadly. He sipped the hot brew letting it burn
it’s way down his throat.
“Just need to follow our commander, isn’t that what you said?” Tom asked forlornly.
“They’re fools,” Artemus muttered, surprising himself as much as Tom that he’d spoken
aloud.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked anxiously glancing around to see if anyone else had
heard. When Artemus did not answer him, Tom nudged him with an elbow. “Artemus,
what do you mean?” he asked again.
“Nothing. Forget I said anything,” Artemus replied not looking at the anxious face of the
boy next to him.
“No, I won’t forget it. You think the higher ups did something wrong, don’t you?” it was
more a statement than a question. Again, Artemus did not answer him. “Come on.
Answer me,” Tom urged.
Artemus stood suddenly. “I think they are over confident. We outnumber the Grays
almost 2 to 1. Why are we still here? Why didn’t we overrun them?” Artemus spat out
angrily. He tossed the remains of the coffee at the fire. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it
out on you, Tom. Please, just forget I spoke,” Artemus said regaining his composure. He
started to walk away but stopped when Tom called to him.
“Where are you going?” Tom asked.
“I need to think. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything foolish,” Artemus offered the boy a
small smile.
But ‘something foolish’ is exactly what Artemus Gordon did that night. After walking
around the camp and thinking over the events of the day and what he had observed, he
went to his Captain.
“What is it, Gordon?” Captain Devlin asked.
“Sir, I wondered if I could speak to you for a moment,” Artemus asked, standing at
attention in the doorway of the Captain’s tent.
“At ease, private, and take a seat,” Capt. Devlin motioned to a seat at the small table in
the center of the tent. “What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, it seemed to me we outnumbered the Rebs, yet we were unable to defeat them
today,” Artemus began carefully, “I’ve been thinking about it and wondered if maybe a
different tact, maybe taking an alternate position to approach the enemy from, would be
beneficial.”
Capt. Devlin’s eyes went dark as he rose from his seat. Artemus immediately rose as
well.
“Private, your duty is not to think. Your duty is to follow orders. Do you honestly think
you know better than your commanding officers?” Devlin shouted furiously.
“No, sir. I,” Artemus began but was cut off by the Captain’s angry dismissal.
“Silence! I should write you up for insubordination, Gordon, but I will put this down to
the difficult day we all just endured. Now return to your tent and don’t ever dare to
question your superiors again. Dismissed!” ordered Capt. Devlin.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Artemus executed a brief salute and left the tent completely
chagrined.
The next morning, the battle began anew with no change to the plan of the previous day.
Late in the afternoon, Artemus tripped over something on the battlefield and went
sprawling onto the hard packed ground. It was a body, and when he turned the downed
Union soldier over, the sky blue eyes of Tom Trent stared sightlessly at the sky. A gaping
hole in the boy’s chest showed Artemus what had ended the boy’s life. Turning away
quickly, the actor turned soldier retched, sickened at the senseless death.
The Union Armies were forced to retreat back into Washington, having suffered
a sound defeat by the Confederates. Among the soldiers trudging along, disheartened,
was Private Artemus Gordon. This first taste of war left him sick at heart. The sight of
men dead on the battlefield was something he'd never imagined or been prepared for.
The reprimanded he’d received, forcing him into silently following orders, and fighting
side by side with young men, barely more than boys, stung more than he cared to admit.
The forces depleted, Capt. Devlin needed leaders. He looked over his remaining soldiers,
searching for the right man to take on the responsibility. One month later, Artemus
Gordon made Sergeant.
The Union Army of the Potomac's command was given to Gen. George McClellan and
battles and skirmishes continued through the winter 1861.
Military Academy, May 1861
“Well, West,” Colonel Marshall Merkel said to the young officer in training, “I see you
will be spending another summer with us instead of returning home for a few months of
relaxation.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to take the courses offered in the summer months,” Jim answered
politely.
“You did that last summer as well, did you not?” the colonel asked peering at the serious,
intelligent, young man before him.
“Yes, sir,” Jim answered simply.
“At this rate, you’ll be graduating next summer. Very industrious, Congratulations,” Col.
Merkel replied. “Tell me, are you in a hurry to join the fighting?”
“Not as a choice, sir,” Jim stated diplomatically, “but it is what my training is all about
isn’t it? To help defend our country?”
“It is indeed,” the Colonel allowed. “Don’t you miss your family, though?”
“Very much, sir. But the way I figure it, the sooner the war is over, the sooner I’ll be able
to spend some time with them,” Jim replied hoping his answer did not sound
disrespectful.
Col. Merkel smiled. “Carry on, West,” he dismissed the eager student.
January, 1862
Col. Merkel looked over the young soldiers lined up before him.
"I have an announcement," he told them. "We need volunteers to join the fighting. Any of
the upper classmen who will take on active duty and set aside your studies until the
unpleasantness is settled, will start out with the rank of Lieutenant," he told the young
serious faced students. "The rest of you will have to earn your ranks the old fashioned
way. Submit your names in writing to me by tomorrow evening. That's all. You're
dismissed," he said and strode away. He hated knowing that he'd just asked these men, no
not men, boys, to voluntarily give their lives when they were still students. But it was
necessary. The Union needed as many men as possible. The war was dragging on and the
Union Armies were not doing well.
"What are you writing, Jim," Allan Beckwith asked his friend and roommate.
"I'm submitting my name for active duty," Jim answered putting the pen into the inkwell
and blotting the paper.
"You're kidding! Jim, that's tantamount to suicide," Allan cried. Though he was the same
age as Jim, he was a year behind.
"Why? We've been training for three years. I'm ready. And this is what all our training has
been about; serving our country when needed. We're needed now, and I'm going," Jim
stated resolutely. Even though he had taken the extra courses over the past two summers,
he was not officially considered an upper classman even though his course work this past
semester put him in stead to graduate in May.
"The Union will end all this secession business without our help, Jim. Besides, let the
South keep their slaves. It's not like it's anything new, you know," Allan argued. “And,”
he added as icing on the cake, “you’re set to graduate in a few months.”
Jim turned toward his friend, frowning. "Let them keep their slaves? How can you say
that? Those are men and women and children, not cattle, Allan. It's wrong and we should
be doing everything we can to help stop it," Jim asserted. “Don’t you understand how this
war is tearing our country apart? How can we be a ‘nation’ if we continue to pit brother
against brother,” he continued seriously. Seeing the chastised look on Allen’s face, Jim
softened his tone and smiled. “And I’ll still graduate, I’ve enough credits and training,”
Jim said confidently. He folded his submission and left his friend to stare after him in
surprise.
When Col. Merkel called for the volunteers a few days later, he faced a large group of
students. Most of them were 1st and 2nd years, only a few were upperclassmen. He
called out names, dividing them into two columns. One was to be assigned to the Eastern
Frontier, the other to the Western Frontier. Jim West was with the group assigned to the
Western Frontier as was his friend Allan Beckwith.
"Allan, I'm surprised to see you here. What changed your mind?" Jim asked his friend.
"I thought about what you said and I agree with you. Besides, you won't last a day without
me," Allan joked.
"West," the commander called to Jim.
Jim snapped to attention, "Yes, sir," he saluted.
"At ease, West. I have some news for you," the commander began as Jim relaxed to at
ease. "You have excelled at your studies and training and the Academy is very pleased
with your progress. Because of that, and because you have completed all the studies
required, you will be starting with the rank of Lieutenant. Congratulations," he concluded
and pinned the insignia on Jim.
"Thank you, sir," Jim answered with more than a hint of pride in his voice. “Does this
mean I’ve graduated?” he asked.
"You have, indeed. Get your gear in order. You'll be joining the Union Army of the
Tennessee. Report to me for further orders at 0600, Lieutenant West," the commander
saluted. He turned and headed to his office. In his opinion, West had graduated a fine
officer. He was saddened to think he may have just sent the young man to his demise.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant! Jim, you are the luckiest man I know," Allan said shaking
Jim's hand.
Jim knew luck had nothing to do with it, but shook his friend’s hand and accepted his
remark modestly and graciously.
“Thanks, Allan,” he grinned at his friend, “Think you can follow my orders?” he teased.
“Yes, sir,” Allan snapped off a smart salute and the two young men shared a moment of
laughter.
The small company of men, led by Lt. James West, left the next morning to join the
Army of the Tennessee who were fighting in the Western Frontier. They reached the
army by early February joining up with them in the middle of a skirmish in Kansas.
“Allan,” Jim ordered his friend, “follow that line of men,” he pointed toward a line of
Union soldiers fully engaged. “I’ve got to find the commanding officer and let him know
we’re here,” he finished, receiving a nod from Allan. Jim made his way through the
whizzing bullets and finally espied an officer on horseback. He approached swiftly,
pulling his orders from his inside pocket.
“Sir,” he spoke confidently as the Major dismounted. Jim saluted, held it until the Major
snapped off a brief salute in return, then handed his orders over.
“Lt. West, I’m Major Hanshaw. Where are your men?” Hanshaw asked looking around.
“Engaged, sir,” Jim replied, “I wanted to make you aware of our arrival.”
“You left your company, Lieutenant?” Maj. Hanshaw sounded angry, “Didn’t they teach
you anything at the Academy?” he fumed, “Get back to your company until this is over.
Then report to my tent,” Maj. Hanshaw snapped his dismissal of the young man before
him.
“Yes, sir,” Jim saluted quickly and hurried off to rejoin his company. He felt his cheeks
burn with embarrassment at the chastisement he’d received, though thinking on it, he had
to be honest with himself. He knew he’d blundered.
Back with his company, Jim put the moment to the back of his mind and issued orders to
his men on where to position themselves. The battle continued until early evening. The
order for retreat came down through the ranks and reached Jim, who led his troops away
to the campsite a safe distance from the battle line.
The Union had suffered a defeat. Jim felt defeated in more ways than one. First he’d left
his men in order to find the commanding officer and felt shamed he’d not thought his
actions through more thoroughly. Worse than that, Allan Beckwith died on the field after
engaging a rebel soldier in hand-to-hand combat. It was the first time Jim had seen
anyone killed and the bloody mass that had once been his friend was pressed, forever,
into his memory. The other men looked to him for leadership.
