Chapter 2: The Old Fox’s Game

Quinn’s enemy was William S. Crawford.

Even in the smoky river bars of Savannah, the name Crawford made men’s hands shake. He’d built a Southern empire out of grit and gunpowder, ruling the front lines with the swagger of a plantation lord and the cunning of a street hustler. His officers were many, his promises as slippery as oil, and he claimed to be the last hope of the old Union.

People whispered about the Old Fox—how he’d smile with rye in hand, one eye on the shadows, always ready to shake your hand or slide a knife between your ribs. The nickname fit him like a second skin.

It was Jenkins who first said it, over sour coffee at dawn. “That old fox? He’ll swear on his mother’s grave, then hand you a sack of dirt.” Kinney and Sinclair laughed, but the edge in their voices was sharp. They’d all learned the hard way: Crawford’s promises were like spring ice—pretty but bound to break.

Crawford was legendary for squeezing every cent, for spinning tall tales, and for robbing his own men blind. “He could squeeze a nickel till the buffalo bawled,” Jenkins liked to say.

He stole Sinclair’s prized horse for his nephew—never apologized, just grinned and tossed Sinclair the old bridle. Sinclair still kept it, a bitter reminder of everything Crawford stood for.

Crawford’s speeches were always full of eagles, clouds, and destiny. The green recruits ate it up; the old hands just rolled their eyes and passed the whiskey. He spun stories thick enough to drown a mule, and fools followed him right into the fire.

Kinney, Jenkins, and Sinclair finally had enough. Their midnight escape became legend—horses pounding through the corn, hearts in their throats. They traded the Old Fox’s empty promises for Quinn’s hard silver and honest orders.

Quinn, with his Cumberland pedigree and his father’s lessons ringing in his ears, despised everything Crawford stood for. The Quinn crest—the eagle with arrows and olive—hung in every courthouse back home. Nathaniel had been raised on honor, not tricks. He’d seen men like Crawford ruin nations.

He’d already bested giants: Strong, West, Wren. Crawford was just a slick-talking snake by comparison.

The Blackridge officers joked that the scariest thing about Crawford was the stink of his cigars. At twenty-one, Quinn thought smashing the Old Fox would be easy as pie.

But two years back, Crawford had outfoxed Michael Lee’s massive Wabash Army with a simple ruse—sent a decoy in Union blue and broke them like twigs. That trick still haunted old soldiers’ dreams.

And now, Crawford commanded the Iron Guard—the last, best of the old Union, President Johnson’s own men. These were no ordinary soldiers. They were nightmares in iron, drilled since boyhood, cold as ice and twice as hard.