A Battle of Loyalty and Vice (Preview)

Chapter One

West Point, Georgia: April 1865

Brigadier General Robert C. Tyler led his band of Confederate convalescents forward. Behind them, other forces under Colonel Oscar LaGrange were ready to protect Fort Tyler and the bridge spanning the Chattahoochee River at West Point, Georgia, thirty-five miles upstream from Columbus. Major General James H. Wilson’s Union troops had swept through Alabama, seizing Selma and then Montgomery. Tyler knew he was to be the last stand of the Confederacy.

United States President Abraham Lincoln was not even twenty-four hours dead, a notion which rang in the back of Tyler’s mind as he limped forward, leaning heavily on his crutch. It was a poor substitute for his left leg, but he’d not yet given all to his cause, and there was still fighting to be done.

Gun smoke was thick in the air, the crackle of rifle fire filling his ears, cannon shot booming, the ground trembling beneath him.

Lincoln, he thought, not a bad man, not at all. Honorable, a soldier in his own way, willing to give his life for his cause. But to be gunned down by a coward, an actor no less, who lay in wait and came upon him unbeknownst. A shameful display, a treacherous act by a man not worthy of the name. A hero of the Confederacy? A blight, a pox upon both our houses!

“Push them back, men! No quarter to the Yankee aggressors!” Tyler limped forward, union infantry charging toward them and the earthen fort which carried his own name. He knew there was little chance of holding the fort or the bridge behind it, just as there was little chance that the broken Confederacy would yet prevail in that bloody contest. Despite Lincoln’s assassination, the South was in tatters, her resources spent, her sons exhausted and butchered, her cities burned. The war had been engaged and the battles fought, but the outcome seemed certain.

No matter, Tyler told himself, words familiar to him and the entire country ringing in his memory. Even the sons of the Confederacy had come to know these words, and to respect the man who wrote and spoke them just two years before at the battlefield at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Boom! A cannonball raced through his wounded soldiers, mowing them down in a cloud of red dust and chunks of meat and bone. Tyler couldn’t help thinking of their wives and mothers, fathers and sons, and all whom they would never see again.

What of my own beloved, he wondered, my stalwart young man?

The Union forces closed in, close quarter fighting raising bayonets against daggers and field hatchets, some using pitchforks to make their final stand.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

Tyler raised his sword to encourage his men. But he’d already looked into their eyes, he’d already endured the suffering of their sacrifice and his own. But they could not weaken, he’d urged them as he’d urged himself. Union iron whirred past, only fate protecting him. He’d faced death so many times that it seemed like an old friend, as if they’d come to some sacrosanct agreement that each would be allied with the other. Tyler knew his old friend was ever-present, and that the battle would find him as busy if not busier than any single combatant.

But, in a larger sense, Lincoln’s words rang in Tyler’s memory, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

A bullet tore into Tyler’s chest, his body reverberating with the energy of the shot, rippling through him in waves. His eyes lost their focus, ears filled with a dull hum. Despite the quivering which struggled to overtake him, Tyler remained standing until a second shot blasted his crutch out from under him, shattered in its center. He fell fast and hard, the muddy grass cold against his face as he lay, Union forces charging, swarming around and past him. They would take the fort named in his honor; they would take the bridge. They would take the nation.

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion, that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain …

Tyler’s body relaxed, muscles releasing their grip on life. His strength spilled out into the mud, warm and soaking into what was left of his uniform. Failure lay behind him, a fallen fort, around him the bodies of his last command. And now, on this day, when the war seems all but over. Only a day or two more, and sweet life yet awaited me, my golden years. I’d have found honor in defeat, against great men like Lincoln and Grant and Sherman, worthy adversaries and decent men. Would that Mr. Lincoln had survived, I would have shaken his hand.

Union infantry ran past Tyler, calling to one another, swinging swords and shouting out their victory bellows.

… That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

*

Jack Tremont saw the brigadier general in the field in front of the earthen fort, and he knew by the man’s lost leg that he was none other than Robert C. Tyler. He’d served the Confederacy with honor and humanity and was well known for being a mysterious figure with a shadowy past. He was a cripple; he was a leader, but that was why he had to die.

Jack raised his Winchester rifle. The man’s life was in his hands, and he knew that. But in a bigger way, both men had already given their lives to their causes, their sides in that grizzly conflict. Neither had any choice, neither could relent. Having given his leg did not mean that the good and noble Tyler could not and should not yet give more; give all, in fact.

