Chapter 4: The Heirs and the Severed Head

It was the rarest commodity in the Republic these days, and it glowed in the young man’s eyes. You could see it from across the room.

The lamp flame was tossed by the wind, flickering. The youth held the lamp in one hand, looked up at Ben Hayes, his voice pausing: “General.”

The word was a benediction, a summons. Ben straightened, feeling the weight of command settle on his shoulders once more.

Ben Hayes almost instinctively followed his cue, raising his hand to signal Justin Arnold and the rest to withdraw, leaving only a few trusted senior officers. The room emptied, the tension thickening.

The tent emptied, the air growing heavier as the circle tightened. The stakes were suddenly real, the danger palpable.

“The Republic is weak, with only a hundred thousand men, running east and west, exhausted. So the people seek peace, the cabinet seeks conciliation. This is inevitable after the old followers of the late President have fallen away; the General cannot support it alone, but don’t be disheartened.” The tone was gentle, almost fatherly.

The words were gentle, almost fatherly. Ben felt his heart stir, the old pride flickering to life.

A short sentence, but Ben Hayes felt his heart stir. He hadn’t felt that in years.

He looked up, surprised by the warmth in the young man’s eyes. For the first time in years, he felt seen.

“We are weak and the enemy strong—how can we sit and wait for death? Only by attacking to defend can we buy a little time. If we seek peace and stability, the cause will soon perish—how could it have lasted another thirty years? This is the General’s great merit.” The logic was clear, the message unmistakable.

The logic was sound, the argument unassailable. The officers nodded, the old fire rekindled in their eyes.

Ben Hayes seemed to want to smile, but he couldn’t. His life had been too bitter. He tried, but the pain was too fresh.

The attempt at a smile was brief, fading into a grimace. The pain of loss was too fresh, the wounds too deep.

“Sinclair says the Republic’s men are old and tired, easy to conquer. Sinclair orders Charles Hunt to command in Grand Junction, claiming to attack the Confederation first. Does the General believe it?” The question was sharp.

The question was a challenge, a test of faith. Ben hesitated, weighing the possibilities.

This time, Matthew Irons replied: “I heard Hunt is buying boats...” His words were hesitant, uncertain.

The words were uncertain, the information secondhand. Still, it was enough to plant a seed of doubt.

“Sinclair slaughtered the President in the street, betraying his leader, condemned by the world. He wants to seize power, but only military force can realize his ambition. Therefore, the Republic or the Confederation must fall, but which is stronger? The Confederation holds the South, the United States is not skilled in river warfare, hard to succeed in one strike, he will not take the risk. So, attacking the Republic is inevitable, and he must seek success.” The analysis was sharp, the logic clear.

The analysis was sharp, the conclusion unavoidable. The officers exchanged glances, the reality settling in.

They always pick the softest fruit. Nobody wanted to admit it, but they all knew.

The phrase hung in the air, bitter and true. No one wanted to be the easy target, but everyone knew that’s what they were.

The Confederation and the Republic—after all the calculations, only Capital City, the single state of the Republic, was easy to attack, wasn’t it? The truth was hard to swallow.

The realization was sobering. The Republic was the last domino, and everyone knew it.

And now the Republic also had the troublemaking crooked advisor Howard Crane. His shadow touched everything.

Crane’s shadow loomed over everything, his machinations undermining every effort.

In fact, Ben Hayes and his men had already received secret reports: Alan Drake was assembling troops in Maple Heights, Charles Hunt was training soldiers in the interior, both hinting at an expedition against the Republic. The threat was growing.

The intelligence was murky, the signals mixed. Still, the threat was real, and growing by the day.

But intelligence was chaotic and hard to discern; the movements of the main force—when and where they would begin—no one could be sure. The fog of war was thick.

Every rumor contradicted the last. The officers pored over maps, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Ben Hayes chose not to act for another reason: the autumn harvest was near, the Republic’s food supplies were limited, and he needed provisions. The choice was grim.

The calculus was brutal—starve now or starve later. The men grumbled, but they understood.

From the current defense line, Red Creek could attack or defend; even if Grand Junction was in danger, the Tiger Step Battalion was highly mobile, and the distance from Red Creek to Jackson Pass was much shorter than from Chicago to Jackson Pass—everything was still in time. The plan was sound, if risky.

The plan was sound, the risks calculated. But the margin for error was razor-thin.

But things did not seem as they thought. Doubt crept in.

The room fell silent, the weight of uncertainty settling over them. No one wanted to be the one to say it.

