'Upon returning, the bloody, wounded warrior needs only to laugh at the spotless, armchair critic.'
Criss Jami
Michael and his companions shifted their focus with a fluid motion, aligning themselves before the inn's counter, their movements orchestrated in preparation for their next move. The Innkeeper's gaze met theirs as business transactions commenced, but it was Michael's voice that resonated through the air, carrying a solemn declaration, "This is not the end."
Nick added his own voice, infused with unwavering resolve, "Indeed. We've been vigilant observers."
Each person present acknowledged that this was but a temporary halt in their mission, a lull before the storm that awaited. The Innkeeper, an emblem of authority, confronted them with a question, "How long shall your stay endure?"
"Two, perhaps three days at most, " Tim responded, his tone exuding a confidence that masked the undercurrent of uncertainty he shared with his comrades.
Yet, in the private recesses of his thoughts, Michael held reservations about the duration of their stay. The group ascended the stairs, accompanied by a woman who led them with a sense of purpose to their assigned rooms.
Turning to the woman, Tim inquired, his voice an inquiry wrapped in pragmatism, "Does this establishment offer laundering services?"
The reply came with a matter-of-fact clarity, "Yes, though it comes at triple the standard charge."
A wry smile graced Tim's lips, a testament to his understanding. "Go ahead and launder our uniforms."
"Settle in, change, and I'll promptly retrieve your garments, " the woman reassured them.
Their carefully orchestrated plan bore its own cost, a fact that reverberated through the charged atmosphere like an unspoken truth. The anticipation of impending complications loomed, an inescapable reality hanging just beyond reach. Moreover, the dilemma of laundering their Union uniforms loomed large, a matter that ignited a hushed discussion among the group.
David voiced their collective apprehension, his words laden with worry, "Could such an act potentially raise suspicions?"
Anxiety shadowed every countenance; the audacious scheme they had embarked upon revealed its imperfections, a testament to the hasty decisions made in a world foreign to them. Yet, amidst the haze of doubt, one unshakable certainty held firm: their unwavering trust in Michael.
With precision, Michael issued his instructions, guiding Tim's actions as they stepped into the corridor. There, Tim swiftly hailed the establishment's owner, who promptly materialized before them.
"We've hit a snag, " Tim's voice broke the stillness.
"Speak plain, " Big Tom demanded.
"Listen up. Our course is set to converge on Abraham Lincoln, and here's where you come in. We've managed to secure a perfect disguise, you see. The catch is, we've soaked our Union uniforms in the process. We're hoping you'll be kind enough to keep our little secret under wraps, particularly if anyone should catch sight of those damp uniforms hanging out to dry."
Tom's response was swift and resolute, "Consider it done. Not a soul will step foot out there except my old Ma-ria, my elderly mother. She's not given to prying."
"Much obliged. And my apologies for the earlier disturbance."
"Hell, you're aiming for Lincoln. I ought to be thanking you."
Interrupting the exchange, Michael's voice resonated, "And I'll be discounting your charges. You'll pay only double now. If you're of a mind, you're welcome to join us for supper."
A genuine smile graced Tim's features, "That's a mighty kind offer."
Yet, Tom's gaze bore into Michael, an attempt at intimidation that might have unnerved others. But Michael was not so easily rattled. He had encountered this type before, those who sought to assert dominance. Yet, time and again, he demonstrated that true strength resided with him.
The woman retrieved their clothes, and a respite unfolded that afternoon. However, Michael's vigilance remained steadfast. Shedding the confining uniform, he sank onto the bed, his thoughts dwelling on the remarks of those Confederate soldiers regarding African Americans, and how his actions had unwittingly imperiled their lodgings earlier in the day.
The challenge was no longer an abstract concept. He had dissected it, contemplated it, but now, there was no refuge in imagination. He was thrust right into its heart.
As the evening descended, they gathered for a shared meal with the inn's owner and his trio of companions, forming an assembly of eight around a sturdy table. Laughter and camaraderie filled the space, yet every time Michael cast a glance over his shoulder, he encountered eyes brimming with scorn, glares that emanated not only from the men but even from the owner's own children.
