A/n: this is the start of my Civil War novel, and I’m very nervous about posting it on here. There are a few historical facts and plot points that a little bet skewed, but I’m working on fixing them. Please be honest and PLESE leave a review, reviews for this will be returned. Note: I’m only posting the first 2 or 3 chapters (you can read the rest if or when this gets published) Note: And bold words in () are comments from my friend who’s editing, I think I deleted them all but if not I hope they’re not distracting! Enjoy!

Chapter One (Revised Version)

The troops moved slowly through the streets of Washington, their leather brogans making a crunching noise as they made contact with the gravel. Women and children lined the road waving flags and cheering as the blue-clad men passed by. They were fresh troops, just off the train from Baltimore. And they looked it. Few of the men had ever traveled more than a few miles from their homes. Their eyes gawked up at the great city and several men stopped to look at the scene around them not quite sure if they were dreaming. But after a moment or two of deep thought, they clambered forward to avid the sharp bellowing voice from a Sergeant behind them and hard nudging from their comrades.

At the end of the long snaking column was the Boston Irish Battalion. They were led by a fifty year old man sitting atop a snow-white mare that clip-clopped along as if to show off its rider. He was of medium height with long side burns that stopped abruptly just before his large ears, covered by the wide brim of his Slouch hat. His blue militia uniform hung loosely around his slender frame. Smiling at a boy who gave a two-fingered salute he showed yellow tobacco stained teeth. Nervously the boy’s mother pulled her son away from the marching column.

Patrick Brighelm, Captain of Company I, put a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. He and the rest of the Company began sing The Boys of the Irish Brigade.

“Colonel O’ Riley seems to have made quite an impression, boys,” Brighelm grinned slyly as the Colonel grudgingly moved to a place in the center of the regiment.

Brighelm was a tall man of thirty with thick feathery black hair that extended just over his ears. A bushy black beard covered the surface of his uncommonly large jaw to hide small paper-thin scars produced by round-shot. His bright green eyes burned with certain fearlessness and mischief that earned him the respect of his newly recruited men. But it was not only his apparent fearlessness that made him popular with his men, it was also the fact that resting on his rounded shoulder was a Springfield musket. This told his men that he was a new kind of officer, one that was not afraid to take on the hardships of the common solider.

Sergeant Robert Marson with his long red beard in his fingers appeared beaming at his Captain’s side.

“’Tis a fine day for a march, don’t ya know?” he asked running his ramrod over his handsome face.

“Aye, that it is ,” Brighelm admitted. “I haven’t seen men this eager for a fight since Mexico.”

He reached down and felt for spent led ball that hung loosely on a chain around his neck. As a boy of fifteen, to escape the great drought and poverty that had settled over Ireland the year before, he had stolen enough money from his uncle for a ticket to Boston. Once there, looking for a spit of adventure he joined Winfield Scott’s army to help invade Mexico. In his first battle he received a flesh wound in the chest. Ever since then he had kept the bullet as a good luck charm.

Lieutenant Roger Cufflain said in his usual happy tone, “The Colonel requests we fix bayonets sir.”

“Oh, does he now?” asked Brighelm impatiently. “We’ll you heard ‘em.”

Each man lowered his musket from his shoulder making a clattering sound when it reached the ground. Then he took the shined bayonet from its scabbard and slotted onto the black barrel. “Charge bayonets,” ordered Brighelm. Each man brought the rifle forward as though it were a spear and let out a deafening chorus of “Hurrahs”; soon the rest of the Battalion followed. Gasps and squeals could be heard from the onlookers.

As if to compete with the Battalion a six-gun battery of bronze Napoleon’s fired a powder charge, the sound bounced off a near by building causing a young boy to scamper back to his mother’s skirt in fright.

The column made it’s way to the unfinished Capital building and the men that looked at it knew it was an apt symbol for the state of country. The war had begun on a quiet April night in Charleston Harbor when siege guns battered Fort Sumter to the ground as most people were sitting at home wondering what succession of the South might bring. The attack, though bloodless, came as a shock to everyone in Boston including Brighelm.

He had stayed locked up in his room for most of the evening after hearing the news staring at his faded uniform that had been tucked away in a chest for years, trying to decide to which side he would offer his services. The United States, which had given him his home and his job or the state of Georgia, which had given him a chance to fight in the Mexican War and bore his wife Laura. The love of the country that had provided aid in Ireland’s time of distress and the death of his Georgian wife from tuberculosis a few months later had convinced him that the Union was the answer.

Most men in the Union army could still not believe they were about to march on their own countrymen but knew the South could not be allowed to slap the rest of country in face and without being backhanded in return.

The men now marched down Pennsylvania Avenue as a band in front of the Battalion played the Star Spangled Banner. The President and the commanding Generals eyed the new recruits over brandy and warm bread as the men marched by.

“The President sure looks like an ape, don’t ‘e?” asked Marson in wonderment.

At fist glance Brighelm saw that Marson was right, Lincoln’s large ears, bulging nose, and prickly beard did give him the appearance of a primate but there was

Brighelm saluted the President and shouted “God bless ye sir!” Lincoln raised a hand to the brim of his top hat and said in a loud but kind voice, “No, God bless you Captain, and God bless the Boston Irish.” The men who could hear waved their hats, cheering and raising their muskets in the air. An angry voice bellowed from the center Battalion “You don’t cheer your President, you tip you’re hats to him boys!”

It was Colonel O’ Riley. He came galloping down the line where the last man was passing the front gate of the White House. When the Colonel had turned his back on I Company they pushed their hats over their eyes and began laughing under quietly.

