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December 1860
Alfred F. Jones stalked through the hallways of the White House, his head held high. Members of the staff greeted him with a smile and a “Mr. Jones.” He smiled back at them, but it soon disappeared when he passed them. He had an important matter to discuss with Mr. Lincoln. One that may just cause a war.
He didn’t bother knocking when he came to the President’s office; Mr. Lincoln had come to think of him as a son. When he opened the door, Abraham Lincoln stared grimly at him. “So,” the president said, “I assume you’ve heard?”
Alfred snorted and paced the office, “I felt it before I heard about it. There’s been trouble stirring in the south for years. I never thought they’d act on it.”
He looked the president dead in the eye, “If they’ve declared their independence, then the south has a personification. He would be my little brother. I don’t want to be like England.”
The president looked at the boy with a sad look in his eyes. He knew how much the Revolution had hurt the country and he didn’t want a repeat of that. “It won’t come down to war,” the president said gently, “I won’t let it.”
Alfred looked pained and began to pace the office again, “But it might have to. What then? Can I really deny my citizens their freedom? And what about all the slaves?”
He continued to pace the office, “For the sake of argument, let’s say that we did go to war. If we won, I might have to kill my little brother.” Alfred turned to the president with a fire in his eyes, “I will not kill my little brother.”
Lincoln looked at the nation sadly, “I promise it will not come to that.” Alfred nodded and looked slightly comforted, “Thank you.”
The United States of America spun on his heels and stalked out of the room.
April 1861
Oh the Confederates have done it now. Alfred was once again pacing the room in the president’s office. Lincoln sighed a bit; at this rate Alfred was going to wear a hole in the floor. “What do you mean they attacked Fort Sumter?” Alfred scowled, he was furious. How dare they attack him? Him?
Lincoln sighed again, “I mean exactly that. The Confederate States of America attacked Fort Sumter.” Alfred’s scowl grew and resisted the urge to punch the wall. He last time he did that, his fist went through the wall. It took several bouquets of flowers and multiple apology letters to get Lincoln to talk to him again.
It had been a while since the all-American boy had felt this infuriated. The last time had probably been 1812, when England kept attacking his ships. But that was nearly 50 years ago, he and England were cool. But this new country, not so much.
In a fit of anger, Alfred turned to the president and stuck his finger at him, “Go to Congress. I want a declaration of war by tonight. Little brother or not, he’s gone too far.”
Lincoln nodded as Alfred walked out the door. “Where are you going?” called the president. Alfred turned back to the president, his face still in a scowl, “I’m going to where everything began.”
April 1861 – Fort Sumter
It probably wasn’t very smart for Alfred to be here alone. After the declaration of war a few days ago, both the Union and the Confederacy had been on edge. But it didn’t matter, Alfred needed to see where it happened. Where his country started to fall apart.
He had dressed in civilian clothes; he didn’t want to see people’s reactions if he walked down here in a Union army uniform. He looked out over the ocean, Fort Sumter in the corner of his eye, when he felt the barrel of a gun press against the small of his back.
“Turn around and maybe I won’t shoot,” a voice said. The voice was male, post-puberty, and almost sounded as though it had a Boston accent.
As soon as the gun had pressed against his back, he felt a familiar chill go down his spine; this man was another nation. Most likely, the newly formed Confederate States of America. But how had he grown up so fast?!
Alfred slowly turned around and was met with dark brown eyes, almost red. The man had tan skin, reddish brown hair with a cowlick much like Alfred’s, and seemed to be missing one of his front teeth. The man was wearing a soldier’s uniform.
Alfred licked his dry lips and raised his hands in surrender, “My name is Alfred F. Jones. I’m like you. I know who you are, Confederate States of America.”
The mystery man shuddered at hearing his true name but shrugged it off and smiled cockily, “The name’s Allen F. Jones, nice to meet you.”
Alfred nodded slowly, as though any sudden movement might set the other male off. They stood in an awkward silence, Allen’s gun still pointing at Alfred and Alfred’s hands still up in surrender. “So,” Alfred began, “Might I ask why you fired on Fort Sumter?”
Allen laughed, but with no mirth. His eyes seemed to turn a darker, almost blood red and he cackled, “Why? Because I want a war, doll face. I want to see your bleedin’ body lying in the dust while I march in and take over your country.”
Alfred was shocked; he had never expected the reasoning for firing on Fort Sumter to be so…so…horrifying. Allen was now ranting, waving his gun about for dramatic emphasis. He was describing in incredibly close detail just what he was going to do the Alfred on the battlefield.
Taking the opportunity while Allen was distracted, Alfred punched him square in the nose. He punched him hard enough to hear a sickening yet satisfying crack! that knocked Allen unconscious.
Alfred stood over Allen’s unconscious body. He spoke with such venom in his voice that even a Cobra would be jealous. “Be careful what you wish for, little brother. Family be damned, you will be sorry for this.”
Alfred turned around, got on his horse, and rode back to Washington DC.
May 1865 – Palmito Ranch
It had been four years.
Four long bloody years. Every bullet that had torn through his men he had felt, though on a much smaller scale. But the bullets add up. His arm had been put in a sling countless times, he walked with a limp, and he was starting to go blind. He’d probably need glasses after this.
Allen was far worse off. He had lost an arm at Gettysburg and had a bandage across his eye. He had lost several more teeth and was blind in one eye.
The Union was losing the battle, and badly. Alfred conferred with the general, and the general agreed with his idea. They would charge across the battlefield, maybe lose their lives in the process. But Alfred could see Allen with the Confederate soldiers, and he was determined to finish this war.
Today.
He and the general made eye contact; he nodded. Unsheathing his sword, the general yelled out, “Charge!”
Alfred raced across the battlefield, jumping over the bodies of his fallen citizens. He was hit on the arm by a bullet, but he couldn’t feel it. He had one goal today: kill Allen and end the Civil War. He jumped up the wall the Confederates were hiding behind and grabbed Allen by his collar.
“I’m gonna kill you,” he muttered, “I’m gonna kill you and end this damned war.” Allen spat blood in his face, “Then do it!” Alfred hesitated for a moment, and Allen cackled, “Too weak! You were always too weak!”
Alfred snarled and shoved his bayonet in Allen’s chest. He stopped laughing for a second and looked at the bayonet in his chest before laughing again. He coughed up blood, his voice going weak, “Now…Now y-you’re like…me.”
Allen F. Jones collapsed in Alfred’s arms.
The American Civil War was over.