Jim addressed his company. “Get something to eat and try to get some rest. I’ll be back
after I speak to Maj. Hanshaw,” he told them then reported to the Major’s tent.
“Lt. West,” Maj. Hanshaw returned Jim’s salute, “have a seat,” he waved toward an
empty chair opposite where he was seated. “This was quite a defeat for us, Lt.,” Hanshaw
spoke in a low tone. “I spoke harshly to you earlier. Do you know why?”
“Yes, sir,” Jim replied, “I should never have left my company, sir. They were fully
engaged and I should have stayed with them to lead them, sir,” he answered contritely.
“True, Lt. I’ve just had the opportunity to look over the papers you brought with you. I
did not realize you came directly from the Academy to here. This was your first battle?”
Maj. Hanshaw asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jim admitted.
“Well, I remember being young and inexperienced,” Hanshaw gave Jim a small smile,
“and it wasn’t in a time of war. How did your men do today?”
“They fought hard and well, sir,” Jim answered honestly. The memory of Allan
Beckwith’s lifeless body tried to intrude into his thoughts.
“Did you loose many?” Maj. Hanshaw saw the slightly pale pallor on the young
Lieutenant’s face and suspected he’d lost a friend or two..
“Not too many, sir,” Jim’s voice was low and soft as he struggled to maintain control of
his emotions.
Maj. Hanshaw saw the inner struggle in the changing expression that crossed West’s
face, so he did not press further.
“You will take your company and continue on to the base camp just outside of
Mississippi. You’re to attach to Maj. Gen. Grant’s outfit. See that your men rest up
tonight. You’ll leave at dawn,” Maj. Hanshaw told Jim. He gave Jim verbal directions to
the camp before dismissing him.
As Jim was exiting the Major’s tent, he was stopped by the Major’s voice. “Lt. West, I
want to give you a word of advice. Gen. Grant is a hardened military man. He will say
things in anger that he’ll never remember saying later. If you are fortunate enough to
meet the Old Man, don’t take anything he says in anger personally. If you’re worth half
of what your commanding officer at the Academy says, you’ll be a fine officer.
Dismissed, son,” Maj. Hanshaw said with a sincere smile for Jim.
“Thank you sir,” Jim answered and went to rejoin his company.
Jim slept fitfully that night, his dreams haunted by the scenes of the battle, more blood
than he’d ever imagined, the nearly unrecognizable body of his friend. In the morning,
Jim called his company together, explained they were continuing on and hid his
tumultuous feelings. He donned a stony expression as he led them on to their base camp.
April, 1862
Maj. Gen. Ulysses Grant was in charge of the Army of the Tennessee and the chief
strategist in the Western offensive. Confederate Generals Johnston and P.T.
Beauregard hoped to drive Grant and his Army away from the Tennessee River and stop
Grant's imminent attack on Mississippi before reinforcements from the Army of the Ohio
could arrive.
The Confederates launched a surprise attack at Shiloh. It was the one time in his military
career that Grant was taken by surprise. Disorganized and skirmishing blindly, it was
hard to tell who was on what side. The Union Army was losing.
Lt. James West boldly went to Gen. Grant’s command tent.“Gen. Grant, sir,” Jim saluted and waited for the General to acknowledge him.
Grant returned the salute and gruffly addressed the young lieutenant. “What do you want?” he barked.
“Sir, if I may speak freely,” Jim asked.
Grant glanced at the handsome, young man before him. He saw confidence and poise in
his stance, intelligence in his emerald eyes. Something in the young man struck the
seasoned General.
“What’s your name, son,” Grant asked softening his tone.
“Lt. James West, sir,” Jim replied.
“Speak your mind, Lt. West, but I warn you, it better be good,” Gen. Grant regarded West
expectantly.
“Sir, I’ve scouted the area and I’d like to make a suggestion. I propose we fall back
toward Pittsburg Landing to the northeast,” Jim spoke calmly.
“Why?” Grant asked simply.
“Sir, it’s a position on a slightly sunken road. It will provide the critical time needed to
allow us to organize and stabilize our movements,” Jim suggested.
“Show me,” Grant replied spreading a map on the table in front of him.
Jim pointed out the suggested position and together, the General and the Lieutenant
argued the merits and potential disadvantages.
“Gen. Johnston was killed today and his second in command, Gen. Beauregard, has
ceased attacking further for this evening,” Jim told Gen. Grant. “With a new position,
Beauregard won’t know where we are when he wants to resume his attack in the
morning. It could buy us enough time for the reinforcements from the Army of the Ohio
to arrive.”
Grant chewed on his cigar, considering the young man’s suggestion and finally agreed the
plan was sound.
“Have the troops take up the position, West,” Gen. Grant ordered. As Jim saluted and
turned to leave, Grant spoke again, “I like the way you think, West. If this works, I’ll
want to speak to you again.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim answered. He smiled to himself as he left the tent, heartened that the
General took his suggestion.
The Army of the Ohio arrived as predicted and Grant launched his counter planned
attack in the early morning from his new starting position.
The Confederates were forced to retreat, effectively ending their hopes of stopping
Grant's invasion into Mississippi. Gen. Grant called for Lt. West to come to his tent.
“As I said before,” Grant spoke to the young lieutenant, “I like the way you think. You
argued convincingly and your strategizing was sound. I’ve looked into your record, West,
and found you to be an industrious student who graduated early and at the top of the
class. Further, you led your company, engaged in battle, and even though you lost the
skirmish and your best friend, you made sure your troops arrived safely. I’d like to
reward that strategic thinking, intelligence and leadership by promoting you to Captain.
Its’ not to be considered a field promotion that will be taken away at the end of this
unpleasantness, you understand. This is a promotion of merit,” he explained.
Jim stood proudly as he accepted his promotion, “Thank you sir. I’ll do my best never to
let you down,” he beamed.
Fall, 1862
In September, Lee was able to lead his men across the Potomac River north into
Antietam. There, the Northern and Southern armies fought furiously, neither side
relenting or retreating. The casualties were heavy on both sides. Finally, Lee returned
with his decimated army to Virginia. The Union Army counted Antietam as a victory
and hoped it would be a turning point for them after so many defeats.
After the Union’s second unsuccessful encounter at Bull Run, Artemus Gordon was
transferred north to join a battalion at Gettysburg. He was glad to be away from Virginia.
With the number of wounded in the battle at Antietam, medics were sorely needed and
Artemus was ordered to assist Lt. Col. Henry Chandler in the surgery.
“Who are you?” demanded the short, gray-haired Col. Chandler. He was a man of about
50 years of age whose face was lined with years of hard work and tough decisions. His
tone was abrupt and brooked no argument.
“Sgt. Gordon, sir. I was told to report to you, sir,” Artemus answered holding his salute.
“Put your arm down, man, we don’t have time for such ceremony here,” Chandler said
turning to pick up a fairly clean set of instruments. He thrust them into Artemus’ hands.
“It’s about time they sent me another medic,” he groused.
“Sir, I’m not a medic,” Artemus offered cautiously.
“What did you say?” Col. Chandler thundered.
“Sir, I said, I’m not a medic,” Artemus repeated, a slightly nervous feeling washing over him.
Chandler eyed the young man before him. “Seen much bloodshed in battle?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
“Are you in good health?” Chandler fired off his next question.
“Yes, sir,” Artemus said, curious at the line of questioning.
“Then you’ll do. Go over there,” Col. Chandler pointed to a table where a bloodied
soldier lay moaning, “His leg needs to come off.”
Artemus paled. “I can’t do that,” he stammered without the proper address.
“Yes you can. Peters will help you. He’s not a medic either, but he’s seen it done enough
times. He’ll walk you through it,” Chandler told him. He noticed the sickened look on
Gordon’s face and spoke in a less abrupt tone. “That man’s dying. Whatever you do to
him probably won’t be the cause and may just save him,” he patted Artemus on the arm.
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll get used to it.” He walked away leaving Artemus standing
frozen in place.
“I’m Peters, Sgt. Gordon,” a young man in his 20’s said coming up to Artemus. “We’d
best get started.” He pulled Artemus by the arm over to the waiting, wounded, man.
Peters was as good as Lt. Col. Chandler’s assurance. He instructed Artemus on what
instruments to use and how to use them. When it was time to stitch the gaping wound,
Peters asked Chandler for assistance.
Chandler completed the operation, showing Artemus how to place the sutures properly
and what to look for to make sure there was nothing left to bleed before closing the skin
over the wound.
“The next one won’t be as bad,” Chandler told Artemus.
“Yes, sir. If you say so,” Artemus forced out the words as his stomach twisted at the
thought.
Artemus worked side by side with the other doctors and medics. He learned new skills,
listened intently as they instructed him in the varied surgeries needed to be
performed. The hours stretched into days, as more and more wounded soldiers were
placed before him. Artemus did not stop or even seem to feel the need for a break, so
focused was his concentration, until finally, when the patient before him was removed to
a cot, no one brought another to him. He looked around, confused.
Col. Chandler came to stand next to his newest recruit. “It’s over for now, son,” he
said wiping his hands on an already stained cloth, “You did well. Peters will show you
where you can clean up and get some rest.”
“This way, Sgt. Gordon,” Peters said appearing at Artemus’ side. He led Artemus from
the surgery tent into the early morning light.
They walked in silence a few yards when, finally, Artemus seemed to stir from his torpor.
He stopped, stepped into the nearby brush, and was violently sick.
“It’s ok, Sergeant,” Peters said placing a comforting hand on his back. “My first day, I
puked my guts out between each patient. I’m surprised you held out so long.”
Wiping his mouth, Artemus stood to face the young man. “What’s your name, son?”
With a look of surprise, Peters answered. “Peters, Sergeant. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course, I remember. I mean what’s your first name and your rank, for that matter?”
Artemus asked smiling crookedly at him.
“Oh. Well, I’m a Sgt. also. And the name’s Quincy Peters. Glad to meet you,” Peters
smiled back and extended his hand.