The youth’s fingertip landed on the map at Pine Ridge, Red Creek, Jackson, Grand Junction, then slowly moved upward. His movements were precise.

He traced the routes with precision, his finger pausing at every key junction. The officers watched, spellbound.

“If I were Sinclair, I’d trap the General in Red Creek, control the vital routes of Maple Ridge and Silver Hollow, leak news of Grand Junction under attack, and the General would surely rush with all his might. At that time, the Inspector of the Western District, George Blake, would enter from Dayton to Oak Valley and Jackson Bridge, cutting off the rear, and with Grand Junction’s main force approaching, the General’s closing the gate to beat the dog would become a pack of wolves descending the mountain—isolated towns unable to support each other—the Republic would be in peril...” His words painted a grim picture.

The logic was flawless, the scenario chilling. The officers exchanged nervous glances, the reality of their vulnerability sinking in.

Even Matthew Irons put away his hesitation and became solemn. The room grew still.

The room grew quiet, the bravado draining away. No one wanted to admit it, but the young man was right.

At this moment, only the youth’s calm voice remained in the tent. The youth, barely twenty, stood among a group of armored old officers, speaking steadily. The candlelight illuminated his pale face. His words seemed to echo from another time.

He looked impossibly young, yet his words carried the weight of experience. The officers listened, captivated.

His eyes were full of light. You could see the fire in them.

There was a fire in his gaze, a conviction that made even the most hardened veteran believe.

Such a scene seemed to have happened somewhere before. The sense of history was overwhelming.

The sense of déjà vu was strong. The old men glanced at each other, remembering another time, another leader, another impossible hope.

“...Sinclair, like his father, is highly suspicious. Those commanding the army at home can’t be generals of the United States, but must be his confidants. So, it will surely be Charles Hunt and Alan Drake. The two have long been at odds. Hunt is from a big family in Boston, proud of his status and looks down on others, while Drake is of humble origin, spent twenty years in farming before getting a command, and longs to decide the outcome in one battle.” The analysis was sharp.

The officers nodded, the details ringing true. The rivalry between Hunt and Drake was legendary, their contempt for each other an open secret.

Outside the tent, the rain poured down like arrows, sweeping away the months of gloom trapped in Red Creek. The sound was a relief and a warning.

The sound was deafening, a drumbeat that matched the tension inside. The rain was both blessing and curse, washing away the dust but bringing new dangers.

That crafty Alan Drake had checked the General in five encounters; the officers were not confident. Drake was a legend in his own right.

Drake’s reputation was formidable, his tactics unpredictable. The men respected him, even as they feared him.

Some even hoped this time would be all bark and no bite. Anything to avoid another disaster.

The hope was thin, almost desperate. They’d been disappointed before, but hope was all they had left.

But now, as the youth spoke, everyone fell silent, focusing on every direction his fingertip pointed. The map was the future, if they dared believe it.

The room became a classroom, the map a blackboard. The officers watched, learning, hoping for a way out.

Something was slowly growing. Eleven northern campaigns, some won, some lost, and every return to Capital City was met with angry reproach and opposition. The pattern was old, but something felt different now.

The pattern was familiar—victory followed by betrayal, defeat followed by blame. The cycle seemed endless, yet something was changing.

Victory—everyone needed a victory too much. The hunger was almost physical.

The hunger for triumph was palpable. The men leaned forward, desperate for a reason to believe.

Louis Grant looked at the youth several times, his expression dazed. At last, he couldn’t help but ask: “If these two command, what do you think should be done?”

His voice was tentative, hopeful. The question hung in the air, the answer more important than any order.

Ben Hayes stationed troops in Red Creek, not just for provisions, but for another reason. The officers waited for the real answer.

The decision had been strategic, not just practical. The officers waited, eager for confirmation.

That was Alan Drake. The name was a challenge, and an opportunity.

Drake’s name was a specter, haunting every conversation. The officers knew the danger, but also the opportunity.

Drake’s three battalions were all in Maple Heights. As Commander of the Western Guard, he would surely begin from Red Creek. The logic was sound.

The logic was sound. The men nodded, their confidence growing.

But this time, Ben Hayes held the advantage of terrain. The land was his ally.

The land was their ally, the rivers and hills familiar. It was a rare edge, and they meant to use it.

Fifty thousand men, ready and waiting, just for one victory. The stakes had never been higher.

The number was impressive, the stakes higher than ever. The officers felt the weight of responsibility settle on their shoulders.

