Sheritta Bitikofer's Blog, page 5

Not Your Average Bar Brawl

Here’s a sneak peek into chapter 1 of my newest release, The Outlaw. Coming 1-21-19! Preorder Now on Amazon!

Straightening her shoulders, feigning confidence, she crossed the street to the boardwalk that rounded the corner and made her way to the Summer Saloon.

Sarah compressed her lips and took one more big gulp of fresh air before plunging herself into the thick miasma of cigarette smoke, whiskey, astringent perfume, and manly smells that were poorly masked by it all.

Light from the two large windows on either side of the door illuminated the inside. The modest kerosene lanterns that hung from the ceiling would replace the natural light once the sun set. Round tables covered in green felt dominated the room, with a bar counter opposite the front door that stretched from one end of the hall to the other. A mirror reflected back the afternoon sun behind the bar, its edges rimmed in a dark mahogany that matched the countertop. Liquor bottles lined the space along the back, their labels proudly displayed for customers.

Fairplay was a sizable town, but this was not the only saloon worth visiting, and therefore did not have as many occupants – which she was grateful for.

Two groups of men were deep in their card games on either side of the room, muttering the occasional comment to their neighbors that was followed a grisly laugh or grunt. No music played and the only soft, pleasing sound would have come from the smiling, painted lips of the soiled doves who whispered in the player’s ears. There were four in all, each one pretty in her own right with long hair, faces as flawless as porcelain and eyes bright with the prospect of gaining a potential client.

The cowboys, miners, and farmers with cards in their hands looked as grimy and filthy as they smelled. Her father, a man who had been unafraid of dirtying his hands, at least had the sense to bathe every so often. These men, however, looked as if they had just come out of the mines or in from the fields.

Sarah was virtually ignored when she entered and kept a steady, but casual pace as she crossed the floor to the barkeep.

The proprietor with his white, rolled-up sleeves greeted her as he might any other customer. “What’ll ya have?” he asked as he slowed in his task of cleaning the polished wooden countertop. She presumed him to be the one whose name was engraved on the plaque above the sign on the façade, Leonhard Summer.

“Beer,” Sarah replied flatly, suddenly feeling her throat choked with the fear of confronting any of these men. To ask if she could pay them to help her track down a killer might as well have made her like one of the men who petitioned to the ladies of the street. If she didn’t dislike the way whiskey scorched her mouth, she might have asked for a shot of the firewater to steady her nerves.

Leonhard poured a glass from a keg underneath the counter and presented it to her. With a few coins, she paid the man and used the convenient placement of the mirror to watch the two coinciding games. With her elbows leaning against the edge and one heel hooked over the brass foot rail, she studied each of the men with no risk of discovery. They were all so engrossed with the state of their hand in the games that they didn’t pay her, or the prostitutes, any mind. While they all gave the impression that they could fire a gun with some level of accuracy, none of them struck her as potentially dangerous or vicious. Ill-mannered, yes, but not vicious.

The bartender resumed the task of cleaning and when he came back in her direction, she decided to be brave.

“I was told there was a bounty hunter here,” she began in a faint whisper. “Would you happen to know if he’s still playing?”

Leonhard glanced directly to the occupied table on the right side of the room and motioned with his rag. “That one in the glasses, I’d think. I know every man in here, except for him. Never gives his name or nothin’. Just comes and plays a few rounds, then leaves.”

Sarah leaned enough, so she could get a look at the man through the mirror. Like the others, she had discredited him upon first inspection. Now, she saw him in a different light. Slumping in his chair, one hand tilting down his cards while the other relaxed lazily upon the felt, he looked a hair older than herself.

A hat shadowed much of his features, giving them an enigmatic quality that both frightened and intrigued her. A dark bit of stubble graced his bold jaw, eyes almost completely obscured by the amber-tinted glasses he wore. Though she couldn’t see the direction of his gaze, she felt it upon her, burning straight through and rendering her motionless under its power. Every line of his fit, powerful body warned her against attempting any interaction with him. The way he stared so fixedly, and yet calmly, told her that he was well aware of her interest. Something about him made her want to run and burrow into the ground to hide until he was gone, but without saying a single word he commanded her to stay.