Not only fitting and proper, it was necessary to take the fight out of his men, killing the snake by cutting off the head.

Bang!

Jack’s aim was true, and the brigadier general took the hit square in the chest. Jack held his position, on one knee with his rifle in his shoulder, still aimed for a second shot. It wouldn’t be necessary.

Another shot rang out from nearby, and Tyler’s crutch shattered at his side. The wounded man fell to his side, and Jack knew the great man was out of the fight and for good.

Rest in peace, good sir.

But Jack could take no rest. Fort Tyler remained to be taken, and the bridge beyond. Columbus, Georgia would fall to the Union, but not without a brutal fight. His rifle was empty, but it was still a potent weapon, the heavy wooden handle now a blunt force with skulls to crush, throats to bash.

One poor bastard ran up to Jack with a panicked expression, eyes wide and mouth screaming, and Jack sensed the man’s connection to his fallen leader Tyler. But it didn’t matter what was inspiring his charge. The man would kill or be killed, and Jack was shouldered with no less a burden.

Jack’s rifle butt found the man’s face with a single hard jab, and the Confederate combatant snapped back. He fell to the ground, but Jack knew he could not let the man survive to ambush or injure one of his fellow Union fighters. He had to die, and a second hard thrust of his butt into the man’s throat ensured his end.

Another Union officer was struggling with a Confederate, and before Jack could get to them, the Union man fell to the Confederate’s dagger. Jack ran up to him just as the Confederate was ready to refocus his attention on another battle. He had a familiar air, though there was no time to place it. For Jack there was time for two things only; to kill, and to survive.

But when the Confederate turned to face Jack and reveal himself, a vague familiarity became certain recognition. His red hair, green eyes, and pale, freckled face rang in Jack’s memory. And by the way the man froze in position, staying his own attack, Jack knew the recognition was mutual.

“Paul,” Jack said, “Paul Amberson. It’s me, it’s Jack … Jack Tremont.”

After a long, miserable silence, Paul said only, “I know.”

The war had been long and terrible for everyone involved, and Jack had taken too many lives to count or recount. But the end had come, despite the orders of their superiors. There were yet more battles to fight, yet more lives to give for one cause or the other. And Paul must have known as Jack knew, that the time for sacrifice was over at long last.

So Jack dropped his rifle and stood before his old friend, empty-handed. Paul looked at the fallen rifle, and Jack’s empty hands, and the moment between them seemed to stretch out forever. But forever wouldn’t be as long as either man might have hoped.

Paul screamed and charged Jack, dagger raised and ready to bring down hard into Jack’s chest. Jack ducked the charge and used Paul’s momentum against him, grabbing his old friend’s arm and sending him toppling past.

“Paul, wait,” Jack cried, “we don’t have to do this! The war’s over, Paul!”

“It’s over when Tyler tells me it’s over.”

“Tyler’s dead, Paul … and so is the Confederacy.”

“Then so are you!”

Paul charged again, and this time Jack knew he’d be unable to thwart his opponent in the same way. A different tactic would be required, but one which would not kill his old friend. So Jack ducked down, grabbed Paul’s arm, and flipped him over his shoulder. Paul landed flat on his back, his arm still in Jack’s grip, the knife falling out of his bent and twisted fist.

“Paul, enough, it’s enough! We’re friends!”

Paul looked up, and his expression seemed to soften, something like a smile crawling over his grimy face. But it didn’t last and was soon replaced by a sneer and a growl. Paul planted his foot into Jack’s gut, grabbed his arm, and Jack’s feet were suddenly pulled up off the ground. He flipped fast and landed hard on the grass, and Paul was quick to climb on top of him. Paul straddled Jack’s body, his thighs pinning Jack’s arms to the sides of his torso. Paul’s hands sprung out and clamped down around Jack’s throat, fingers pressing in, tissues threatening to buckle.

Jack could feel the blood stopping up above and below those crushing fingers, windpipe clenching in a feeble attempt to retain its integrity. Jack looked up at the face of his old friend, red as his own must have been.

“Friends? I never liked you, Jack Tremont … self-righteous jackass —” Fingers squeezed tighter, Jack’s vision going blurry. He tried to wrench one of his arms free, inching its way out from under Paul’s leg. His skin was tingling, face getting numb, the sounds of his own choked breath ringing in the backs of his ears.

Won’t be long now, Jack had to admit to himself. I may already be dying.

But another thrush of effort finally let him pull his arm free. He knew he could never fend Paul off with just one hand, and Paul seemed to know it too. But Jack hadn’t lost track of Paul’s fallen dagger, and it was just within arm’s reach.