Artemus shook it warmly. “Artemus Gordon,” he introduced himself, “I want to thank
you for all your help,” Artemus paused with a slight grimace, “back there in the
surgery.”
“Think nothing of it. The higher ups are always pressing the likes of us into service
where we have no business being. I’m glad I could help. So, Sgt. Gordon, why are you
here?” Peters asked.
“Why am I here? I was transferred here,” Artemus shrugged as they continued to walk
toward a tent at the end of the neat row.
Peters laughed out loud. “I figured that, sir, I meant why are you in the army?”
“What’s the matter with you, Peters? Surely you know Sergeants aren’t addressed as
‘sir’? And I enlisted because it was necessary,” Artemus answered.
“Yeah, I know not to address a noncom as ‘sir’. I didn’t use it in respect to your rank, it
was in respect to your,” Peters reddened and did not continue.
“Out with it, boy,” Artemus growled good naturedly.
“Your age, sir,” Peters answered respectfully.
Now it was Artemus who laughed out loud and he realized just how long it had been
since he’d done that. It felt good. “I’m not that much older than you. What are you 25,
26?” he asked.
“I’ll be 20 next month,” Peters smiled up at him.
Artemus groaned. “Well, don’t call me sir. It makes me feel old,” he replied and quickly
added, “Which I’m not.”
“You’re 35,” Peters said knowingly. “I peeked at your records,” he explained.
Over the course of next few months, Artemus and young Peters became fast friends. As
their company moved west into West Virginia, with Sgt. Peter’s assistance, Artemus
helped save many injured men. Many more died than survived, however, and his father's
words rang in his head. 'It is death and destruction', and Artemus was in full realization
of that truth. In one particularly vicious battle, even the surgery was shelled with cannon
fire. Both Peters and Lt. Col. Chandler were mortally wounded. It left Artemus the
second most experienced medic. Gen. Burnside saw to it that he received a promotion to
Lieutenant for his diligent and exemplary work in the surgery and placed him second in
command after Capt. George Hargraves, the now senior doctor.
Burnside led them into Virginia and traveled south, reaching Fredericksburg by
December. Launching repeated frontal assaults against the Confederate troops in Mary’s
Heights, proved an utter failure. In a poor position to engage, the assaults led to a near
massacre of Union troops. Again, Artemus sought out his superiors and asked them to
advise against further assaults of this kind. They were well aware that the surgery was
swamped with injured and dying men and passed the advice up the line to no avail. Their
losses numbered over 12,000 men. Shorthanded in the surgery, Artemus still anguished
over each man he lost, worried it was his lack of knowledge and skill that had
contributed to their deaths. However, his superior officers recognized his skill and
tenacity in performing his duties and put him up for another promotion. Artemus Gordon
made Captain.
May, 1863
President Lincoln was frustrated by the lack of leadership in the Eastern Frontier and
again made a change in leadership. Burnside was replaced by Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker.
Reinforcements arrived and Hooker led his troops to Chancellorville. Artemus was
reassigned to intelligence as a result of his observations and advice given earlier. In this
position he secretly led small scouting parties into Confederate held positions. More
often than not, men were not available, and he went alone. Engagement of the enemy was
not the object, unless it was absolutely necessary. Instead the gathering of information on
the enemy’s numbers and fortifications was the mission. His intelligence estimates were
that the Union troops outnumbered the poorly supplied Confederates two to one. Even
with this information, Hooker lost the battle at Chancellorville, and was humiliated
further by being replaced himself, by Maj. Gen. George Meade as Lee invaded the north
once again, this time in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
It was clear to Artemus that the Eastern Frontier was scrambling for a foothold in their attempts to defeat Lee, and he devised new ways of infiltrating the Confederate armies. During one foray, he managed to pilfer a Confederate uniform. The owner had left it on a pile of rocks by a stream while he indulged himself in a much needed, swim and bath. Several times, Artemus boldly donned the uniform and entered enemy encampments. Keeping to the shadows around the fires, he listened to the men talk, eavesdropped by the officers’ tents, and gathered more and more useful intelligence.Meade factored this information into his plans, and engaged Lee's men in Gettysburg. Finally, the Union soundly succeeded in battle. The engagement had lasted over a month, ending in July, and was deemed the bloodiest battle of the war so far. Even so, it was the turning point the Union Army had been looking for. Lee retreated, giving up his attempt to take Washington by attacking from the north. Meade, though, also failed to stop Lee's
retreat, and once again, the great Bobby Lee and his men slipped back into Virginia.
President Lincoln was furious and now looked for leadership for the Union Armies in
another direction, the Western Frontier.
The Western Frontier, Summer, 1863
Integral in Grant's strategizing was the young Capt. James West. Grant came to value his
opinion and made him his aide-de-camp. He discussed with Capt. West. his
encroachment of Fort Henry and Fort Donnelson, A master tactician, Grant found his
match in his young aide. Taking on a number of his suggestions had helped earn the
victories at the forts and gain control of the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers for the
Union.
“Vicksburg is Mississippi's fortress city,” Gen. Grant said to his aide. “I want to take it
and take it quickly.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim agreed, “With Vicksburg under our belts, we’ll control supply routes for
ourselves as well as for the Confederates. But they are well fortified. The Confederacy
has gathered every ounce of foodstuffs, plant or animal, and ammunition into the fort. It
may not be as quick as you might want, sir,” he mused aloud.
“I think if we can get close enough to bombard them, they’ll surrender,” Grant laid out
another map and pointed. “We have troops coming from the north and we’ll go in from
the west. That leaves only the docks. If we take them first, we’ll have access from that
side as well,” he explained.
In May of 1863, Grant positioned his Generals and attacked. The troops followed Grant’s
plan, but a month later, Vicksburg still held strong.
Grant regrouped with his aide de camp to strategize further.
“I wanted this over by now,” he stormed angrily. “We’ve got to strengthen our attacks.”
“Sir, if we divide the battalions into smaller companies, we could bombard them at night
as well as day. Half the troops manning the guns during the day and fresh troops taking
over at night,” Jim proposed.
Gen. Grant chewed his mustache thoughtfully. “You know, Jim that just might work. We
outnumber the Rebs and so far battles have ceased with nightfall. Without fresh troops,
they’ll be so worn and frazzled, they’ll have to surrender. I like it, my boy,” Grant smiled
and clapped Jim soundly on the back.
With a new strategy in place, the Union Army was relentless in their besiegement of the
city until, finally, the Confederates were forced to surrender. One day after the victory in
Gettysburg, and two days after Jim’s 21st birthday, Vicksburg fell into Union hands on
July 4th. Grant had gained control of the Mississippi River for the Union. With it came
control over shipments of supplies for the Confederate Army. It effectively divided the
Confederacy in two.
1864
President Lincoln made Gen. Grant the Commander in Chief of all Union armies. Grant
understood the concept of total war. He knew the only road to success was to utterly
destroy the Confederate forces and economy. He devised a plan, to send his generals in
various directions. They would surround Richmond, destroy the agricultural base in
Atlanta and the Shenandoah Valley, and stop the railroad supply lines. Under this
coordinated attack strategy, the Confederates could be brought to their knees.
The tenacious Grant kept pressing Lee's troops, forcing them to fall back time and time
again. The Union suffered severe losses, in one case 66,000 men in 6 weeks, but still
Grant persisted. He went so far as to vow that he would not stop even if it took all
summer, and it was beginning to look like it would.
Grant came to realize he needed more intelligence on Confederate troop numbers,
positions and fortifications, if his plan was to succeed. Once again, he enlisted his
aide-de-camp.
“I want you to find the best man for the job,” Gen. Grant said, after explaining what he
wanted to Jim. ”You have access to all records available on all the battles and
engagements. Find out who has an intelligence squad that has been valuable reporting
enemy information, then bring me your recommendations.”
Jim scoured the armies for the most successful forces. Then, charting which man had
been most successful in bringing in useful intelligence, he came to Gen. Grant with his
recommendation.
"What have you come up with, James," Gen. Grant asked in his gruff voice. He was
confident that his intelligent, analytical young aide would have a sound recommendation.
"One man in particular seems to excel in intelligence gathering, sir. Capt. Artemus
Gordon, formerly with Gen. Meade at Gettysburg and now serving under Gen. Sheridan,"
Jim replied.
"I hear a 'but', James. What is it?" Grant asked reading his aide competently.
"Sir, the man is 37 years old. That's much older than the average soldier. I have some
reservations about enlisting the assistance of someone who may be past his prime," the
young captain reported.
"Do you realize Capt. Gordon is only 5 years my junior?" Grant asked suppressing a
smile.
Jim looked up in surprise. "No, sir, I did not. I certainly did not mean to suggest you were
past your prime. However, I believe you would agree that you are not the average soldier,
sir," Jim rallied.
"Nice recovery, James," Grant chuckled. "What's Gordon's record like?"
"It has been exemplary, by all accounts, General. He enlisted in April of 1861 and has
risen from private to captain. Served in surgery under McDowell where he made
lieutenant and he was then recruited to work in intelligence under Meade and Sheridan as
a captain," Jim informed his superior.
Gen. Grant chewed his on mustache, thinking before going on. "I want the best there is,
Capt. West, and if Capt. Gordon is the best in your opinion, get him here, right away.
And leave your reports on Sheridan as well. He may just be the man I need to succeed in
the Shenandoah," Gen. Grant added.
"Yes, sir," Jim saluted and left the tent. He sent a message to Gen. Sheridan requesting
Capt. Gordon to report to Gen. Grant, as soon as possible.
General Sheridan’s Quarters, Shenandoah Valley
“Gordon,” Gen. Sheridan began as Artemus stood at ease before him, “Gen. Grant
himself has requested your services in Virginia.”
“Gen. Grant, sir?” Artemus asked incredulous.
As usual, I don’t own the characters, I just love them.
Regular disclaimer on ownership of the characters applies.
The Night of the Travelers
by Cris Hart
Rome, Italy, 1859
The tall, young man bowed to his appreciative audience, a broad grin lighting his
handsome features. He left the stage arm raised, acknowledging their applause. And still
the crowd continued clapping and cheering.