How she could have overlooked such a character was incomprehensible now. He stood out in this crowd but evaded the unfocused eye without even trying.

She tightened her hold over the glass of beer in front of her, only two sips taken from its measure. Thirst had left her entirely as a cold sweat beaded along her back and neck. The spell was broken the moment his head angled away from her enough to let her know that he was no longer staring.

Sarah swallowed hard and lowered her gaze, fortifying herself for when the moment came to talk to him. Contrary to how she felt, she refused to be cowed by this subtle intimidation. Justice and honor were at stake.

From the looks of the pot in the middle of the table, there was plenty more on the line. Greenbacks, gold and silver coins, and other trinkets of value were piled high, each man putting a fortune at risk over the five cards they held.

For some time, none of the men spoke. No new bets were placed as fate’s guiding hand hovered over them, waiting to deal the blow or bestow the reward. One man took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke into the air as he tapped out the ashes into the tray on the table. He had a lady on each arm who favored his company above the others. Sarah could see the leg of another player bouncing nervously as he contemplated his hand. It was as if he were trying to will the faces to change to a more favorable combination. The remaining two – the one with the glasses and another with a gnarled scar across his left eye – silently assessed one another like two circling predators ready to pounce.

The game on the other side of the room was far more relaxed, the source of boisterous laughter and slapping of knees as men exchanged stories and jokes, betting only on pocket change and poker chips that held little to no value. The atmospheres were divided. It was like when a storm front was halted upon the heights of the mountains. One half remained sunny and bright, while the other was darkened by thunderheads. Lightning would soon strike, and Sarah was sure a fire would manifest from the sparks and destroy this whole place if someone didn’t break the tension soon.

“Stop movin’ your damn leg,” the smoker reprimanded. “You’re gonna spill my whiskey.”

The jumpy one snapped out of his concentration and all jittering stopped. “Sorry.”

“What’re you waitin’ for? You foldin’ or what?” the scarred man grumbled to the man in the glasses, one hand bending his cards almost enough to crease them.

The mercenary thrummed his fingertips upon the table once in a show of impatience before replying, “I’ve already got my all in. You gonna fold that wimpy hand of yours or keep fingerin’ that fifth ace?”

At this, Sarah turned in her seat and could see the glint of a knife blade laying across the agitated man’s lap.

A bit of her composure slipped, and she cagily watched each of the men for their reactions. The armed gambler’s piggish nostrils flared and if it were possible for him to be any more grotesque, Sarah doubted it. The cigarette dangled from the smoker’s mouth, all amusement gone. The two women edged further behind the man they thought would win this round. The one who wasn’t scared to show his anxiety finally folded and threw up his hands.

“I don’t want no trouble, Morgan,” he said to the one hiding the bowie.

The third gambler leaned back until he was balancing on the back legs, wholly unfazed by the unease that began to make its way across the room to purge the cheerful mood on the other side. Lips that were smiling now turned down into a worried frown as they stared at the scene unfolding.

Beside her, Leonhard’s hand reached for the shotgun underneath the counter. Either he had seen these situations enough to know the outcome, or he knew Morgan well enough to predict how he would react.

“Take it easy, Morgan,” the bartender warned. “Don’t make me holler for the marshal like I had to last week.”

“You stay outta this, Leonhard!” Morgan thundered, swiveling around to point an angry, calloused finger toward the bar. Much to Sarah’s chagrin, she flinched and looked away.

“We’re just playin’ a friendly game of poker,” the mercenary said coolly. “Ain’t no need to get all excited.”

Morgan spun back and slammed his hand on the table. “Show your hand or fold!”

This jostling of the tabletop caused the whiskey in the smoker’s cut crystal glass to slosh over the rim. The only repercussion Morgan would receive was a nasty look. The sole level head in the saloon was the one whose eyes she couldn’t see and whose face she couldn’t read.