The youth said: “Alan Drake was born poor, lost his father young, stammered and was unappreciated, spent twenty years farming before getting a chance. He is ambitious, familiar with Maple Heights, reckless with his life. He seeks fame, survival in desperate straits. So, Charles Hunt will not take the Jackson mountain path, but Drake will if he gets the chance.” The analysis was spot-on.

The analysis was sharp, the insight keen. The officers exchanged glances, the pieces falling into place.

“This chance is to capture Dayton, with no worries behind.” The words were bold.

The strategy was bold, the risk enormous. The men weighed the odds, the tension rising.

The officers present were all veterans; with just these few words, they understood the stakes, but still couldn’t help but doubt. The Jackson mountain path was impassable even for deer—how could anyone get through? The skepticism was real.

Skepticism lingered. The path was a nightmare, even for the most seasoned soldier.

And just for a possibility, divide the troops to defend Dayton? The risk was huge.

The risk was almost too great. The officers hesitated, caught between hope and fear.

Ben Hayes looked at the mountains and rivers on the map. The Republic’s forces were limited; if they split the troops again—he wasn’t sure they’d survive.

He traced the routes with a trembling finger, the weight of command heavier than ever. Every decision felt like a gamble.

Either bet that Drake would not take the risk. The choice was brutal.

The choice was brutal—gamble everything, or play it safe and risk losing it all anyway.

But he dared not bet—he had no foundation or confidence. He could not afford to lose, nor could the Republic. The pressure was crushing.

The stakes were too high. One mistake, and everything they’d fought for would be lost.

The youth saw through his thoughts. “The General wants to avenge Pine Ridge; this is indeed a good opportunity. Favorable time and place, but since you wish to plot, why not plot bigger—” The suggestion was wild, but tempting.

The suggestion was audacious, almost reckless. The officers leaned in, curiosity overcoming caution.

Even bigger? The word was a dare.

The word echoed, impossible and irresistible. The officers exchanged nervous glances, daring to dream.

The senior officers looked up. To preserve the Republic with blood and sacrifice was already a blessing. To defeat Alan Drake would be an extraordinary achievement! The hope was intoxicating.

The idea was intoxicating. Victory was a drug, and they were all addicts.

Even bigger? The hope flickered, fragile but real.

The hope was fragile, but it burned bright.

How big? They dared not imagine. The possibilities were endless.

The question was unspoken, but everyone felt it. The air was thick with anticipation.

The youth said slowly, “Accomplish it all in one battle. Leave the United States army behind, break the mountains and lands, with no return—completely shatter the Sinclair family’s imperial dream.” The words hit like thunder.

The words were thunder, shaking the room. The officers stared, disbelief and hope warring in their eyes.

The wind suddenly died, the lamp burned bright. The silence was total.

The silence was electric, the tension palpable. Every man in the room felt the weight of history pressing down.

Louis Grant was first to open his mouth. He wanted to say it was too absurd, but every word and look from the youth made him feel it was not impossible. He hesitated, caught between fear and hope.

He hesitated, the words dying on his lips. For the first time, he let himself believe.

He thought he must be crazy. But hope was a dangerous thing.

The realization was sobering. He was willing to gamble everything, just for a chance at glory.

He actually wanted to gamble everything as the youth said. The temptation was too strong.

The temptation was too strong. The officers nodded, the decision made.

“But—” He did not finish. The doubts lingered.

The doubts remained, but they were drowned out by hope.

Is there support in the cabinet? The ministers would explode, wouldn’t they? The risk was political as much as military.

The political risks were enormous. The officers exchanged worried glances, the reality sinking in.

Would the President agree? The crooked advisor Howard Crane would be the first to jump up and oppose! The thought was almost laughable.

Crane’s opposition was a given. The challenge was finding a way around him.

Because the youth said again: “This is the prescription. Now we need the guide.” The metaphor was clear—a cure, but only if they could find the way.

The metaphor was clear—a cure, but only if they could find the way.

He said: “This guide—is Howard Crane’s head.” The words landed like a bomb.

The words landed like a bomb. The officers stared, shock and awe mingling in their eyes.

At these words, everyone was shocked. Matthew Irons and the others almost instinctively glanced at the edge of the tent.

The air was electric, the tension unbearable. No one dared move.

Amazed at the youth’s frankness, at his boldness, and at his fearlessness. The audacity was breathtaking.

The audacity was breathtaking. The officers felt the ground shift beneath their feet.

Ben Hayes, hearing this name, nearly snapped the paper in his hand. The anger was raw.

His grip tightened, the paper crumpling. The hatred was raw, unfiltered.