"One more bow, Artemus," urged his friend Marcus Willard pushing him back toward the
curtain.
"All right, but just one more," Artemus Gordon beamed, slipped between the curtains and
bowed to the audience quickly, and then ducked backstage.
The theater manager, Signore Abbruzzi, was there to congratulate him and the rest of the
troupe on their superb performance of Taming of the Shrew.
"Eccelente, signorine e signori," he told them applauding the company. "Excellent
performance ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will return to my theater soon. Your
performances are always delightful and profitable," he smiled appreciatively.
The leader of their company, The Shakespearean Acting Group, Charles Markland, shook
hands with the manager, "We will indeed, Signore Abbruzzi. This was a most successful
run for us as well."
After more congratulations all around, champagne flowed freely and the actors toasted
each other on their final performance of their engagement in Rome.
Artemus had played the male lead, Petrucchio, captivating the audience each night. His
friend Marcus had played his servant Tranio and a lovely brunette, Sylvia Kase had
played his Kate. Charles Markland came to Artemus, hand outstretched, a broad smile on
his face.
"Fine work, as usual, Artemus," he said shaking hands with his lead player, vigorously.
"Thank you Charles, but we mustn't forget Sylvia, and Marcus" Artemus acknowledged
looking around for his friends. Spotting them across the room, he waved them over
eagerly.
"Sylvia, a marvelous performance," Markland told the pretty, dark haired, young woman.
"Thank you, Charles," she smiled sweetly, then turned and clinked glasses with Artemus.
"And Marcus, well done as usual," he complimented his second star.
"Thank you, Charles. I always enjoy this play," Marcus beamed, coming to stand behind
Sylvia.
The three friends enjoyed their success and stayed until the party ended only a short hour
later. It broke up as all the actors, tired after their late night performance, needed to
change and pack. They were leaving for Bern, Germany in the morning and there was a
lot to do before they could rest. Sets had to be broken down, and wagons loaded before
they could get started the next leg of their tour.
In his dressing room, Artemus answered a knock at the door. It was Mr. Abbruzzi.
"A letter for you, Artemus," he said handing over an envelope. As was his usual, Mr.
Abbruzzi pronounced his name as though it was Ar-tee-moose, rolling the r richly, and
Artemus smiled as he accepted the letter.
"Thank you," Artemus answered reading the address on the front and recognizing his
mother's fine script. "From my mother," he told the manager waving the envelope with a
smile.
"I will leave you to your letter, then," Mr. Abbruzzi smiled back, "I look forward to your
next performance here," he told Artemus, closing the door behind him.
Artemus slit the envelope open and began to read the short letter from home. His eyes
widened and he let out a yelp of delight. Although he was with a renowned company of
actors, a place had become available in the company his mother and father were with.
"They've asked if you would consider joining the company," his mother wrote.
The best acting company of the time, was offering him a job! Artemus reread the letter
twice just to be sure he'd not misunderstood, then folded the letter back into its envelope.
Artemus clutched the letter like it was a treasure, staring off at a distant spot. Home and a
chance to perform with his parents in their company. It was everything he could have
hoped for. Excited and happy, he hummed softly to himself as he grabbed a sheet of
paper and composed his response. He addressed an envelope and sealed his letter inside,
then went to find Mr. Abbruzzi.
"Can you mail this for me, right away?" he asked pressing the envelope into the
manager's hand.
"But of course, Artemus. Everything is alright, I hope?" he asked with a note of concern.
"Securo, si. Most assuredly, yes. Everything is just perfect," Artemus assured him with a
beaming smile. "Have you seen Charles?"
"He is outside, supervising the loading of your wagons," Mr. Abbruzzi answered
returning Artemus' broad grin, knowing that the young actor had received good news
from home..
"Grazzie, tanto," Artemus thanked the manager and went to break the news to Markland.
"Charles," he addressed his employer as he picked up a piece of scenery and helped load
it into the nearest wagon, "I have some news from home."
"Everything alright with your parents?" Charles turned toward him. He relaxed when he
saw Arte’s happy countenance.
"Oh, yes," he answered, then the smile dropped from his face, "This is difficult for me to
tell you, but I've been offered a spot with the Shakespearean Company of America,"
Artemus stated quickly then turning to hand up another backboard.
Charles' face fell at the news. "You're accepting, of course," he replied flatly taking
Artemus by the arm stopping his loading and turning him so they were face to face.
Artemus nodded solemnly, "Yes, I am. It's the opportunity of a lifetime, Charles," he
began, "I plan to book passage on the first available ship. I hope you understand."
"I do, Artemus, and I'm happy for you. Selfishly, though, I hate to lose the best actor in
my troupe. I hope you understand that," Charles said putting on a smile and shaking his
lost talent's hand.
"Thank you, Charles. I've been very happy with you and learned a lot being with the
company. But I'm looking forward to this. I haven't been home in years," Artemus
answered breaking into a smile again.
"I'll tell the others, if you'd like," Markland offered kindly.
"I'll speak to Marcus and Sylvia, before I leave, but please tell the others how much I've
enjoyed our association. Working with such professionals has really helped me hone my
craft. I'll be taking the next train to Naples and book passage from there," Artemus told
him. They regarded each other for a moment longer, then Artemus shook Markland's
hand again and turned away.
Charles had known Artemus all of his life. Isak and Sara Gordon had been with ‘The
Markland Shakespearean Group many years ago. Markland had seen the young actors
grow as their talent and experience increased. And he remembered the happy time when,
as friends as well as employees, the Gordon’s had shared the news of the expected birth of
a child to the couple. Working around Sara’s pregnancy had been a challenge, but by
taking smaller roles where her growing belly could be hidden from the audience, had
allowed her to remain with the company until the birth of her son. Markland thought
back over those years. The company had been touring across America at that time. The
Gordon’s had left his employ 10 years later when Markland decided to take his touring
Company to Europe, choosing instead to remain in the United States joining the
up and coming Shakespearean Company of America. He had understood. It was a
chance to set down roots, since the Shakespearean Company of America toured mostly
up and down the East Coast. The Gordon’s had purchased a home approximately 20
miles outside of Washington, and asked Sara’s maiden sister to live with them and care
for their growing boy while they were out of town. The Gordon’s had kept in touch with
Charles over the years and when their son had finished his schooling, Charles had been
more than willing to give the young man a spot with his company. Artemus had been
a gifted talent from the start and quickly moved to the head of the line as Markland’s lead
in most productions. The ensuing nine years had been enjoyable, profitable years for
Charles’ company. He could not help feel some regret as he watched the retreating back
of the young man he’d come to think of as the son he himself had never had.
Artemus found his friend Marcus Willard with Sylvia Kase, just bringing their bags from
their respective dressing rooms.
"We have news, Artemus," Marcus said excitedly to his friend.
"So do I,” Artemus smiled. “You first," he replied graciously.
"Sylvia has agreed to marry me," Marcus announced slipping his arm around Sylvia's
waist.
"That's wonderful!" Artemus cried taking his friend's hand and giving it a hearty shake,
"I'm so happy for you both," he went on, turning and giving Sylvia a warm, friendly hug.
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as we get to Bern. There's that simply darling chapel in the town, you know the
one," Sylvia answered smiling ear to ear.
"I remember it. What a perfect place to be married," Artemus agreed.
"You'll be my best man, of course," Marcus said matter of factly. It was a given that his
best friend would stand up for him on such an important occasion.
Artemus' smile left him. "I'm afraid I can't, Marcus," he said truly disappointed.
"Why ever not?" Marcus asked surprised at the refusal.
"Well, that's my news," Artemus continued, "I'm leaving for home tonight."
"Is something wrong?" Sylvia asked placing a concerned hand on his arm.
"Not at all, I've been offered a job with the Shakespearean Company of America. I can't
turn it down," Artemus said, a little less enthusiastic than he'd been before.
"But that's wonderful news!" Marcus brightened, "Imagine being with such a prestigious
company! Artemus, congratulations!" He took his friend’s hand and grasped it warmly
Artemus felt the swell of happiness rising in him again, "I'm really delighted," he told his
friends, "About your marriage as well as my own news. I'm only sorry I won't be there for
you both," he told them sincerely.
"Completely understandable, friend. Just do our little troupe proud," Marcus answered
equally sincerely. "Write to us, let us know how you are."
"I promise," Artemus assured them. The friends hugged briefly, then Artemus went to
finish his own packing.
Three weeks and I'll be home, he thought as he flung his things into his suitcases. He
had never been as excited as he was now. He'd been touring Europe for 9 years and it had
been a heady experience, but to go home, see his family again, tour with them, that
pleased him to no end. He would miss his friends and coworkers here, some he'd known
all his life. The young actor paused. Charles Markland, he thought. He knew his parents
had been in his employ when Artemus was a child and that had played a part in
Markland's taking him on as a young man of 23. He would truly miss the older man who
had been like a father to him these past years. Artemus picked up his bags and left for the
train station with a final glance at the theater he'd performed in so many times in the last
9 years.
Berks, County, The Oley Valley, PA, 1859
The handsome, young teenager stood in his kitchen with his father. His father was not
pleased at the news he'd just received from his younger son, James.
"Jimmy, I can't believe you went behind my back and put in that application," Robert
West said angrily. "We discussed it and came to a decision months ago about this."
"We came to a decision, dad," Jim answered as calmly as he could, though inside he was
shaking with tension and a bit of apprehension, "It just wasn't the same decision. This is
what I want, what I've always wanted. It's my life, shouldn't I be the one to decide what to
do with it?" he tried to reason.
"You are 17, hardly old enough to know what you want for the rest of your life," Robert
countered.
"Dad, you and mom married when you were 18. That's worked out pretty well, I'd say.
Why is this different?" Jim asked, his green eyes flashing his anger though his tone did
not reflect it.
"What about the business? It was going to be 'West and Sons'," his father replied leaving
his anger aside and regarding his young son with wise green eyes.