A few seconds passed and the five cards were finally laid upon the table. A neat row of diamond royals stared up at Morgan and the other gamblers.

Jaws went slack, eyes went wide, and calculating minds added up the total value of the pot on the table. Only the brave exclaimed over the high sum and the dumb luck that anyone could pull a strong hand like that on the first try. Sarah might have assumed the man was cheating, but as the others inspected their own cards, they didn’t say another word about it. There were only twenty cards between them and none were available to draw or exchange. A hand like this only came around once or twice in a lifetime.

The face of the scarred man wrinkled with a contemptuous sneer. “I think you been cheatin’. Ain’t nobody can win ten games in a row,” he said to his rival.

A long slow breath was expelled from the young man. “I ain’t gotta cheat. You been bluffin’ since you walked in the door and you can’t hide it any better than a rooster can hide its tail feathers.”

Sarah mutedly begged the man not to rile his opponent. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in the middle of a shootout in a saloon. She had been fortunate enough to avoid them thus far.

The smoker took a long drag of his cigarette and threw down his hand, showing only one pair of tens and an ace of hearts. Morgan’s bent cards weren’t so weak, but his triplet of kings would have beaten the nervous man’s two pair.

When the mercenary was done collecting his winnings, he left the table and ambled toward the bar counter to stand right beside Sarah. He counted out the bills and gave a few to Leonhard. “Their drinks are on me.”

Now would have been the time to ask him about her predicament, but her tongue was held tight when the harsh scraping of chair legs upon the wooden floor jarred her out of her fascination.

Someone shouted and the only thing she saw was the mercenary catching the blade of the bowie knife in his fist. Morgan was on his feet, chest heaving and eyes wild for payback, but it came to nothing. If the knife had been allowed to follow its projected path, it might have found its way into the man’s back. Instead, it was flipped around and the mercenary stabbed the counter, the tip stuck firm in the wood.

Sarah stared, lips parted in amazement. He had caught the knife in midair so swiftly that it defied logic itself. How could he have known it was coming? And why didn’t he fight back? Any other man would have taken the invitation and returned the blow instead of rendering the knife useless, now jammed in the bar top.

A few of the older men fled to Morgan to calm him down while the mercenary slipped from the saloon, much without Sarah’s notice. It all happened so quickly, so suddenly that she had to remind herself to move and carry out her purpose for coming here. This man, this even-tempered mercenary gambler, had to help her find her parents’ killer.

Something About Sheritta #27

[image error]Q: Do you have any “side stories” about your characters?

A: So, I never really made “side stories” and if I do, I just go ahead and make them into little novellas or short stories that can be paired with the book or series. Hence, the creation of The Legacy Series. The entire novella series is dedicated to telling the backstories for the main players in my Loup-Garou Series. Characters like John Croxen, Darren Dubose, Dustin Keith, Ben Myers, and Logan all get their own novellas talking about their background or how they came to be connected with one another. It’s a long, massive, interwoven thing. It’s beautiful and frustrating and enlightening all at the same time.

Wild West Werewolves (yes, you read right)

My first release in months! I’m super excited to share with you the next installment of the Legacy Series! In this next novel, we’re following Ben from The Soldier as he tries to make it on his own as a lone wolf. Releasing 1-21-19!

Preorder Now!

[image error]The Wild West – 1875

Ben Myers escaped to the untamed west to find a new life away from the demons of his past. Instead, he finds himself in the middle of a conflict that his conscience won’t let him abandon. As a werewolf that can’t hide his true nature, he’s avoided by most of the folks he encounters. But one girl, desperate to find her family’s murderer, beseeches him for his help. She has no idea what he really is, and only knows that his unique talents can help her find the killer. But there’s more out on the lonely prairie than cattle rustlers and bitter natives to contend with.