The Boston Irish Battalion camp was just a hundred yards from the capital building that was silhouetted against a pink sky. Brighelm laid on the damp ground next to the crackling fires of Company I. He hated the idea of sleeping in a tent when his men had nothing but a scratchy wool blanket and the man on either side of him to keep them warm. Brighelm, rolling over, unable to sleep, listened to Private Foss sing a song about the Irish rebellion of 1798:

And come tell me Sean O'Farrell tell me why you hurry so?
Husha buachaill hush and listen and his cheeks were all a glow
I bear orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon…

He remembered how his mother used to sing him that song. Her voice filled his head and he became lost in the memory. She would tell him the story of how his father gave his life at a place called Vinegar Hill for a better tomorrow. In Brighelm’s eyes that tomorrow was still far over the horizon. He often wondered if his father was happy with the fates of his four sons.

Two were dead and long buried when Patrick and his younger brother Dan had sought a new life in America. His brother Jonathan was the first to die. He had been influenced by the teachings of William O’Brien and the Irish Confederation. When the uprising began in 1848 he was killed in a shootout with the British. His brother Michel had been mortally wounded a year later in a pistol duel with a friend over who would win the heart of the popular and beautiful Catherine Brady. He could still hear Michel boasting how he was the best shot in the county and that no one would ever be his equal.

Overcome by the sadness of the old memories he raised himself off the ground, and stumbled toward a nearby fire. He found Lieutenant Cufflain crouched near a flickering fire. Cufflain looked up from his tattered bible at the sound of Brighelm’s footsteps.

“Evening sir,” he raised his hand in a tired salute.

“What passage are you reading?” asked Brighelm, returning the salute while wondering how God viewed the impending conflict between his children.

“Chronicles 14:11,” he said clearing his throat. “And Asa cried unto the LORD his God, and said, LORD, it is nothing with thee to help, whether with many, or with them that have no power: help us, O LORD our God; for we rest on thee, and in thy name we go against this multitude. O LORD, thou art our God; let no man prevail against thee.”

“Not bad for an old prophet,” said Brighelm, taking comfort in the ancient text. “That coffee?” He eyed the tin pot resting on two diagonal logs sitting astride the little fire, a longing glow in his eyes.

“Its not hot, but I suppose the Lord makes us all deal with sacrifices,” Cufflain said with a wry smile, moving to pour coffee in his tin cup and handing it to his Captain.

Nodding his thanks, Brighelm asked, “Where’s Sergeant Marson? I thought he’d be gamblin’ away his life’s savings by now.” Brighelm wasn’t sure he really cared what happened to the troublesome twenty- five year old so long as he had nothing to do with it.

“Oh, nearest whorehouse he could afford,” answered Cufflain, rolling his eyes. “He says there’s bound to be a pretty whore in Washington somewhere, but I think he’d settle for pretty ugly, which shouldn’t be hard to find here! ”

Pausing as Brighelm took a drink of the tepid coffee Cufflain marked the page in his bible, cleared his throat and asked, “What do think of Colonel O’ Riley, sir?”

After a long moment, Brighelm replied. “Well, as you know, he was fair when we worked for him in the meat factory, and he seems like he enjoys the idea of command, but I guess we won’t know how good he is until the muskets start firing.”

“I don’t think I ever want to go the circus,” said Cufflain looking at his knees in shame.

“You mean, ‘see the Elephant,’” said Brighelm correcting the young Lieutenant.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said trying to hide the embarrassment in his raspy voice. “How do you ‘see the Elephant’ without going blind?”

“By keeping your head down, your musket hot, you’re mind sensible, and your soul in God’s favor,” said Brighelm as if it couldn’t be any more obvious then opened the cover of his pocket watch and squinted at the needle thin hands and sighed deeply. He was about to leave when he heard the squeak of boots in the wet grass.

“I heard reports about two rowdy drunks around here, thought I might as well join in,” said Donnie O’ Riley, second in command of the regiment, and son of the Colonel.

He was of medium height with brown hair that tended to slide down his forehead and sit just above his blue eyes. A small thin mustache rested under a tiny nose that looked like it could disappear into his face at any moment. His eyes always shown with kindness and understanding making him perhaps the most respected and popular man in the regiment and many thought he ought to be its rightful leader.

“Hello Donnie,” said Brighelm not bothering to salute the nineteen year old. “What can I do for ya this fine evenin’?”

“Me da’ would like to have you come to breakfast tomorrow morning,” he said with an informality that Brighelm found comfortable. “Say, seven?”

“Tell ‘im I’ll be there,” said Brighelm not really looking forward to the green Colonel’s condescension.

“You have any whiskey, Donnie?” asked Cufflain, his eyes on the lump in the Major’s coat.

“Always, Lieutenant, always,” said Donnie surrendering the half empty bottle. “It’s only for medicinal purposes, mind you.”

“Right, well, I have a headache just now owing to a certain officer who won’t shut up and let me drink.” The remark provoked a snicker of laugher from all three men and Cufflain smiled brightly.

“I guess that’s reason enough,” said Donnie pulling out a tin whistle and thumbed the first few notes of Lord Randall.

Cufflain took a modest swallow and proclaimed, “Major O’Riley should be a General.” Brighelm guessed this had not been Cufflain’s only drink of the evening. Brighelm smiled at the thought of a nineteen year old General and, bidding the two men goodnight, headed back to his tent

Sleeping fitfully, he dreamed of the treacherous and dusty battlefields of Mexico and his old comrades roaring in front of him as they cut down fleeing Mexican Soldiers