The youngsters' resentful stares bore witness to a poisoned legacy, a prejudice perpetuated by their parents' toxic indoctrination. A sense of melancholy swept over Michael, a weighty realization of the generations caught in the grip of ignorance.
"Lost in thought, are you, Negro?" Tom's henchman jeered, lacking the decency to know his name; labels sufficed as their shield.
"No particular thought, " Michael replied, his gaze focused on his plate, a deliberate avoidance of confrontation.
"He's ignoring us, " one of them whispered to the others.
It had been a calculated move. The twenty Confederate soldiers they'd stunned now lay incapacitated, scattered in disarray.
"Twenty of our men went missing today, " the inn's owner remarked with a pointed glance. "A handful were close to me. They muttered about news from Fort Sumter, the commander there claimed four Union soldiers managed to escape. Now, would you four gentlemen happen to possess any insights?"
Tim's smile bore an enigmatic quality. "As we've previously mentioned, our mission is discreet, and its execution is near."
Tom's skepticism was palpable. "Your words hardly ring with conviction. I might have to order my men to fire a few shots and prompt the truth from your lips. Either way, you'll be revealing your secrets before you depart this inn. Now, which route did you take?"
Tim's response was swift, "Alabama. We avoided Fort Sumter entirely. No rumors of escapes reached us. I give you my word."
Tom's comrade interjected, "The reports did mention an escape by sea."
David countered the suspicion with logic, "Then why suspect us, who travel by land, if they fled by sea?"
Tom's shrug held a touch of resignation. "Four of you. That's why I entertained the notion. It's plausible. And Confederate ships might cross paths with them. News spreads fast. We could know their fate sooner than later."
Michael hoped not. Each passing moment amplified his unease. But he was a seasoned soldier, forged in the crucible of adversity, and he concealed his anxiety beneath a guise of inexperience.
"Well, " Tom's voice sliced through the air, commanding attention, "my patrons harbor doubts about your presence here. I did reassure them that your mission revolves around eliminating Abraham Lincoln, "
"We've explicitly told you it's a classified operation, " Tim's gaze held a weight of seriousness.
Tom leaned back, a smirk curling his lips, "No need to fret. Your cover story has quelled their concerns. Though it does intrigue me that they sent all of you along with a Black, "
"Because I'm the one set to pull the trigger, " Michael interjected with decisiveness. "Lincoln won't see it coming. That's how we catch him off guard."
A unanimous nod swept through Tom and his companions, the clinking of refilled glasses harmonizing with the soft murmur of conversation. Amidst this façade of normalcy, Michael measured each sip, mindful of his purpose, to execute the mission while avoiding any spotlight of suspicion.
Major Robert Anderson's correspondence to the president lingered like an unspoken specter, its timing a mystery that demanded caution.
"So, those twenty comrades we stumbled upon, stripped of uniforms?" David ventured.
"In the infirmary, " Tom's associate replied, his eyes bearing a hint of distrust. "Their assailants spared them, though the reason remains elusive. All uniforms were taken. Curiously, if the attackers had specific targets, they could have chosen discriminately. Instead, they left no distinction."
Answers unfolded methodically as the night unfolded its embrace. One by one, they retreated to their respec-tive rooms, solitude a cloak of introspection.
Within his chamber, Michael contemplated the impending hours. He stood on his homeland's soil, albeit within a different epoch, a period where he was deemed an adversary. Here, his words wielded no authority to extricate him from the destiny carved by these people. The foundation of a government cherishing liberty was yet to be laid.
Stretching across the bed, a question took shape: should he and his comrades depart with the dawn? Horses could be secured, distance covered expediently. Yet, exhaustion swept over him, carrying the hope that his choice wouldn't write a tragic conclusion. If death was what this timeline held for him, he acknowledged it might etch his final chapter.
Soon, slumber enfolded him, spiriting his mind into dreams.
In Michael's reverie, Big Tom, the innkeeper, wielded a cold steel pistol against his forehead. Veiled in shadows, Tom wore the unsettling guise of the Grim Reaper, come to claim the forfeited soul.
The trigger was squeezed, and Michael startled awake, his heart in a frantic dance against the boundaries of reality. The room lay void of life, Big Tom vanished into the night. Rest eluded him, worry gnawing at his resolve. Unyielding, he settled back onto the bed, eyes clamped shut in a desperate bid to summon sleep's solace. But this time, slumber defied his bidding.