When it becomes clear that this gang of outlaws are no ordinary men, Ben knows he’s in over his head. Convinced that he was the only werewolf in the wild west, he never thought he’d have to deal with a pack of his own kind who have adopted a twisted superior view of where they rank in the hierarchy of life. The only way he can bring them to justice is with the help of another older werewolf sheriff by the name of Bart Croxen, who’s been jaded and has his own beliefs about the nature of their kind. Closed in on both sides, Ben must choose what’s right and fair before a deadly shootout brings it all to a bloody end.

 

Something About Sheritta #26

[image error]Q: What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?

A: Well, if you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’ll know about my big Civil War trip that I took back in September. To me, that was a trip to learn and discover, but it was to also follow in the footsteps of my characters from the book, The Soldier. That’s probably the crazies thing I’ve ever done and I would do it again in a heartbeat for any of my other books. I wish I could have gone to Colorado and hiked through the mountains for the book The Outlaw, but that would have been a bit extreme too.

Something About Sheritta #25

[image error]Q: Do the characters all come to you at the same time or do some of them come to you as you write?

A: It’s happened several times when I have a short list of characters when I start the outline (just a main few) but as I get to writing the scenes, I realize I need to add some in. For instance, with The Rose and The Lion, I had to add several characters from the town of Levi that would becoming important later. But when I’m in the process of planning, I don’t really think about who exactly is going to have an impact on my characters. I just know there needs to be an interaction and I fill in the blanks later. And my main characters also develop over the course of the plot, some of which I have to just make up on the fly. Like how Belle Clearwater’s favorite book is Anne of Green Gables. It was just a random thought and it plays well into who she is as a woman suffering from anxiety and a daughter who feels alone in the world. But I didn’t start the book knowing that I would add that part in. It just came to me.

Something About Sheritta #24

[image error]Q: Can you tell us a little bit about the characters in (Name of book)?

A: So, the book duet (two-book series) that I’m writing right now is about Belle and Leo. Belle is a small town girl, raised by her single father on their farm, and is now trying to run that farm herself. She also, due to some traumatic experiences with her negative and critical mother, has developed generalized and social anxiety. She’s learned to hide it over the years because as a daughter of a former deacon at her church and a prominent member of the community, she’s expected to do the social thing. She puts on what she calls “the mask” and effectively hides her anxiety from everyone. When she comes home, she can undo that mask and be herself and unwind. However, that’s no way to live.

Leo, on the other hand, is way more troubled. He was born and raised in Scotland until his family tragically falls apart. They die and he moves to Brooklyn to live with a relative until he can graduate school. The catch is that his life in Scotland is catching up with him and so is his older brother, who caused their family to fall apart in the first place. His brother messes with dark, evil magic that draws demonic energies to him and he’s essentially “cursed” Leo. Betcha were wondering where this story gets its paranormal theme. Right here! Anyway, a demon is attached to Leo and follows him everywhere. It plagues him with depression and bad luck, which drives him to keep moving and never settle down. Until he comes to a small farming community and meets a girl named Belle… And, I’ll stop there.

Something About Sheritta #23

[image error]Q: Describe yourself in 5 words or less!

A: So, I’ll list the five words and explain them.

Passionate – Whatever I’m seriously into, I go 150% into it. Growing up, I went through stages of obsessions. Veterinarian stuff, Indiana Jones, Little Mermaid, Dinosaurs, Cowboys, Anime… the list goes on and on. If I really want to know something, I go out and I do the research. I try to learn everything I can about it until it’s just pouring out of my ears. I can list off all the reason the sinking of the Titanic was as disastrous as it was. I can tell you the process of turning an animal hide into parchment paper the old fashioned way. I can tell you the early history of the Frankish empire in the 8th century. I am a wealth of useless knowledge because I like those things.

Awkward – With this wealth of useless knowledge, I have no social skills. I can read cues, like when someone’s upset, annoyed, etc. But don’t ask me to comfort them. I don’t know how and anything I say will probably sound shallow. I’m the kind of person that says “You too” after the waiter has said “Enjoy your meal”. I will purposely avoid confrontations as much as possible because it’s like a train wreck if I try to navigate them. I’m getting better and as long as I stay calm, I’m pretty okay. The staying calm part is what’s hard.