"That's Frank's interest, not mine. It can be 'West and Son', I don't want to farm and work
in your store the rest of my life. It's," Jim hesitated and looked at the floor biting off the
rest of his sentence.
"It's what, son?" Robert urged him to complete his thought placing an encouraging hand
on his shoulder.
"It's boring, Dad," Jim finished softly looking back at his father. He saw the hurt in his
father’s soft green eyes and regretted having caused it. But he had to do what he wanted
with his life. "Not to you, or Frank, or maybe half the population around here," Jim
hurried to explain, waving an encompassing arm at the surrounding scenery outside the
windows, "but to me, it is. I'm sorry I defied you, dad, but I applied to the Military
Academy and I've been accepted," Jim pulled out his letter of acceptance and
handed it to his father. "And I'm going," he added firmly, hoping to close the discussion.
Robert West read the letter, which, in addition to granting his son a place in the academy,
lauded the young man's academia. His heart filled with pride as he reread the letter, then
looked at his son. Handsome and strong with a will of iron, he thought, and a man of
conviction. No, not a man yet, but well on his way. "Your mother is going to have a few
choice words on the matter, you know," Robert told his son.
Realizing his father had accepted his decision, Jim's face lit up with a broad smile. With
a twinkle in his eye, he said, "its Mom. You can smooth it over for me, right?"
"It's Mom," his father repeated though he sounded like he dreaded the prospect. Then he
too brightened. "If you are man enough to apply to the Academy,” he began, slapping the
acceptance letter into his son’s hand, “be accepted and attend, then I think you're man
enough to handle your mother on your own," Robert flashed the identical smile his son
had and patted him on the arm. "Good luck, my boy," he said leaving the kitchen.
Jim stood there a moment, lips pursed, brow furrowed, pondering what he'd say to his
mother. His older brother, Frank, came in and saw his brother in deep concentration.
"Hey, little brother, what's wrong?" Frank asked pumping water and washing dirt and
dust from the field off his hands and arms.
"I'm going to attend the Military Academy," Jim stated flatly not really paying attention.
"But that's a good thing, Jimmy. It's what you've always wanted," Frank was excited and
happy for his brother, "So what's the problem? Is it Dad?"
"No, I've got Dad convinced. It's Mom," Jim answered, coming around and tossing a
towel to his older brother.
"Dad can handle her," Frank smiled drying off. He twisted the towel and flicked it at his
younger brother.
Jim dodged left avoiding the sting. "He can, but he won't. Said if I was man enough for
the Academy then I could handle Mom myself. I just don't know how to tell her, Frank.
You know how she feels about having her 'boys' at home," Jim shook his head but had to
smile. The love of his family had been ever present all his life and he cherished them
whole-heartedly.
"Just tell her the truth, Jim," Frank suggested. "And don't beat around the bush about it."
Jim looked up in surprise. His older brother had called him Jim instead of Jimmy. Frank
always called him Jimmy, everyone did.
"I figure Jimmy isn't really what an officer in the army should be called," Frank grinned
reading his sibling's expression perfectly.
"Thanks, Frank," Jim grinned back. He extended his hand and Frank took it. But instead
of shaking it, he pulled Jim in and wrapped his arm around his brother’s neck, holding
him head down and knuckled him on the top of the head. "Cut it out!" Jim cried good-
naturedly and broke his brother's grasp easily.
"Mom's in the parlor," Frank said with a smile, leaning against the sink and twisting the
towel again..
"Time to beard the lion, I guess," Jim sighed and went to tell his mother his news. He felt
the sting of the towel on his backside and jumped as he left the kitchen.
Maggie West was knitting and glanced up when her younger son sat on the ottoman in
front of her.
"What did you do?" she asked knowingly, seeing the serious expression on his face.
"Nothing bad, Mom," Jim answered immediately. He flashed her a smile. "How do you
know I did anything?" he asked. It amazed him how his mother always knew when he’d
done something.
"I know that look. I get it every time you have to tell me something that I'm not going to
like. Like when you broke your grandmother's serving dish. So, what is it?" she smiled
back at him.
"Mom, I'm going to the Military Academy. I leave next week," Jim said, his words
pouring out in a rush.
His mother laughed. "No seriously, Jimmy, tell me what you've done?" she asked not
believing.
"That's it, Mom. I'm going to the Academy," his face and tone was serious.
Maggie laid aside her knitting. "I thought it was decided you were not going to apply. Are
you telling me you did anyway?" she asked sternly.
"Yes, Mom. I've been accepted. Dad read the acceptance letter," Jim told her.
"Robert, you knew about this?" Maggie asked, incredulous, turning toward her husband.
"Only for the last 5 minutes, dear," Robert answered casually not glancing away from the
paper he was reading.
Maggie looked from her son to her husband and back again. "Well I won't have it," she
cried. "What about the business, Robert? You're too young, Jimmy," she tried to reason
with both at the same time.
"Dad supports my decision, Mom. I'd like your support, too," Jim took his mother's hands
in his.
Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want you to do this, Jimmy. Family is what's
important."
"I know that, and you all are important to me. But, this is what I've always wanted, you
know it is. Try to understand," he cajoled, "It's quite an honor to be accepted to the
Academy."
As her tears spilled, Maggie West put on a smile before replying, "I guess you've grown
up."
Jim knew she'd accepted the decision and he now smiled, looking forward to the
beginning of his career.
Washington, DC, April, 1861
Artemus sat in a chair in his parent's dressing room, backstage at Ford's Theater. He
leaned forward, forearms on knees, his face serious, eyes downcast.
"But you don't have to do this," Sara Gordon told her son with a worried expression and
an equally worried tone.
"No, I do have to do this, Mother," Artemus stated flatly.
"But you're not a soldier, Son," Isak Gordon agreed with his wife.
"I'll learn, Dad, just like everybody else," Artemus answered sitting back and regarding
his parents soberly. "I can't just sit aside while our country is at war. It's the right thing to
do."
"You've already made your decision, then," Isak said softly.
"Yes. I've enlisted and join my company the day after tomorrow," Artemus answered in
the same soft tone.
"So soon? Where will you be?" Sara asked sounding close to tears.
"I don't know yet. I'll write you when I can," Artemus offered placing a comforting hand
over his mother’s. He hated that this was causing his parent’s pain and worry, but he
knew he had no other choice. It was the right thing to do.
"If you'd only married Suzanna, you wouldn't be doing this," his mother chided quietly.
Artemus sat upright in the chair, exasperated, drawing his hand back from his mother’s
quickly. "I'm so anxious to go over this for the nine hundredth time, Mother," Artemus
retorted sassily, "I don't love Suzanna. And even if I did and had married her, I'd still be
going. It's the right thing to do," he repeated in an irritated voice.
Artemus loved his parents very much, but at 34, they often treated him like he was still a
child and it frustrated him. And lately he'd been feeling restless, pursuing interests other
than acting. That was still his chosen profession, but all his other interests seemed to be
crowding him, pushing him toward...what? He didn't know and couldn't make his parents
understand the yearning he often felt for something more.
"Maintain a respectful tone with your mother, young man," his father told him sternly,
almost angrily.
And at 34, they still had the power to reduce him to childlike repentance. Artemus
signed. "I'm sorry. Both of you,” he apologized sheepishly. “But please try to
understand," Artemus implored.
"We're just taken by surprise, son. And we'll worry about you," Isak told him. "War is a
terrible business. It is death and destruction and we don't want that for you."
"I don't want it either, but the President needs as many able bodied men as possible if the
country is to be rid of slavery and oppression and unite as a nation," Artemus answered
holding his father's gaze. He rose. "I have a number of things to take care of before I
leave."
"Is there anything we can help you with," Isak offered, sadly resigning himself to his son's
decision.
"I won't be able to sell my house before I leave, Dad. Can you take care of that for me?"
Artemus asked.
"Of course, but you'll need a home when you return," his father answered.
Artemus did not reply to his father's statement. Instead he asked another favor, "I'm going
to have a will drawn. I'd like you to keep it for me," he spoke softly but placed his hand
on his father’s arm letting him know how serious he was.
Isak could not answer. He could not think about losing his son, but realized his son had
thought about the very real possibility of his not returning. Isak nodded quickly, unable to
speak around the lump of emotion that choked him.
"I'll come by later," he told them. He leaned down and kissed his mother's cheek and left.
"Oh, Isak," Sara took her husband's hand and wept softly.
"Don't worry, dearest. We should be proud of our son. He is a man of conviction," Isak
soothed his wife even as he dreaded the choice his son had made.
May, 1861
The company of the First Manassas, in the Union Army of the Potomac, under the lead of
Maj. Gen. Irvin McDowell, engaged the Confederate Army at Bull Run, Virginia.
The battlefield all around him rang with gunshots and cannon fire. The smoke was so
dense, Artemus could barely see where the enemy was. Huddled with several other men
in a trench, he gazed at the faces of the others with him and wondered if his own showed
the same fear he saw in the eyes and faces of those around him. They weren’t men, these
were boys, their entire lives still ahead of them. That is if they survived.
“Artemus,” asked the quivering voice of Thomas Trent, “think we’ll get out of this?”
The 18 year old, red head leaned his back against the side of the trench and turned his
fear filled eyes to Artemus.
“We just have to follow our commander, Tom,” Artemus tried to encourage the
youngster. “Now come on, let’s go,” he said with more confidence in his tone than he
actually felt, and raised himself above the rim of the trench and followed the rest of his
company into the thick of the battle.
Firing as they charged forward, bullets whizzing past, it was clear to Artemus that the
Union outnumbered the Confederate troops. He took a moment to hope this would mean
a victory. But that hope died as he saw man after man felled by Reb bullets. And still the
commanders ordered them to charge forward until night began to fall. The sounds of
battle finally ceased as neither side dared to continue in the dark. Artemus regrouped
with his company. Sitting around the small campfire, Tom Trent joined him.
“We lost Mitch, Seth, and Joe,” Tom said sitting next to Artemus and offering him a cup
filled with weak coffee.
Artemus looked at the offered cup. “Don’t you want it?” he asked without
acknowledging their lost comrades.