How could he not wish this crooked advisor dead? But now Crane was already Chief of Staff and Director of the Presidential Motorcade, no longer the meek aide from the days of Dean and Young. Favored by the President, with many supporters, he could even plot to appoint a General. Even the President’s own younger brother, Senator Grant, had offended him and not seen the President for over ten years. The power was absolute.

The power Crane wielded was absolute. The challenge was almost suicidal.

To kill this villain—how difficult! The thought was almost laughable.

The words were a bitter truth. The officers shook their heads, the impossibility of the task clear.

It was not for lack of trying. They’d tried everything.

They’d plotted, schemed, begged. Nothing had worked.

But he had risked everything, petitioning the President to fire Crane, and the President only smiled and told him not to imitate Young, unable even to tolerate a minor official. The memory still stung.

The memory stung. The President’s indifference was a wound that never healed.

After failing, he became the thorn in the side of the powerful advisor. Crane never forgot a slight.

Crane’s vengeance was relentless. Every setback, every slight, could be traced back to him.

The northern campaigns’ supply lines were harshly affected. The price was paid in blood.

Men starved, ammunition ran out. The blame always fell on Hayes, never on Crane.

Even military reports were ignored, never reaching the President. The frustration was maddening.

The frustration was maddening. The officers felt powerless, their efforts wasted.

Ben Hayes clenched his fist, hating that he had no leader behind him. With all his loyalty and resolve, what could he do!

The despair was overwhelming. Yet the young man’s words offered a glimmer of hope.

Now in government, Crane held great power. Even Chief Whitmore’s son Richard Jr. had to be polite to him, and Ben Hayes’s own situation was even harder. The political landscape was a minefield.

The political landscape was treacherous, alliances shifting like sand. Trust was a rare commodity.

Louis Grant shook his head: “You don’t understand, son. Crane is the President’s favorite, with executive power and nothing denied. I once asked Chief Zane to visit Senator Whitmore’s home together, but even a man of Zane’s stature refused... Who can still purge the President’s side?” The hopelessness was clear.

The hopelessness in his voice was palpable. The challenge seemed insurmountable.

Matthew Irons spat in hatred: “Snake!” The word was spit with venom.

The insult was venomous, the hatred sincere. The men nodded in agreement.

Ben Hayes slowly shook his head: “It’s the hardest thing, unless by God’s will—” The words hung in the air.

The words were heavy with resignation. The officers bowed their heads, the weight of defeat settling over them.

For example, if Crane died of old age or illness. The hope was faint.

The hope was faint, almost laughable. No one dared count on miracles.

The youth smiled: “Rather than wait for God’s will, why not act by human means?” His confidence was infectious.

The suggestion was audacious, the confidence infectious. The officers looked up, hope rekindled.

The youth’s smile even had the kindness of an elder. It was a strange, comforting smile.

It was a strange, comforting smile—the kind that made you believe, even when you knew better.

An elder’s gift, not to be refused. The officers listened, silent.

The words were a benediction, a challenge, and a promise all at once. The room felt smaller, warmer.

“The General is devoted to the Republic, exhausting himself. This little return gift, though late, is here—please accept it with a smile.” The words were gentle, the offer impossible.

The offer was impossible, yet the sincerity in the young man’s eyes made it hard to refuse.

A summer rain poured down, the drumming of raindrops on the tent roof like war drums. The tension was thick.

The sound was deafening, the tension unbearable. The officers waited, breathless.

The youth turned to leave. The crowd’s expressions changed. Matthew Irons’s hunting knife suddenly left its sheath, resting on the youth’s shoulder, but was gripped by Ben Hayes. The movement was lightning quick.

The movement was swift, the threat real. Ben’s hand closed over Irons’s wrist, his grip ironclad.

The youth seemed not to notice. The cold blade was inches from his neck. He smiled toward the tent door: “Come in.”

His calm was unshakable, his confidence absolute. The officers stared, transfixed.

Rainwater surged into the tent with the newcomers; no one spoke. The tension was electric.

The air was electric, the tension unbearable. Every man in the room felt the ground shift beneath his feet.

Everyone was stunned by those who walked in slowly. The sight was impossible.

The sight was impossible—a parade of ghosts, legends come to life. The air crackled with disbelief.

The elderly Louis Grant stood up. He looked like he’d seen a miracle.

His knees cracked as he rose, eyes wide with disbelief. The years fell away, replaced by awe.

Paul Rivers’s face showed shock. He couldn’t hide it.