Compassionate – Yes, while I am social awkward, I do care deeply for people. I don’t like hearing that one of my coworkers is going through marital trouble or that a friend a thousand miles away may be hit by a storm. I want to reach out to these people and tell them that I hope the best for them and want them to be safe. BUT, I feel like approaching them is crossing a line somehow, so I don’t. Therefore, if you are a friend of mine or even a close acquaintance, know that I do care, even if I don’t show it.

Empathetic – I guess one reason I’m compassionate is because there’s a part of me that is deeply empathetic. You hurt, I hurt. And if I made you hurt, I’m gonna feel that much worse about it. Empathic and compassionate may be lumped together, but I do see them as separate. I don’t just want to send you a “get well soon” card. I want to heal the pain in some ways, because I know what it is to hurt. But again, this is where the awkwardness comes in and I don’t know how to verbalize my desire to help or advice.

Selfish – And under all of this, I can be inherently selfish. I want to go do things and see places and say things, but sometimes I wish I had the freedom to do so. I love my life and my family and I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world, but sometimes I want things that contradict the things I love. It’s like a kid wanting a new toy when they have plenty of good ones at home. Yeah, I’m working on it. But I’m keeping it real with y’all.

Stop #6

I’ll stat by saying that this did NOT happen to me. Yes, I stood at Thayer’s Approach on the Vicksburg battlefield the other week, but the rest is fiction and concocted in my own imagination. Enjoy!

I stood upon the edge of Union Avenue, the sun dipping low over the tree-lined to my right My eyes trailed up the winding path on the southern ridge that soldiers had cut over a hundred and fifty years ago and I couldn’t help but wonder what it must have been like on that day.

Mississippi in mid-May couldn’t have been as breeze and moderate as it was now in November. The heat, the mosquitoes drawn to the river to the west, the booming cannons coming from all round mingled in with the screams and whizzing of bullets.

What would it have smelled like? Would the stench of gunpowder and sweat have overpowered everything, or would soldiers have even given any thought to it? Breathing in deeply, I could smell nothing but the earth and fallen oak leaves scattered across the well-kept lawn. It reminded me of the autumns of my childhood spent in Louisiana. So close to home now, but for the soldiers who stood where I stood now, home was so far away. Soldiers from Iowa, Ohio, Michigan, New York, and Wisconsin must have felt so alone, so isolated from their family and loved ones. I couldn’t imagine it and I didn’t want to.

[image error]I read the plaque about Brigadier General John Thayer’s attempt to approach the Confederate line by trenches and tunnels, how they built fascines to protect themselves under enemy fire. That was all after Grant decided to lay siege to Vicksburg. After two days of bloody, vicious fighting convinced him that the Rebels were too well fortified to buckle under direct assaults. All over this extensive battlefield, mines were dug, explosives detonated under earthen redans and redoubts, telegraph lines were cut, railroads were intercepted, and men died fighting for something they believed in with all their hearts.

I couldn’t relate. Not really. I had been too scared all my life to go after what I wanted. Too scared of what people would think of me. I’d hear their voices in my head telling me I was insane for doing it, for trying to be something I wasn’t.

Maybe that’s why I wanted to come here. To understand why these men would put themselves through a siege for forty-seven long, hot days.

I heard footsteps coming up the pavement behind me and moved away from the plaque so the visitor could read and learn what happened here. I was tempted to turn away, afraid that the person would think I was a little “special” for staring at a barren hill for so long. If traveling to all these battlefields had taught me anything, it was that there were few others dedicated to the history as much as I was. Who else would strap on a backpack and go hiking through the parks when there were perfectly good roads to drive on?

“You best take cover,” the voice said. “Those Rebs could have sharpshooters up there.”