The cold handle was reassuring in his grip, and the wet crunch of contact told Jack that the tables had turned. By Paul’s shocked expression, eyes wide and mouth open, body frozen, Paul seemed to know the same thing. Jack pushed the blade harder, deeper in, and Paul grunted with the additional agony. But Paul remained on top of Jack, his own dying hands still squeezing Jack’s throat as if Paul were determined to drag him down to hell with him.

Jack threw the rest of his strength into twisting the blade, which he knew would create a nervous reaction that would retract Paul’s hands from his throat. After that, it was just a matter of pushing up and tipping Paul over. He fell without a fight, and Jack could feel his strength and his life draining away by the second.

Once on his back, looking up as if from the grave, Paul groaned, blood gurgling in his throat and bubbling up out of the sides of his mouth.

Jack looked down at the familiar face, memories of fleeting moments of childhood friendship shattered by the brutal reality of its bloody end.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, Paul looking at him one last time before his body trembled and then came to an eternal rest. Jack reached over and closed Paul’s eyes for him, a last act of devotion in more ways than one.

Jack pushed himself to his feet. He looked around at the gore and chaos around him, the tide of his fellow Union infantry pouring past him, to die and to kill and to do as they were told. Even as there was no more war, no more victory, there was still defeat, there was still death, and there was still war.

Always, there would be war; but not for Jack Tremont.

Jack dropped the dagger, slick and black with his old friend’s blood. He stepped away, not a retreat but an abandonment. He’d fought and he’d killed and he’d won. The war was over, his battles were over.

No more, he told himself, no more.

Chapter Two

Baton Rouge, Louisiana: June, 1865

Mahler Tremont stood on the back porch of the Tremont Plantation house, overlooking almost five thousand acres of Baton Rouge Parish. Pines and firs stood in clutches as they had for hundreds of years, the Louisiana sky stretched out above, heavy even in the spring. A Cooper’s hawk and several chipping sparrows flew overhead, unbothered and disinterested in the dramas unfolding below. They never cared, and they never would. The smell of silverbell was thick in the air, clinging to the back of his throat.

But for all the things which went on as they always had and perhaps always would, so many other things had changed forever. The property had escaped the ravages of the war, and Mahler had little doubt as to Who’s divine providence could be thanked for that. But Louisiana had been torn apart like the rest of the nation. The economy was in shambles, liberated slaves abandoned fields to rot, and so many men had been killed, almost two generations in their entirety, it seemed.

Like the Tremont Plantation, the United States stood yet, and was likely to remain. But what the future held was uncertain. Unlike the war, whether either institution could withstand the horrors yet to come was still very much undecided.

“How do fare, Father?”

Mahler turned to see his eldest son, Matthew, limping out of the French double doors separating the living room from the porch. “Well enough, Matthew. Yourself? Your leg seems to be healing.”

“Well enough.” The two men shared a chuckle. Mahler looked his son over, tall and strapping, the manhood manifestation of a bold and brash boy. With a strong arm, a strong will, and a strong mind, Matthew was the picture of the man Mahler had once been. His athletic body was a reminder of what Mahler’s growing paunch had once been, blond hair and bushy sideburns echoing the origins of Mahler’s own graying beard and balding pate.

The two men surveyed the plantation, only a handful of slaves and several hired white laborers chopping and carting the cane.

“Can’t keep going at this rate,” Matthew said. “Not enough able men, cops rotting, little enough money to pay them.”

Mahler knew it to be true. And it was not the only weakness in the plantation’s barricades against the coming changes. “Few enough buyers anyway. What do you hear about our friends in Port Allen and points adjacent?”

“The Ambersons lost their boy Paul, but Peter returned. Blinded.” Mahler dipped his head in silent respect. The families didn’t always get along, but Mahler took no joy in their loss, no more than he imagined they took any joy in his. “They’re facing the same problems we are. Gonna have to ship their rice up north exclusively.”

Mahler shook his head. “Is that justice? Is that a country united; that we, the vanquished, should feed the victors while our own must starve in poverty?”

“I share your bile, Father. Mine rises higher, the more I think on it.”

“Probably best not to,” Mahler said with a huff. “What good will it do? Will it bring his boy back to him, or Jack back to us?” Matthew turned to look off in the other direction, and Mahler didn’t have to guess the reason for it. “Any word?”