His jaw dropped, the color draining from his face. He stared, unable to speak.

Matthew Irons’s knife dropped; he could hardly believe his eyes as he looked at the youth. The shock was total.

The blade clattered to the floor, forgotten. Irons’s hands shook, his eyes wide with wonder.

The youth introduced them. His voice was steady, but he barely needed to speak.

His voice was steady, the introductions unnecessary. The room was filled with legends, and every man knew it.

But there was no need for introductions. The names were legend.

The names were known to all—heroes, heirs, the future of the Republic.

The first was the grandson of General Greene, Michael Greene, recently married to a senator’s daughter, the President’s fine son-in-law. His reputation preceded him.

Michael stood tall, his uniform immaculate despite the rain. His eyes sparkled with mischief, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The second was the grandson of Zachary Ford, David Ford, who by kinship called the President uncle. He was all confidence.

David’s handshake was firm, his gaze steady. He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who’d never lost a fight.

And the third, an even more heroic youth, left the officers speechless—he was Captain, acting Secretary Whitmore’s son, Chief Whitmore’s own grandson, the President’s nephew, Samuel Whitmore. The room buzzed with recognition.

Samuel’s smile was infectious, his energy boundless. He looked around the tent, eyes shining with excitement.

These three had been here for who knew how long, standing in the rain outside for who knows how long. Their patience was a statement.

Their clothes were soaked, their hair plastered to their foreheads, but their spirits were undampened. They looked like they’d just walked out of a legend.

But only when Richard Whitmore called them in did the three high-spirited young men enter, holsters dripping water at their belts, their uniforms soaked by the rain, revealing a cold and sharp gleam. They moved with purpose.

They moved with purpose, their presence commanding. The officers straightened, instinctively deferring to the new arrivals.

If the young doctor’s strategy and presence had already won the officers’ hearts, then the arrival of these young leaders left them speechless! The hope in the room was almost physical.

The tent was filled with hope, the air crackling with possibility. The old guard looked at the new, and for the first time in years, they believed.

How could these proud sons of noble families come here? And together! The answer was obvious.

The question was unspoken, but the answer was clear. The Republic was not dead—not yet.

Michael Greene was the first to laugh softly. The sound was a relief.

His chuckle broke the tension, the sound warm and genuine. The room relaxed, just a little.

Daniel Price’s mouth dropped open: “Well, that’s not just a little surprising!” The words tumbled out, honest and awed.

His voice was full of awe, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“Maybe we came too quick.” Michael’s grin was infectious.

Michael shrugged, grinning. “Couldn’t wait to see the look on your faces.”

Samuel Whitmore, the youngest, with an open face and high-spirited manner, was the first to look at Richard Whitmore, immediately showing a look of affection. He smiled: “This time the three of us have caused a huge disaster.”

Samuel’s grin was boyish, unrepentant. He clapped Richard on the shoulder, the gesture full of camaraderie.

David Ford nodded: “Yeah, a disaster that shakes the country. The President even smashed his glass!” The laughter was real.

He laughed, the sound echoing in the tent. The tension broke, replaced by nervous excitement.

He pursed his lips, looking around the tent: “No beer, no coffee? Is this how the General entertains us?” The joke lightened the mood.

The officers chuckled, the mood lightening. Someone promised to fetch a pot of coffee, but no one moved.

With that, he threw down a canvas bundle from his hand. The thud was loud in the silence.

The bundle landed with a thud, water splattering the floor. The officers stared, curiosity piqued.

The bloodstains below were washed by rain, revealing a deep red. The sight was shocking.

The sight was shocking, the implications clear. The room fell silent, every eye on the bundle.

Ben Hayes paused, looking at the three young men before him. Suddenly he realized something and immediately stepped forward. His heart pounded.

His heart pounded, the truth dawning. He moved quickly, urgency in every step.

Paul Rivers was a step ahead, reaching for the bundle. His reflexes were sharp.

His hand moved fast, instinct taking over. The officers tensed, ready for anything.

But David Ford grabbed his wrist with a grin. Paul Rivers instinctively countered, and in an instant they exchanged several moves. David Ford, worthy of being Zachary Ford’s grandson, was not at a disadvantage. The exchange was quick and respectful.

The scuffle was brief, a test of strength and skill. The men grinned, respect growing between them.

Only when Richard Whitmore nodded did David Ford let go. The gesture was subtle, but decisive.

The gesture was subtle, but decisive. The bundle was released, the tension broken.

The bundle fell open—inside was Howard Crane’s head! The proof was undeniable.