“Don’t like coffee much, but I thought you might,” Tom answered offering a smile that
looked more like a grimace. “They were with us in the trench this morning, remember?”
he asked as he continued the thread of his opening conversation.
Artemus nodded, “I remember,” he sighed sadly. He sipped the hot brew letting it burn
it’s way down his throat.
“Just need to follow our commander, isn’t that what you said?” Tom asked forlornly.
“They’re fools,” Artemus muttered, surprising himself as much as Tom that he’d spoken
aloud.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked anxiously glancing around to see if anyone else had
heard. When Artemus did not answer him, Tom nudged him with an elbow. “Artemus,
what do you mean?” he asked again.
“Nothing. Forget I said anything,” Artemus replied not looking at the anxious face of the
boy next to him.
“No, I won’t forget it. You think the higher ups did something wrong, don’t you?” it was
more a statement than a question. Again, Artemus did not answer him. “Come on.
Answer me,” Tom urged.
Artemus stood suddenly. “I think they are over confident. We outnumber the Grays
almost 2 to 1. Why are we still here? Why didn’t we overrun them?” Artemus spat out
angrily. He tossed the remains of the coffee at the fire. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it
out on you, Tom. Please, just forget I spoke,” Artemus said regaining his composure. He
started to walk away but stopped when Tom called to him.
“Where are you going?” Tom asked.
“I need to think. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything foolish,” Artemus offered the boy a
small smile.
But ‘something foolish’ is exactly what Artemus Gordon did that night. After walking
around the camp and thinking over the events of the day and what he had observed, he
went to his Captain.
“What is it, Gordon?” Captain Devlin asked.
“Sir, I wondered if I could speak to you for a moment,” Artemus asked, standing at
attention in the doorway of the Captain’s tent.
“At ease, private, and take a seat,” Capt. Devlin motioned to a seat at the small table in
the center of the tent. “What’s on your mind?”
“Sir, it seemed to me we outnumbered the Rebs, yet we were unable to defeat them
today,” Artemus began carefully, “I’ve been thinking about it and wondered if maybe a
different tact, maybe taking an alternate position to approach the enemy from, would be
beneficial.”
Capt. Devlin’s eyes went dark as he rose from his seat. Artemus immediately rose as
well.
“Private, your duty is not to think. Your duty is to follow orders. Do you honestly think
you know better than your commanding officers?” Devlin shouted furiously.
“No, sir. I,” Artemus began but was cut off by the Captain’s angry dismissal.
“Silence! I should write you up for insubordination, Gordon, but I will put this down to
the difficult day we all just endured. Now return to your tent and don’t ever dare to
question your superiors again. Dismissed!” ordered Capt. Devlin.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Artemus executed a brief salute and left the tent completely
chagrined.
The next morning, the battle began anew with no change to the plan of the previous day.
Late in the afternoon, Artemus tripped over something on the battlefield and went
sprawling onto the hard packed ground. It was a body, and when he turned the downed
Union soldier over, the sky blue eyes of Tom Trent stared sightlessly at the sky. A gaping
hole in the boy’s chest showed Artemus what had ended the boy’s life. Turning away
quickly, the actor turned soldier retched, sickened at the senseless death.
The Union Armies were forced to retreat back into Washington, having suffered
a sound defeat by the Confederates. Among the soldiers trudging along, disheartened,
was Private Artemus Gordon. This first taste of war left him sick at heart. The sight of
men dead on the battlefield was something he'd never imagined or been prepared for.
The reprimanded he’d received, forcing him into silently following orders, and fighting
side by side with young men, barely more than boys, stung more than he cared to admit.
The forces depleted, Capt. Devlin needed leaders. He looked over his remaining soldiers,
searching for the right man to take on the responsibility. One month later, Artemus
Gordon made Sergeant.
The Union Army of the Potomac's command was given to Gen. George McClellan and
battles and skirmishes continued through the winter 1861.
Military Academy, May 1861
“Well, West,” Colonel Marshall Merkel said to the young officer in training, “I see you
will be spending another summer with us instead of returning home for a few months of
relaxation.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to take the courses offered in the summer months,” Jim answered
politely.
“You did that last summer as well, did you not?” the colonel asked peering at the serious,
intelligent, young man before him.
“Yes, sir,” Jim answered simply.
“At this rate, you’ll be graduating next summer. Very industrious, Congratulations,” Col.
Merkel replied. “Tell me, are you in a hurry to join the fighting?”
“Not as a choice, sir,” Jim stated diplomatically, “but it is what my training is all about
isn’t it? To help defend our country?”
“It is indeed,” the Colonel allowed. “Don’t you miss your family, though?”
“Very much, sir. But the way I figure it, the sooner the war is over, the sooner I’ll be able
to spend some time with them,” Jim replied hoping his answer did not sound
disrespectful.
Col. Merkel smiled. “Carry on, West,” he dismissed the eager student.
January, 1862
Col. Merkel looked over the young soldiers lined up before him.
"I have an announcement," he told them. "We need volunteers to join the fighting. Any of
the upper classmen who will take on active duty and set aside your studies until the
unpleasantness is settled, will start out with the rank of Lieutenant," he told the young
serious faced students. "The rest of you will have to earn your ranks the old fashioned
way. Submit your names in writing to me by tomorrow evening. That's all. You're
dismissed," he said and strode away. He hated knowing that he'd just asked these men, no
not men, boys, to voluntarily give their lives when they were still students. But it was
necessary. The Union needed as many men as possible. The war was dragging on and the
Union Armies were not doing well.
"What are you writing, Jim," Allan Beckwith asked his friend and roommate.
"I'm submitting my name for active duty," Jim answered putting the pen into the inkwell
and blotting the paper.
"You're kidding! Jim, that's tantamount to suicide," Allan cried. Though he was the same
age as Jim, he was a year behind.
"Why? We've been training for three years. I'm ready. And this is what all our training has
been about; serving our country when needed. We're needed now, and I'm going," Jim
stated resolutely. Even though he had taken the extra courses over the past two summers,
he was not officially considered an upper classman even though his course work this past
semester put him in stead to graduate in May.
"The Union will end all this secession business without our help, Jim. Besides, let the
South keep their slaves. It's not like it's anything new, you know," Allan argued. “And,”
he added as icing on the cake, “you’re set to graduate in a few months.”
Jim turned toward his friend, frowning. "Let them keep their slaves? How can you say
that? Those are men and women and children, not cattle, Allan. It's wrong and we should
be doing everything we can to help stop it," Jim asserted. “Don’t you understand how this
war is tearing our country apart? How can we be a ‘nation’ if we continue to pit brother
against brother,” he continued seriously. Seeing the chastised look on Allen’s face, Jim
softened his tone and smiled. “And I’ll still graduate, I’ve enough credits and training,”
Jim said confidently. He folded his submission and left his friend to stare after him in
surprise.
When Col. Merkel called for the volunteers a few days later, he faced a large group of
students. Most of them were 1st and 2nd years, only a few were upperclassmen. He
called out names, dividing them into two columns. One was to be assigned to the Eastern
Frontier, the other to the Western Frontier. Jim West was with the group assigned to the
Western Frontier as was his friend Allan Beckwith.
"Allan, I'm surprised to see you here. What changed your mind?" Jim asked his friend.
"I thought about what you said and I agree with you. Besides, you won't last a day without
me," Allan joked.
"West," the commander called to Jim.
Jim snapped to attention, "Yes, sir," he saluted.
"At ease, West. I have some news for you," the commander began as Jim relaxed to at
ease. "You have excelled at your studies and training and the Academy is very pleased
with your progress. Because of that, and because you have completed all the studies
required, you will be starting with the rank of Lieutenant. Congratulations," he concluded
and pinned the insignia on Jim.
"Thank you, sir," Jim answered with more than a hint of pride in his voice. “Does this
mean I’ve graduated?” he asked.
"You have, indeed. Get your gear in order. You'll be joining the Union Army of the
Tennessee. Report to me for further orders at 0600, Lieutenant West," the commander
saluted. He turned and headed to his office. In his opinion, West had graduated a fine
officer. He was saddened to think he may have just sent the young man to his demise.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant! Jim, you are the luckiest man I know," Allan said shaking
Jim's hand.
Jim knew luck had nothing to do with it, but shook his friend’s hand and accepted his
remark modestly and graciously.
“Thanks, Allan,” he grinned at his friend, “Think you can follow my orders?” he teased.
“Yes, sir,” Allan snapped off a smart salute and the two young men shared a moment of
laughter.
The small company of men, led by Lt. James West, left the next morning to join the
Army of the Tennessee who were fighting in the Western Frontier. They reached the
army by early February joining up with them in the middle of a skirmish in Kansas.
“Allan,” Jim ordered his friend, “follow that line of men,” he pointed toward a line of
Union soldiers fully engaged. “I’ve got to find the commanding officer and let him know
we’re here,” he finished, receiving a nod from Allan. Jim made his way through the
whizzing bullets and finally espied an officer on horseback. He approached swiftly,
pulling his orders from his inside pocket.
“Sir,” he spoke confidently as the Major dismounted. Jim saluted, held it until the Major
snapped off a brief salute in return, then handed his orders over.
“Lt. West, I’m Major Hanshaw. Where are your men?” Hanshaw asked looking around.
“Engaged, sir,” Jim replied, “I wanted to make you aware of our arrival.”
“You left your company, Lieutenant?” Maj. Hanshaw sounded angry, “Didn’t they teach
you anything at the Academy?” he fumed, “Get back to your company until this is over.
Then report to my tent,” Maj. Hanshaw snapped his dismissal of the young man before
him.
“Yes, sir,” Jim saluted quickly and hurried off to rejoin his company. He felt his cheeks
burn with embarrassment at the chastisement he’d received, though thinking on it, he had
to be honest with himself. He knew he’d blundered.
Back with his company, Jim put the moment to the back of his mind and issued orders to
his men on where to position themselves. The battle continued until early evening. The
order for retreat came down through the ranks and reached Jim, who led his troops away
to the campsite a safe distance from the battle line.