Matthew went on, “I hear from my man Rawlins that there was word of him in Alabama, engaged in some scuffle among fur traders or some such. But that was weeks ago, I’m told.”

Mahler took a deep breath. “I see.”

Matthew rested his hand on his father’s shoulder to give him a reassuring tap. “He’ll come home, Father.”

“And when he does?” Matthew turned to step away, rubbing the bridge of his nose, just between his eyes. “He’s still your brother as much as he is my son, Matthew.”

“I know it, Father, I do, but … how could he go an’ fight for the North? Against his own kin, against his own way of life?”

“But not against his own conscience,” Mahler said. “That’s the man we raised, that’s a real Tremont. Whatever side he fought for, he believes in it, and that goes for the both of you. I was very proud to see you go, Matthew … and even more proud to see you come home.”

Matthew looked out over the plantation. “Home. And what is that now, Father, what is that to be in the years to come?”

“That, my son, will have to be for us to decide. How do things fare in New Roads and the others?”

“Mal Wilke’s holding tight to the soy bean market, seems to have survived the war nearly unscathed. But in Plaquemine, the Le Dux plantation is struggling, worse than us. Cotton sitting unpicked, eaten up by bugs. Lotta white men won’t take the work slaves used to do.”

“So I have come to understand,” Mahler said. “And what about Jasper Jarvis, in Livingston?”

“Not much call for his pecans right now, and he lost a lot more than his market share.”

Mahler turned, ready to assume the worst. “Both boys lost?” Matthew nodded, and Mahler sighed. “He was never far from mania to begin with.”

“No. Now he’ll be all the closer to that breaking point.”

“Closer to it? I’d be shocked, shocked I tell you, to find he hasn’t already gone far past it.”

Matthew nodded, and the two men shared a knowing silence. “They’ve been grumbling for years now, since before the war broke out.”

Mahler didn’t need to be told. He said only, “Yes.”

“They’ll know we’re weak,” Matthew went on, “vulnerable.”

“Yes.”

After a moment, Matthew asked, “Well, Father? What should we do?”

It was a question which hadn’t stopped ringing in the back of Mahler’s imagination. He could only offer his son the same answer he offered himself, even after the most rigorous invention. “I do not know, Son … I do not know.”

*

Jack Tremont had to make the last leg of his journey on foot. Resources after the war had become so scarce, Jack had to wonder if the nation would ever manage to fully recover. But the blackjack and the big heavy pine of Alabama slowly gave way to the candlewood and coulter pine of Louisiana, mallards and scaups becoming more commonplace overhead.

The countryside of Baton Rouge became familiar, the place Jack had grown up; where they’d buried his late mother, Margaret, where he’d walked away from his past, his family, his life.

Jack had to wonder, Will they even have me? Father is proud, and Matthew; I know he’s fought and survived. He’ll have my head on a pike at first sight.

Jack walked on, wondering if he shouldn’t change course and stay away, forge a new life and allow them to do the same.

Perhaps I was never meant to be here, he wondered, to have lived among them. Perhaps my birth was always just a cruel practical joke, and this war between the states merely the blood-strewn punchline. What good can I bring them now?

But Jack walked on, day after day, sleeping as many former soldiers did, under Santa Lucia fir trees, some in railway cars or barns with discrete bovine occupants.

In point of fact, I’m more likely to bring them pain and ill, more confrontation. Matthew and I never truly got along, and now? Now that we’ve both seen the horrors we’ve seen, done what we both had been called upon to do, each opposing the other in ideology and purpose. What will he make of me just turning up?

Mile after mile, Jack considered turning, veering west to make his way into Texas, where so many seemed to go for a fresh start. But it was all too easy to remember what fate so many optimists had discovered on those vast, flat plateaus. After years of battle, knee-deep in gore, Jack was tired of fighting, tired of killing.

And something told Jack that his family needed him. Beyond their differences were their similarities, their commonalities, their bond of blood and love and time. With the entire nation, even the rest of the known world open to him, Jack knew in his heart that there was nowhere else to go. Whatever he’d find, whatever disposition they would have, Jack knew he couldn’t go on resisting his destiny, denying his lineage, hiding from his family or from anybody.

Jack Tremont wanted not to fight, but he refused to hide.

The figure he saw in the front area of the plantation property was instantly familiar. He was even taller than Jack, and his shoulders were broad and steady. He looked around, surveying only a few laborers, and his body was heavy with dirt and soil, betraying his recent activity.