I turned to look who was speaking, my blood chilling in my veins. I hated it when strangers talked to me on these battlefields. I never knew what to say or how to react. I just wanted to be left alone.

The man beside me looked like he had stepped straight out of an old wet-plate photograph, the kind Mathew Brady used to capture the likeness of dead soldiers on the battlefield.

The hem of his pants were muddied and frayed, his leather shoes looked like they had seen better days. His uniform was stained by patches of dirt and clay that popped against the navy-blue fabric. Shiny brass buttons that were undone down the front of his coat caught the sunlight, as did the metal from the rifle he carried. Beneath his coat, was a cotton shirt that must have once been a nice, pristine white, but was now ruined by sweat and soil. A haversack was strapped across his chest to hang on his left side, just like mine. Only, his was a Union haversack and coated to make it weather resistant. Mine was straight canvas, like a Confederate’s.

Upon his head was the typical army-issued kepi, the wool dyed to match his coat. His face was smudged with a black substance I could only guess was gunpowder, and I could see droplets of sweat on his brow as if he had been sweating before coming up to me. And then, standing out starkly against his tanned skin and dark uniform, was the bandage around his right hand. It was speckled with the same dirt that soiled his clothes

I searched my memory, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing a flyer or hearing word about a reenactment scheduled for that day. In fact, I knew I had missed quite a few special events at the park by coming this week as opposed to the following. Maybe I had seen wrong or I had finally met someone a little crazier than me?

I tried to hold in a smile as the reenactor looked at me like I was the one out of place on the ridge.

“Come on to the tunnel,” he said. “It’s a lot safer there.”

I looked up and down the road and saw no cars, no joggers or other hikers. The pavement curved out of sight and all I could hear were the distant rumble of vehicles beyond the park and the wind rustling through the treetops. This guy was suggesting I walk down the steps to the preserved tunnel under the road. It was kept to give visitors an idea of the struggles of the Union infantry at this place on the battle lines, but I didn’t have any intention of going down there. My feet and hips were sore from walking almost seven miles already.

But something told me to play along. These reenactors could get so into character and that was something I enjoyed watching. Maybe there were more down in the tunnel and that’s where the demo was taking place?

[image error]So I followed after him, keeping up with his hustling pace though the muscles in my legs protested loudly. When we made it down the steps and stepped into the cool darkness of the bricked-out tunnel, the solider let out a relieved breath.

“That was close… Say, I haven’t seen you up here before. Which regiment are you with?”

I was a little surprised he hadn’t asked for a code word. Then again, this wasn’t a picket line and if I got the word wrong, then how could a reenactor continue after that?

Thinking quick on my feet, I said, “Wisconsin, eighth infantry. I was transferred here to help with the digging.” The only thing I knew about that regiment was the flamboyant story about their bald eagle mascot, Old Abe. The bird’s likeness was carved into some of the regiment’s battlefield markers.

Apparently, the soldier had heard of its renown and grinned. “The Eagle Brigade,” he said with a nod. “Excellent. I’m here with the ninth Iowa. We don’t really have a mascot, but we sure fight good.”

I remembered seeing their markers along the road and knew they were part of Thayer’s brigade during the May nineteenth and twenty-second assaults. They lost quite a few men.

“I heard what happened here,” I said, trying my best to play my part. “We were a little further east.”

The soldier’s eyes took an on excited luster. “How far did you get?”

I tried to remember exactly where I had seen that marker. “Two color bearers got their flags on the slope of the Stockade Redan. But we had to fall back. There was too much enemy fire and we couldn’t hold the position.”

He nodded, as if he understood exactly what I meant. “I’m Private Ackerman, by the way. John Ackerman.”

I had no fear of impersonating another soldier if I just knew a name, but decided to go with my own. “Private Bitikofer,” I said, offering out my hand. Clearly, in character, he couldn’t tell that I was a girl. Then again, men back then were clueless about women fighters. Trade a dress for a pair of trousers and tuck up your hair, and no one was the wiser.

He reached out with his injured hand to shake, but then thought better of it and gave her his left instead.

