When Johnathan Traver joined the Union Army in October of 1861, he imagined a glorious and noble death awash in crimson. Eight months later, a survivor of Shiloh, Johnathan is still alive, serving as a master sergeant. To the dismay of his superiors, he makes it his mission to update battle training techniques, even if it means becoming an outlaw. He believes modern weapons should dictate modern battle strategies, but the army still trains men as if they had muskets. Johnathan-the disowned son of a wealthy Vermont Squire who endured an abusive childhood-meets Esher, an illiterate orphan from the prairie, and they become warrior companions. Adventure is Johnathan's word for their union; love is Esher's. What's more, the vast difference in their backgrounds forms an obstacle for them. Esher belabors this difference; Johnathan doesn't. Sharing a tale of the Union soldiers in the midst of the Civil War, Sweetgrass: Book II remembers them for their bravery and communicates a triumph of the spirit.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Sweetgrass

Book II Crimson

By PATRICIA ANN KUESS

iUniverse, Inc.

CHAPTER 1

Last day of May, 1862, marching in eastern Tennessee

When we left our western Tennessee Camp a week ago I thought I wasprepared to die, but here's the actual truth: I'm not. I keep thinking ofthings I'd like to do. I want to add a few more lines to my Ode to Crimson.It lacks flair, I regret that. I don't want to die with an incomplete Ode, it'llniggle at me for all eternity, a burden I don't intend to bear. I want to befree of burdens. That's the whole point of crimson, freedom.

Then there's my legacy to Esher, We Are the Adventure, the saga of aYankee and a Prairieman, the story of us. So far it's just an embarrassingmess of papers that I seem incapable of organizing. Anyone, even I, wouldfalter at inheriting such a muddle of papers, much less Esher, who can'tread. Yet I deem it crucial that I write our story and that he inherits it.

I plod onward, making an effort to match my step with every bob ofthe rabbit skin that dangles from Hanson's pack ahead of me. The delicatehide is cleverly stretched on a cross-hatching of sticks, and at some pointHanson will sew it into a coin purse. We're a duet, the rabbit's remains andI. Step, bob. Step, bob. Step, bob.

A new truth is wriggling its way into my brain and I can't seem to stopit. This is it plain and simple: I need more time.

Step, bob. Step, bob. More time. More time.

There is so much I want to do. My Ode to Crimson only reflects the gistof my crimson vision, and that is not enough. I want to embrace the glory,the nobility, the ultimate freedom of crimson in my Ode, and I fear it fallsshort of these lofty aims. I cannot pass from earth with a dull, dreary, orworse, vapid testimonial to the beauty of crimson. My Ode is a tribute tomy moment of death and it must glisten.

Step, bob. Step, bob. More time. More time.

It's odd to think that within this splayed hide there used to dwell abunny, but soon it will only be a receptacle for coins or matches.

Step, bob. More time.

It's not that I'm not trying, I write every night. But for some reasonwords fail me. My Ode remains lusterless, and We Are the Adventure insistson unfolding in driblets and dabs. My brain, for a reason I can't fathom,is refusing to cooperate with my heart, and I feel caught in an ugly siege.I'm at a standstill.

Step, bob. More time. Step, bob. More time.

Where do I mount an assault for more words?

And then there's Esher. I'm teaching him to read so he can appreciateour story, but that's not going to happen today, or tomorrow. More time isthe answer to everything, but this is a fact: my days on earth are dwindling.I'm down to single digit numbers since this march leads directly to battle.That crimson awaits is a certainty.

Step, bob. Step, bob.

"Sergeant!"

I mime the bobbing hide's lilting sway as I march, lulled to anoverwhelming torpidity.

"Sergeant, I'm speaking to you!"

Step, bob. Ste—

An elbow suddenly rams into my side, it pierces my reverie. Sammethisses, "Answer 'im er we'll draw the worst watch."

"Have you gone deaf, Sergeant?"