And when the figure froze where he stood, Jack knew his brother had seen him coming. Jack kept walking, and his brother gave no indication of how he would receive him. Jack readied his fists, knowing he would not raise a weapon against his brother.

If he guns me down as I approach, Jack had long decided, so be it.

Instead, as Jack got closer, Matthew stepped away from his post and approached. Once the two brothers were within reach of one another, they stopped and looked each other over. Matthew’s face had aged, as had his own, Jack had little doubt. With a silent nod, the two men extended their arms and enjoined in an embrace. Once in his older brother’s arms, Jack knew why he’d returned, why he had to return. With a few reassuring pats on the back and a squeeze which expressed more than any words could, the two released one another.

“Where have you been, Jack?”

“In Camden for a while.”

“I heard about that, something with fur trappers?”

“Just a local dispute,” Jack said. “No reason to give it any thought at all.”

“You’re back now, Jack.”

Jack nodded and surveyed the plantation where he’d grown up. “The black sheep of the family, eh?”

“We all make mistakes, Brother.”

“Not me,” Jack said, his smile melting away. “I fought for what was right.”

“And I fought for my family; for my way of life, for our way of life.”

“It’s not my way of life, Matthew.”

Matthew stood before his younger brother, and Jack could see that he was biting back on his anger, frustration welling up but not enough to overwhelm him. “Fair enough, Jack,” Matthew seemed to force out, his face assuming another smile. “But you’re still family, and that’s what matters most.”

Jack could not disagree with his sentiment in theory, and he didn’t want to disagree. They’d had all the disagreements two brothers needed for a pair of lifetimes. This was not a time for another fight, but for a joyful reunion, and not only with his older brother.

Matthew took Jack’s duffle bag and wrapped his other arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Let’s go see Father.”

Chapter Three

However warm was the greeting Jack had received from his brother Matthew, the one he received from his father was tenfold. His arms held Jack so tight and for so long, with such a sense of grateful desperation, that Jack worried for the old man’s well-being. But he shared that gratitude, and looking at his father’s broadening belly and graying, balding pate, Jack knew then that he’d made the right choice in coming home.

“How did you fare, my son? You look well enough.”

“Lucky,” Jack said.

“Blessed,” Mahler responded, eyes wide. “Two fine sons, both returned to me virtually unharmed.”

Jack glanced at Matthew. “I thought I saw a little limp there.”

“I hoped you hadn’t.”

Mahler asked Jack, “Where have you been? The war’s been over almost four months now.”

“Nothing worth reporting, Father.” Jack turned to glance into his memory, bitter visions of horror and brutality meeting his mind’s eye.

“We heard about some scrape in Alabama,” Matthew said.

“There was a disagreement between some of the locals. I was lucky enough to be in proximity, able to settle the matter without bloodshed.”

“There’s our boy,” Matthew said to Mahler, “never shirks from a fight … no matter who he’s fighting for.”

Jack shook his head. He’d expected a ribbing of that sort, and he was more than ready to accept it, but only up to a point. “But the nation, the world out there; it’s hurting, broken. People’s lives are shattered, their futures destroyed. Many who survived the war, on the battlefields and off, might have been better off joining Pres. Lincoln in that hallowed number.”

Mahler nodded and set his hand on Jack’s shoulder. Jack knew that his father would not pry into the grizzly details of the recent past. Jack caught Matthew’s glance, and it told the younger Tremont that his older brother was of the same mind. Some things were better left in the past. And the present, the future, provided challenge enough to occupy all of their resources.

Mahler said, “You’ll find things here in Louisiana to be no better, I fear. The economy’s in tatters, pocked and torn like the landscape, torn up by bullets and bayonets. And the north? We’re to be their slaves once more! What good was it to protest taxation without representation back in the colonies, when they were so called? We only have the same condition now, but our tyrant king is our own brother! This is democracy? This is rule of law? Or is this truly the law of rule?”

“It wasn’t about taxation, Father,” Jack said, unable to resist. “Nor about state’s right. It was about decency, it was about humanity. It was about what kind of country we are going to be, what kind of values we treasure, what kind of example we set, what kind of lives we lead and choices we make. Can’t you see how vital it was to America to turn her back on that horrible practice of slavery?”

Matthew asked, “But to what end? Our economic suicide!”

“You’ll have your economy back, in time. But those men and women will have their freedom as well.”

The two young men stared each other down. Jack knew his brother’s mind, and his own position was quite clear. Neither would back down.

“Men,” Matthew repeated, “women …”

Jack turned to him. “That’s right, Matthew; men, women, people. Not three-fifths of a person. Equal.”