“How bad is that?” I asked, referring to his injury.

He only shrugged. “It hurts, but it could be worse. A buddy of mine was shot through the leg. A few more have had their limbs amputated. I think I got off pretty good.”

“Better keep it clean,” I told him. “You don’t want to risk getting an infection.”

Ackerman peered at me like I was talking gibberish, but let it slide. “It’s fine. I’ve had the doc look at it and he wrapped it up just fine.”

I let it go, knowing that if this man was sticking to what a private soldier would have known back then, disease and infection was the least of his problems. Getting shot by Rebel troops or starving was probably higher on his priority list.

I walked away, venturing close to the end of the tunnel that opened out on to the valley and ridge beyond. Confederate Avenue was on the other side, along with dozens of other markers for Louisiana and Mississippi regiments that defended the important port city. From Union Avenue, the ridge didn’t seem so imposing. She had even debated on crossing it herself to paint a better picture for herself. There were no guiderails to stop her. But from the tunnel, she could see why it might have been a little harder than it first appeared. If she did reach the other side, she would have been exhausted and out of breath.

“Thayer’s got us digging night and day. I’m sure glad Sherman’s sending us some help.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile, once more trying to stay in my character just like he was staying in his own. “How long have you been digging?” I asked.

“A few weeks now.” He whipped his forehead with his dirty sleeve. “This heat’s the worst I’ve ever been in, too.”

I reasoned that would place this fictitious scenario in June. The Federals had another month to go before General Pemberton would finally give up Vicksburg.

“I don’t think you’ll have to be here much longer,” I replied.

“You think the Rebs are caving?” he asked eagerly.

“I don’t think they’ll last much longer with their supplies cut. Grant’s got them in a tight fix for sure. If Pemberton knows what’s good for his men and the town, he’ll give it up soon enough.”

For a moment, this was actually pretty fun. It was rare that I could ever talk Civil War stuff with someone else. Even if she was taking the side of the Yankees in the discussion. She could admire both sides. Their motivations, their bravery, and their tenacity.

“That’s a relief,” he said with a shrug of his brows. “I’m ready to charge up that ridge again and shoot those rebels. We all are. After the beating they gave us in May, it’s about time we showed them just what our boys can do.”

I had read about the fervor of both northern and southern troops, how willing they were to shoot and kill their enemies, how some soldiers enlisted just for the chance to shoot a man. But I hadn’t wanted to think that was the only reason they fought and died on battlefields like this. No one was that cruel and vindictive.

“Is that why you volunteered?” I asked, hoping to catch the reenactor in some deeper conversation.

Ackerman pursed his lips in thought and then shook his head. “No. Not really. I volunteered because all my friends did and I wanted to make my family proud… Those friends are gone now, and I miss my family more than anything. I didn’t want to be called a coward for not volunteering, and I don’t want to be labeled as a traitor if I ran. But none of that is keeping me here.”

“Then what is?” I asked, my voice involuntarily softening in this intimate, personally but completely fictitious conversation. For a minute, I was able to forget that this guy wasn’t a real soldier from the ninth Iowa.

“It’s the principle of the thing. Those men up there…” He pointed toward the ridge. “They represent something I can’t stand. They want this country divided. Our forefathers fought so we could all be independent and show the world that we can stand united. The Confederacy wants to ruin that idea. They want to tear this Union apart and that’s not right. I know some fellas here will tell you they’re fighting to free the darkies, and that’s all good, but I’m fighting for unity. We should all be one nation under God, indivisible.”

Those same words were adopted into the pledge of allegiance just after the war between the states was over. A phrase that once didn’t need to be stated, was permanently fixed in the minds of every citizen now, lest they forget the time when their country was almost torn apart by political and ethical differences.

“But what if it’s best the Confederacy was left alone? I’ve heard some say that they wouldn’t last long without the north’s industrial power, so why not let them figure it out for themselves?”