The Union had suffered a defeat. Jim felt defeated in more ways than one. First he’d left
his men in order to find the commanding officer and felt shamed he’d not thought his
actions through more thoroughly. Worse than that, Allan Beckwith died on the field after
engaging a rebel soldier in hand-to-hand combat. It was the first time Jim had seen
anyone killed and the bloody mass that had once been his friend was pressed, forever,
into his memory. The other men looked to him for leadership.
Jim addressed his company. “Get something to eat and try to get some rest. I’ll be back
after I speak to Maj. Hanshaw,” he told them then reported to the Major’s tent.
“Lt. West,” Maj. Hanshaw returned Jim’s salute, “have a seat,” he waved toward an
empty chair opposite where he was seated. “This was quite a defeat for us, Lt.,” Hanshaw
spoke in a low tone. “I spoke harshly to you earlier. Do you know why?”
“Yes, sir,” Jim replied, “I should never have left my company, sir. They were fully
engaged and I should have stayed with them to lead them, sir,” he answered contritely.
“True, Lt. I’ve just had the opportunity to look over the papers you brought with you. I
did not realize you came directly from the Academy to here. This was your first battle?”
Maj. Hanshaw asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jim admitted.
“Well, I remember being young and inexperienced,” Hanshaw gave Jim a small smile,
“and it wasn’t in a time of war. How did your men do today?”
“They fought hard and well, sir,” Jim answered honestly. The memory of Allan
Beckwith’s lifeless body tried to intrude into his thoughts.
“Did you loose many?” Maj. Hanshaw saw the slightly pale pallor on the young
Lieutenant’s face and suspected he’d lost a friend or two..
“Not too many, sir,” Jim’s voice was low and soft as he struggled to maintain control of
his emotions.
Maj. Hanshaw saw the inner struggle in the changing expression that crossed West’s
face, so he did not press further.
“You will take your company and continue on to the base camp just outside of
Mississippi. You’re to attach to Maj. Gen. Grant’s outfit. See that your men rest up
tonight. You’ll leave at dawn,” Maj. Hanshaw told Jim. He gave Jim verbal directions to
the camp before dismissing him.
As Jim was exiting the Major’s tent, he was stopped by the Major’s voice. “Lt. West, I
want to give you a word of advice. Gen. Grant is a hardened military man. He will say
things in anger that he’ll never remember saying later. If you are fortunate enough to
meet the Old Man, don’t take anything he says in anger personally. If you’re worth half
of what your commanding officer at the Academy says, you’ll be a fine officer.
Dismissed, son,” Maj. Hanshaw said with a sincere smile for Jim.
“Thank you sir,” Jim answered and went to rejoin his company.
Jim slept fitfully that night, his dreams haunted by the scenes of the battle, more blood
than he’d ever imagined, the nearly unrecognizable body of his friend. In the morning,
Jim called his company together, explained they were continuing on and hid his
tumultuous feelings. He donned a stony expression as he led them on to their base camp.
April, 1862
Maj. Gen. Ulysses Grant was in charge of the Army of the Tennessee and the chief
strategist in the Western offensive. Confederate Generals Johnston and P.T.
Beauregard hoped to drive Grant and his Army away from the Tennessee River and stop
Grant's imminent attack on Mississippi before reinforcements from the Army of the Ohio
could arrive.
The Confederates launched a surprise attack at Shiloh. It was the one time in his military
career that Grant was taken by surprise. Disorganized and skirmishing blindly, it was
hard to tell who was on what side. The Union Army was losing.
Lt. James West boldly went to Gen. Grant’s command tent.“Gen. Grant, sir,” Jim saluted and waited for the General to acknowledge him.
Grant returned the salute and gruffly addressed the young lieutenant. “What do you want?” he barked.
“Sir, if I may speak freely,” Jim asked.
Grant glanced at the handsome, young man before him. He saw confidence and poise in
his stance, intelligence in his emerald eyes. Something in the young man struck the
seasoned General.
“What’s your name, son,” Grant asked softening his tone.
“Lt. James West, sir,” Jim replied.
“Speak your mind, Lt. West, but I warn you, it better be good,” Gen. Grant regarded West
expectantly.
“Sir, I’ve scouted the area and I’d like to make a suggestion. I propose we fall back
toward Pittsburg Landing to the northeast,” Jim spoke calmly.
“Why?” Grant asked simply.
“Sir, it’s a position on a slightly sunken road. It will provide the critical time needed to
allow us to organize and stabilize our movements,” Jim suggested.
“Show me,” Grant replied spreading a map on the table in front of him.
Jim pointed out the suggested position and together, the General and the Lieutenant
argued the merits and potential disadvantages.
“Gen. Johnston was killed today and his second in command, Gen. Beauregard, has
ceased attacking further for this evening,” Jim told Gen. Grant. “With a new position,
Beauregard won’t know where we are when he wants to resume his attack in the
morning. It could buy us enough time for the reinforcements from the Army of the Ohio
to arrive.”
Grant chewed on his cigar, considering the young man’s suggestion and finally agreed the
plan was sound.
“Have the troops take up the position, West,” Gen. Grant ordered. As Jim saluted and
turned to leave, Grant spoke again, “I like the way you think, West. If this works, I’ll
want to speak to you again.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim answered. He smiled to himself as he left the tent, heartened that the
General took his suggestion.
The Army of the Ohio arrived as predicted and Grant launched his counter planned
attack in the early morning from his new starting position.
The Confederates were forced to retreat, effectively ending their hopes of stopping
Grant's invasion into Mississippi. Gen. Grant called for Lt. West to come to his tent.
“As I said before,” Grant spoke to the young lieutenant, “I like the way you think. You
argued convincingly and your strategizing was sound. I’ve looked into your record, West,
and found you to be an industrious student who graduated early and at the top of the
class. Further, you led your company, engaged in battle, and even though you lost the
skirmish and your best friend, you made sure your troops arrived safely. I’d like to
reward that strategic thinking, intelligence and leadership by promoting you to Captain.
Its’ not to be considered a field promotion that will be taken away at the end of this
unpleasantness, you understand. This is a promotion of merit,” he explained.
Jim stood proudly as he accepted his promotion, “Thank you sir. I’ll do my best never to
let you down,” he beamed.
Fall, 1862
In September, Lee was able to lead his men across the Potomac River north into
Antietam. There, the Northern and Southern armies fought furiously, neither side
relenting or retreating. The casualties were heavy on both sides. Finally, Lee returned
with his decimated army to Virginia. The Union Army counted Antietam as a victory
and hoped it would be a turning point for them after so many defeats.
After the Union’s second unsuccessful encounter at Bull Run, Artemus Gordon was
transferred north to join a battalion at Gettysburg. He was glad to be away from Virginia.
With the number of wounded in the battle at Antietam, medics were sorely needed and
Artemus was ordered to assist Lt. Col. Henry Chandler in the surgery.
“Who are you?” demanded the short, gray-haired Col. Chandler. He was a man of about
50 years of age whose face was lined with years of hard work and tough decisions. His
tone was abrupt and brooked no argument.
“Sgt. Gordon, sir. I was told to report to you, sir,” Artemus answered holding his salute.
“Put your arm down, man, we don’t have time for such ceremony here,” Chandler said
turning to pick up a fairly clean set of instruments. He thrust them into Artemus’ hands.
“It’s about time they sent me another medic,” he groused.
“Sir, I’m not a medic,” Artemus offered cautiously.
“What did you say?” Col. Chandler thundered.
“Sir, I said, I’m not a medic,” Artemus repeated, a slightly nervous feeling washing over him.
Chandler eyed the young man before him. “Seen much bloodshed in battle?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
“Are you in good health?” Chandler fired off his next question.
“Yes, sir,” Artemus said, curious at the line of questioning.
“Then you’ll do. Go over there,” Col. Chandler pointed to a table where a bloodied
soldier lay moaning, “His leg needs to come off.”
Artemus paled. “I can’t do that,” he stammered without the proper address.
“Yes you can. Peters will help you. He’s not a medic either, but he’s seen it done enough
times. He’ll walk you through it,” Chandler told him. He noticed the sickened look on
Gordon’s face and spoke in a less abrupt tone. “That man’s dying. Whatever you do to
him probably won’t be the cause and may just save him,” he patted Artemus on the arm.
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll get used to it.” He walked away leaving Artemus standing
frozen in place.
“I’m Peters, Sgt. Gordon,” a young man in his 20’s said coming up to Artemus. “We’d
best get started.” He pulled Artemus by the arm over to the waiting, wounded, man.
Peters was as good as Lt. Col. Chandler’s assurance. He instructed Artemus on what
instruments to use and how to use them. When it was time to stitch the gaping wound,
Peters asked Chandler for assistance.
Chandler completed the operation, showing Artemus how to place the sutures properly
and what to look for to make sure there was nothing left to bleed before closing the skin
over the wound.
“The next one won’t be as bad,” Chandler told Artemus.
“Yes, sir. If you say so,” Artemus forced out the words as his stomach twisted at the
thought.
Artemus worked side by side with the other doctors and medics. He learned new skills,
listened intently as they instructed him in the varied surgeries needed to be
performed. The hours stretched into days, as more and more wounded soldiers were
placed before him. Artemus did not stop or even seem to feel the need for a break, so
focused was his concentration, until finally, when the patient before him was removed to
a cot, no one brought another to him. He looked around, confused.
Col. Chandler came to stand next to his newest recruit. “It’s over for now, son,” he
said wiping his hands on an already stained cloth, “You did well. Peters will show you
where you can clean up and get some rest.”
“This way, Sgt. Gordon,” Peters said appearing at Artemus’ side. He led Artemus from
the surgery tent into the early morning light.
They walked in silence a few yards when, finally, Artemus seemed to stir from his torpor.
He stopped, stepped into the nearby brush, and was violently sick.
“It’s ok, Sergeant,” Peters said placing a comforting hand on his back. “My first day, I
puked my guts out between each patient. I’m surprised you held out so long.”
Wiping his mouth, Artemus stood to face the young man. “What’s your name, son?”