“I don’t really care about the measure of a voting citizen in that manner,” Matthew said. “But you know as well as anybody how important that labor was to us, to the family, to the plantation. Look around, we’re dying on the vine here!”

“Bitter herb from a rotten seed,” Jack said.

Matthew lurched toward Jack, fists clenched. But he held himself back, the younger brother not flinching in the face of his elder brother’s advance.

“You abandoned us to fight for strangers!”

“I fought for what was right,” Jack said calmly. “And I’ll do so again.”

“Then ready yourself for a fight that will put West Point to shame!”

“I’ve been ready since that very day.”

Mahler said, “All right, all right, we’ve been ’round the bend on this in times past. I won’t have any bickering among us, not about other people and other lives. We have our own lives to worry about, and to save them we shall have to hang together.”

Jack was ready to comply, and a nod from Matthew signaled his own. Jack returned his attention to hear more about this threat, and he didn’t need to ask for an explanation. But before Mahler could speak, Matthew said, “The other plantations are getting ready to make a move on us, we think.”

“Who, le Deux in Plaquemine?”

Matthew said, “Jarvis, the pecan plantation in Livingston; Mal Wilkes in New Roads.”

Jack sighed. “What about the Ambersons, in Port Allen?”

“Not sure,” Mahler said. “If they stand with the others, we won’t have much chance.”

Jack shook his head and stepped around the living room. “We had years of peace before the war; everybody sharing in some commodities, each with their own specialty. Are they all so empowered? Are we so vulnerable?”

“They’re off their feet as well,” Matthew said. “That’s what’s causing the sea change.”

It made perfect and terrible sense to Jack’s military mind. But it put his family at a terrible and crucial disadvantage. A simple act of murder and some legal wrangling would put the Tremont Plantation into their shared hands, and the power Mahler wielded over the locals, and it would wipe the Tremont family off the map.

Jack reviewed the possibilities. Who is the driving force behind these new alliances? Wilkes? Jarvis? Does it matter? Each can be approached differently, if they can now be approached at all.

Mahler seemed to read Jack’s distant expression, and he tapped his youngest son’s back to reassure him. “We needn’t tackle the problem tonight.”

Jack wasn’t convinced. He knew well from his experience on the field how quickly the enemy could fall upon an enemy camp in ambush, how effective the benefit of surprise could be.

*

“But while he was still a long way off,” Pastor Albert Hobbs read from Luke 15, “his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”

Jack couldn’t help thinking that his old friend, who had seen him grow up in that very parish, knew of his return and had chosen the verse especially for him. Though Jack did not feel like the returned sinner embodied by the returned Prodigal Son, the sentiment of open-armed welcome was well taken. It would come not just from his father and brother, but from the community as well.

“The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’

“But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.’” Jack glanced around the congregation, only a shadow of its pre-war numbers. The women all seemed much older than when he left, a coven of old maids to replace the happy belles and fine young men of promise. But when they caught his glance, they returned it with a smile. Old men nodded at Jack, their silent concurrence with the Words of the Lord. “‘Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

Jack couldn’t help feeling that he’d never truly been lost, that he’d found his way long before his fellows. But in that way he’d returned not in shame but to illuminate others. In many ways Jack did feel like the Prodigal Son, but in many ways he felt also like the Father, who embraced loved ones despite their failure and sin. Put a ring on their hand and a robe on their backs, Jack thought, slaughter for them the fatted calf; for these sons and daughters of mine were dead but are alive again; they were lost and now are found.

---

“A Battle of Loyalty and Vice” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

After the end of the Civil War, Jack Tremont returns to his family’s southern plantation after having fought for the North. Tensions remain high between him and his older brother, who fought for the South. Will they set their differences aside and fight against the rival plantation owners who are moving in to take their land and fortune for themselves?

Corruption, treachery, and coldblooded murder are only a few of the problems Jack will have to face. If he doesn’t stay united with his brother, he risks losing his family, his newfound love, even his own life. Will Jack’s peaceful inclinations override his brother’s hotheaded, warlike tendencies, or will a brutal slaughter be inevitable? In this impossible situation, will love triumph, or will it be crushed by the forces of greed and depravity?

The soul of the nation is at stake, and one family will either stand together or be torn asunder. Vivid imagery and complex characters enrich this tense and violent drama, an epic story of sacrifice and scheming with twists and turns that will keep the reader flying from page to page.

“A Battle of Loyalty and Vice” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!