Vigil turned into a silent duel with the approaching dawn. Footfalls echoed through the corridor, pausing before his door on more than one occasion. The intent remained shrouded, yet Michael dismissed it at his peril, for he knew better than to ignore even a whisper of suspicion. The slightest oversight could unleash calamity. He remained vigilant, his senses sharpened to an unwavering edge.
A bath was drawn within his quarters, a reminder of ordinary comforts against an extraordinary backdrop.
Just one more night trapped within these walls, he contemplated, before they'd venture into the unknown.
As the sun painted the sky with shades of gold, they descended to break their fast, and later, repeated the routine for the noonday meal. Big Tom's conspicuous absence hovered like an unsettling omen, his mere nonappearance hinting at obfuscation, motives soon to be unveiled.
With the mantle of evening settling upon the land, Big Tom's reappearance remained uncertain. Michael gathered his comrades in his chamber, a sanctuary against the brewing storm, to cement their decision for the morrow.
"I trust him not, " David's skepticism wove into the air, etching shadows onto his features. "His queries were far from innocuous. I cannot imagine him simply letting us slip away. There's danger in those eyes."
"Agreed, " Nick interjected, his voice laced with suspicion. "And why this prolonged absence? There's a scent of deceit."
Tim's words followed, an undercurrent of caution underscoring his tone. "Preparedness is our armor. Trouble's on the horizon, of that I'm certain."
"Our belongings stand ready, " Michael's declaration carried unwavering resolve. "We'll procure provisions from the township before we depart. Speed is our ally."
Their consensus was unshakable, a pact made in the face of looming uncertainty.
Night draped itself over the world, and Michael embraced sleep, hoping for a reprieve from the specter of treachery. Although he often undermined his body's resilience, his aversion to harm was undeniable.
Dreams cascaded in tranquil streams, unburdened by worry, until dawn's delicate light heralded a new day.
Draping themselves in Confederate attire, they concealed their weapons with skill, transforming uniforms into fortifications. Rifles clutched tightly, they entered the corridor, ready to face the world beyond.
Inside the inn, a sense of emptiness prevailed; the barkeep's presence remained conspicuously absent. But it was the sight beyond the swinging doors that staggered their expectations, a tableau of unforeseen complexity. Twenty Confederate soldiers stood in formation, flanked by a contingent of Tom's men, some astride horses, others standing resolute on the ground.
Tom's voice sliced through the air like a sharpened blade, "Let's revisit our conversation from nights past." Striding past the four companions, he headed toward the assembly beyond the threshold.
The townsfolk of Fair Rock had gathered as witnesses, their gazes brimming with morbid curiosity, convinced that these four men stood on the precipice of their fate.
Big Tom's voice resounded, laden with gravitas, as he addressed them. "You spoke of a clandestine mission, an order to slay Abraham Lincoln, with the 'negro' aiding your cause. Yet, you conveniently omitted a critical detail: you're Union soldiers turned fugitives. I'd wager it was Major Anderson who dispatched you. Aye, he surrendered Fort Sumter, and it was your hands that took the lives of Confederates in your desperate escape. The seizure of uniforms from twenty Confederates, I reckon, was your gambit to obliterate your trail. But here you stand, entrenched in Confederate soil, and as the sun climbs this morn, you shall dance from a noose, with that 'nig-ga' facing a bullet prior."
Michael's gaze turned resolute, a silent directive to his comrades. "Take cover within. Leave this dance to me." His bag was flung to the safety of the indoors, and he stood alone, an unwavering bastion against the tempest that brewed.
His fellow soldiers retreated, swallowed by the sheltering walls. Michael withdrew a compact device from his pocket, its purpose a harbinger of chaos. Just as the initial gunshot reverberated, his armor activated, a shroud of concealment draping over him. Swift as a hawk's dive, an assault rifle found its home in his grip.
The volley of gunshots shattered the air, leaden projectiles rebounding off his armored shield. He responded with a symphony of fire, a tempest of bullets that punctuated his readiness for the tumult that now engulfed him.