With a look of surprise, Peters answered. “Peters, Sergeant. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course, I remember. I mean what’s your first name and your rank, for that matter?”
Artemus asked smiling crookedly at him.
“Oh. Well, I’m a Sgt. also. And the name’s Quincy Peters. Glad to meet you,” Peters
smiled back and extended his hand.
Artemus shook it warmly. “Artemus Gordon,” he introduced himself, “I want to thank
you for all your help,” Artemus paused with a slight grimace, “back there in the
surgery.”
“Think nothing of it. The higher ups are always pressing the likes of us into service
where we have no business being. I’m glad I could help. So, Sgt. Gordon, why are you
here?” Peters asked.
“Why am I here? I was transferred here,” Artemus shrugged as they continued to walk
toward a tent at the end of the neat row.
Peters laughed out loud. “I figured that, sir, I meant why are you in the army?”
“What’s the matter with you, Peters? Surely you know Sergeants aren’t addressed as
‘sir’? And I enlisted because it was necessary,” Artemus answered.
“Yeah, I know not to address a noncom as ‘sir’. I didn’t use it in respect to your rank, it
was in respect to your,” Peters reddened and did not continue.
“Out with it, boy,” Artemus growled good naturedly.
“Your age, sir,” Peters answered respectfully.
Now it was Artemus who laughed out loud and he realized just how long it had been
since he’d done that. It felt good. “I’m not that much older than you. What are you 25,
26?” he asked.
“I’ll be 20 next month,” Peters smiled up at him.
Artemus groaned. “Well, don’t call me sir. It makes me feel old,” he replied and quickly
added, “Which I’m not.”
“You’re 35,” Peters said knowingly. “I peeked at your records,” he explained.
Over the course of next few months, Artemus and young Peters became fast friends. As
their company moved west into West Virginia, with Sgt. Peter’s assistance, Artemus
helped save many injured men. Many more died than survived, however, and his father's
words rang in his head. 'It is death and destruction', and Artemus was in full realization
of that truth. In one particularly vicious battle, even the surgery was shelled with cannon
fire. Both Peters and Lt. Col. Chandler were mortally wounded. It left Artemus the
second most experienced medic. Gen. Burnside saw to it that he received a promotion to
Lieutenant for his diligent and exemplary work in the surgery and placed him second in
command after Capt. George Hargraves, the now senior doctor.
Burnside led them into Virginia and traveled south, reaching Fredericksburg by
December. Launching repeated frontal assaults against the Confederate troops in Mary’s
Heights, proved an utter failure. In a poor position to engage, the assaults led to a near
massacre of Union troops. Again, Artemus sought out his superiors and asked them to
advise against further assaults of this kind. They were well aware that the surgery was
swamped with injured and dying men and passed the advice up the line to no avail. Their
losses numbered over 12,000 men. Shorthanded in the surgery, Artemus still anguished
over each man he lost, worried it was his lack of knowledge and skill that had
contributed to their deaths. However, his superior officers recognized his skill and
tenacity in performing his duties and put him up for another promotion. Artemus Gordon
made Captain.
May, 1863
President Lincoln was frustrated by the lack of leadership in the Eastern Frontier and
again made a change in leadership. Burnside was replaced by Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker.
Reinforcements arrived and Hooker led his troops to Chancellorville. Artemus was
reassigned to intelligence as a result of his observations and advice given earlier. In this
position he secretly led small scouting parties into Confederate held positions. More
often than not, men were not available, and he went alone. Engagement of the enemy was
not the object, unless it was absolutely necessary. Instead the gathering of information on
the enemy’s numbers and fortifications was the mission. His intelligence estimates were
that the Union troops outnumbered the poorly supplied Confederates two to one. Even
with this information, Hooker lost the battle at Chancellorville, and was humiliated
further by being replaced himself, by Maj. Gen. George Meade as Lee invaded the north
once again, this time in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
It was clear to Artemus that the Eastern Frontier was scrambling for a foothold in their attempts to defeat Lee, and he devised new ways of infiltrating the Confederate armies. During one foray, he managed to pilfer a Confederate uniform. The owner had left it on a pile of rocks by a stream while he indulged himself in a much needed, swim and bath. Several times, Artemus boldly donned the uniform and entered enemy encampments. Keeping to the shadows around the fires, he listened to the men talk, eavesdropped by the officers’ tents, and gathered more and more useful intelligence.Meade factored this information into his plans, and engaged Lee's men in Gettysburg. Finally, the Union soundly succeeded in battle. The engagement had lasted over a month, ending in July, and was deemed the bloodiest battle of the war so far. Even so, it was the turning point the Union Army had been looking for. Lee retreated, giving up his attempt to take Washington by attacking from the north. Meade, though, also failed to stop Lee's
retreat, and once again, the great Bobby Lee and his men slipped back into Virginia.
President Lincoln was furious and now looked for leadership for the Union Armies in
another direction, the Western Frontier.
The Western Frontier, Summer, 1863
Integral in Grant's strategizing was the young Capt. James West. Grant came to value his
opinion and made him his aide-de-camp. He discussed with Capt. West. his
encroachment of Fort Henry and Fort Donnelson, A master tactician, Grant found his
match in his young aide. Taking on a number of his suggestions had helped earn the
victories at the forts and gain control of the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers for the
Union.
“Vicksburg is Mississippi's fortress city,” Gen. Grant said to his aide. “I want to take it
and take it quickly.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim agreed, “With Vicksburg under our belts, we’ll control supply routes for
ourselves as well as for the Confederates. But they are well fortified. The Confederacy
has gathered every ounce of foodstuffs, plant or animal, and ammunition into the fort. It
may not be as quick as you might want, sir,” he mused aloud.
“I think if we can get close enough to bombard them, they’ll surrender,” Grant laid out
another map and pointed. “We have troops coming from the north and we’ll go in from
the west. That leaves only the docks. If we take them first, we’ll have access from that
side as well,” he explained.
In May of 1863, Grant positioned his Generals and attacked. The troops followed Grant’s
plan, but a month later, Vicksburg still held strong.
Grant regrouped with his aide de camp to strategize further.
“I wanted this over by now,” he stormed angrily. “We’ve got to strengthen our attacks.”
“Sir, if we divide the battalions into smaller companies, we could bombard them at night
as well as day. Half the troops manning the guns during the day and fresh troops taking
over at night,” Jim proposed.
Gen. Grant chewed his mustache thoughtfully. “You know, Jim that just might work. We
outnumber the Rebs and so far battles have ceased with nightfall. Without fresh troops,
they’ll be so worn and frazzled, they’ll have to surrender. I like it, my boy,” Grant smiled
and clapped Jim soundly on the back.
With a new strategy in place, the Union Army was relentless in their besiegement of the
city until, finally, the Confederates were forced to surrender. One day after the victory in
Gettysburg, and two days after Jim’s 21st birthday, Vicksburg fell into Union hands on
July 4th. Grant had gained control of the Mississippi River for the Union. With it came
control over shipments of supplies for the Confederate Army. It effectively divided the
Confederacy in two.
1864
President Lincoln made Gen. Grant the Commander in Chief of all Union armies. Grant
understood the concept of total war. He knew the only road to success was to utterly
destroy the Confederate forces and economy. He devised a plan, to send his generals in
various directions. They would surround Richmond, destroy the agricultural base in
Atlanta and the Shenandoah Valley, and stop the railroad supply lines. Under this
coordinated attack strategy, the Confederates could be brought to their knees.
The tenacious Grant kept pressing Lee's troops, forcing them to fall back time and time
again. The Union suffered severe losses, in one case 66,000 men in 6 weeks, but still
Grant persisted. He went so far as to vow that he would not stop even if it took all
summer, and it was beginning to look like it would.
Grant came to realize he needed more intelligence on Confederate troop numbers,
positions and fortifications, if his plan was to succeed. Once again, he enlisted his
aide-de-camp.
“I want you to find the best man for the job,” Gen. Grant said, after explaining what he
wanted to Jim. ”You have access to all records available on all the battles and
engagements. Find out who has an intelligence squad that has been valuable reporting
enemy information, then bring me your recommendations.”
Jim scoured the armies for the most successful forces. Then, charting which man had
been most successful in bringing in useful intelligence, he came to Gen. Grant with his
recommendation.
"What have you come up with, James," Gen. Grant asked in his gruff voice. He was
confident that his intelligent, analytical young aide would have a sound recommendation.
"One man in particular seems to excel in intelligence gathering, sir. Capt. Artemus
Gordon, formerly with Gen. Meade at Gettysburg and now serving under Gen. Sheridan,"
Jim replied.
"I hear a 'but', James. What is it?" Grant asked reading his aide competently.
"Sir, the man is 37 years old. That's much older than the average soldier. I have some
reservations about enlisting the assistance of someone who may be past his prime," the
young captain reported.
"Do you realize Capt. Gordon is only 5 years my junior?" Grant asked suppressing a
smile.
Jim looked up in surprise. "No, sir, I did not. I certainly did not mean to suggest you were
past your prime. However, I believe you would agree that you are not the average soldier,
sir," Jim rallied.
"Nice recovery, James," Grant chuckled. "What's Gordon's record like?"
"It has been exemplary, by all accounts, General. He enlisted in April of 1861 and has
risen from private to captain. Served in surgery under McDowell where he made
lieutenant and he was then recruited to work in intelligence under Meade and Sheridan as
a captain," Jim informed his superior.
Gen. Grant chewed his on mustache, thinking before going on. "I want the best there is,
Capt. West, and if Capt. Gordon is the best in your opinion, get him here, right away.
And leave your reports on Sheridan as well. He may just be the man I need to succeed in
the Shenandoah," Gen. Grant added.
"Yes, sir," Jim saluted and left the tent. He sent a message to Gen. Sheridan requesting
Capt. Gordon to report to Gen. Grant, as soon as possible.
General Sheridan’s Quarters, Shenandoah Valley
“Gordon,” Gen. Sheridan began as Artemus stood at ease before him, “Gen. Grant
himself has requested your services in Virginia.”
“Gen. Grant, sir?” Artemus asked incredulous.