Our Lieutenant, astride a boring brown horse, suddenly looms intoview, his face red-splotched, his eyes wrathful. The unexpected appearanceof his livid anger startles me. For a moment I stare stupidly, but only for amoment, Sammet's elbow rams me again. I salute with precision. "Sir!" Iexclaim, and instantly garb myself in my resplendent, full length Huntergreen cloak. I bask in its verdant beauty, aware that it conceals perfectlymy stupified lapse of attention.

"Your insolence goes too far, Sergeant." Our Lieutenant sits back inhis saddle when he hears mere bravado in his voice instead of the superiorofficer tone he intended. A fretful frown eclipses his anger. He understandshe's lost some advantage, but how? He actually pats at himself as thoughsearching for something, but whatever he finds it'll be no match for mycloak. I shrug its luxurious folds in place as I march alongside his horse.The Lieutenant spurs his mount forward so he can look back at me. "Webreak soon. You will meet with me and the Captain. Don't be late." Hecanters off without waiting for a corroborating salute. I get back in linebehind Hanson.

"I don' know how ya do it," Sammet says with a slight shake of hishead. "You an' yer airs."

I say nothing. 'Airs' used to be a word that stung me. No more. Iunderstand that to these Westerners, airs are synonymous with Yankee,of which I am, since I was born and raised in Vermont. Sammet peers atme intently, apparently expecting some reply. "We break soon," I informhim.

Sammet's naturally vigorous strides turn into little hops, a couple ofjumps. I have riled him. I didn't react to airs as he hoped. "D'ya think I'mdeaf?" he shouts. "I heard. I heard."

"Tell the men," I order, hoping to be rid of him.

"We break soon!" he yells, nearly in my ear, then grins at me asthough triumphant about something that matters. I pay him no mind.I'm arranging my cloak so it looks as elegantly as possible, flows flawlesslyabout me, and for a consummate touch, I add a hefty dose of shimmer tothe lustrous green. Sammet blinks, his grin languishes in place. I ripple thefolds of my cloak, reveling in their exceptional beauty as they radiate therays of the sun. What a sterling day it was when I imagined this cloak, forit has never failed me. Sammet huffs off, shouldering past Hanson, whostumbles before righting himself. I fluff my never-failing cloak, gratefulfor the day I thought of it.

My eye catches sight of Esher as he marches arm-in-arm with Willem,his friend from Two-Bean's squad in our Company. They are laughingboisterously. I see that they are trying to trip each other. I frown. Ourpace is double-time. If either of them should fall he'll get trampled, not tomention disrupt the entire line of men marching behind. I watch them,aware of envy at their stamina. I don't recall ever having such endurance,even when I was as young as they are, nineteen.

Suddenly, Willem lurches forward and Esher yanks him upright. For asecond they both stumble around, arms clasped, laughing, bumping intotheir neighbors who indulge their boyishness good-naturedly.

Ezekiel rights both young men, a brawny arm around each of them.My frown deepens. Ezekiel has his eye on Esher, which I don't mind, it'shis hands that get my dander up, they're all over Esher whenever possible.His hearty laugh bellows throughout the countryside, echoes off the hills.His laugh is as boisterous as he is. "I gitten a song fer this," he says, as hehoists up Esher and Willem.

"You name it," Willem replies.

All the men within earshot laugh and start applauding. Even I stopfrowning and smile. Willem is our Company singer. He's welcome at anycampfire, and he usually comes to ours due to his friendship with Esher.

"Rally 'Round." Ezekiel names a rousing popular song. "An' I wan' itrigh' now."

Willem immediately starts singing. When he gets to the chorus,everyone joins in.

"Oh, we'll rally 'round the flag, boys,We'll rally 'round the flag ..."

I contribute nothing to the song. I am not a singer, I am an observer.I watch Willem's infectious smile, note his rosy complexion, the sparklein his Cornflower blue eyes, the jaunty angle of his cap on his flaxen hair.What a contrast he presents to Esher's dark brown hair, deep brown eyesand swarthy skin. They are two farmers, Willem from...

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