He snorted. “Those Rebs are too stubborn. If we don’t fight, if we don’t do what we think is right, then nothing will change. We have to stand up for what we believe. It’s that simple. If we don’t, then who will? And I’m willing to die for that idea of a Union, just like they’re willing to die for their independence.”

Just an idea. A simple, basic idea about unity and equality. It was about seeing the bigger picture on a global scale and understanding that these United States needed to be preserved.

After a long stretch of silence, I looked back to the soldier, but he wasn’t there.

“Ackerman?” I called, my voice echoing down the tunnel. Nothing. Not even footsteps.

A gust of wind howled down the corridor as I rushed back toward the stairs and to Union Avenue. Absolutely no one was there.

But he had to be there. He couldn’t have just vanished. A car passed by carrying a family of tourists. I could hear the music from their radio leak out the windows as they zoomed past, not even slowing down to read the plaque at Thayer’s Approach. It was only Stop Six on the tour road, and there were certainly other interesting spots on the battlefield, but for a moment, I could feel my world coming into some perspective.

My ideas and my passions may not have seemed valid to others. It might have seemed crazy to want to devote myself to something like this. I wouldn’t be the first person to do it, to dedicate their life and time to studying the past or sharing their knowledge with future generations. But everyone could bring something to the table. Whether it was a book or an idea. Everyone’s contribution was worth something in the end. Just like the Private John Ackerman said, if I don’t stand up for something I believe in, then who will?

More About Vicksburg and Thayer’s Approach

Ackerman, John A. Age 22. 9th Iowa Infantry, Company H. Residence Decorah, nativity Indiana. Enlisted Aug. 21, 1861. Mustered Sept. 24, 1861. Wounded slightly in right hand May 20, 1863, Vicksburg, Miss. Died of wounds July 6, 1863, Vicksburg, Miss. Buried in National Cemetery, Vicksburg, Miss. Section G, grave 1249.

Something About Sheritta #22

[image error]What is your writing Kryptonite?

So, if I understand Kryptonite correctly, it’s a substance or thing that weakens my “super powers”. Put into a writing/author context, I suppose it would be burnout and reading poorly written books. I have made the mistake of reading a poorly written or very informally written book (the prose isn’t eloquent and rather casual or muddled) and it’s affected my own writing style. I often find that if I read something, that same style tends to translate into whatever I work on. That’s bad when I’ve been reading a contemporary series for too long and try to sit down and write a historical piece. The language is totally different, but my brain has been hooked in the present so much that I can’t write anything that resembled 18th or 19th century writings.

Burnout is also a problem. If the flow isn’t there, if I’ve been writing for days on end and haven’t taken a break to breathe, then every sentence and paragraph feels like I’m wading through mud. It slows my progress and can be disheartening. Therefore, I make an effort to space out my time appropriately so I don’t get too word-fatigued.

Something About Sheritta #21

[image error]Advice you would give to new authors

I think I’ve said this before in previous interviews, but I’ll say it again. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t or shouldn’t write something. If it’s what you’re passionate about, if it’s what you enjoy, then go for it. Don’t let anyone (parents, friends, spouse, coworkers) tell you that a certain genre or story won’t sell or won’t make money so it’s pointless to write. It’s not pointless because you love it. I had a lot of people tell me that I shouldn’t pursue a career as an author because it’s not a stable paycheck. In truth, it’s not, and it may not pay the bills some days, but it is fulfilling and that’s what matters to me in the end. I write because I love my stories and characters, and as I’ve said countless times before, it’s my therapy. It helps me to make sense of myself and my world, so it’s worth every bit of my time and energy.

Also, if you’re just getting started out, don’t skip on an editor. You can have the best cover in the world and the most air-tight marketing plan, but if your content is full of errors and typos, you’re SOL. The most capital you should ever spend on a book should be poured into the editing and proofreading. Take it from someone who has been there with an unedited book and regrets it immensely. Especially that first book, if you put it out with errors and the reviews come in saying as much, then it’ll taint the rest of your success as an author.