Chapter 3: Iron and Blood

Now, Quinn prepared for a showdown at Maple Heights—the key to Savannah. If he could take it, the city would fall.

The roads were jammed with fleeing families, shopkeepers hammering up boards, preachers calling out for salvation. Quinn’s men sharpened blades and scribbled desperate letters home, unsure if they’d live to see morning.

Quinn walked among them, shaking hands and trading words. “We take Maple Heights, we open the road to freedom.” The men roared, their faith burning bright.

On the thirteenth day, storm clouds rolled in, heat thick as soup. The armies faced off, a hundred yards apart. Crawford led thirty thousand—his best. The air crackled, the only sounds a nervous drumbeat and the thunder rumbling far off.

Sinclair, the man Crawford had wronged, led the vanguard. His jaw was set, his saber raised. Quinn chose him for this moment—a message sent straight to the Old Fox.

A silence hung so heavy, you could hear the men breathing. Then the clouds split, sun blinding on the Confederate lines.

Quinn gave the order. Sinclair roared, the Republic surged. Crawford spat and countercharged. The armies crashed in a frenzy of steel and screams.

Smoke swallowed the world, mud sucking at boots, gunfire and saber slashes echoing across the field. For a breath, it seemed victory was within reach.

Then, with a sudden drumbeat, the Iron Guard appeared.

They burst from Crawford’s lines—giants in gleaming armor, shields painted with battered stars and stripes. The clang of bullets on their armor sounded like church bells at a funeral—loud, relentless, and impossible to ignore.

They moved as one, rifles raised, formation tight as a drum. Their shots tore through the Republic ranks. Bullets bounced off their armor, the Republic men falling back, fear in their eyes.

Quinn’s heart stuttered. He remembered his father’s stories of the Iron Guard—chosen by Johnson, drilled before dawn, never breaking rank. Now they were here, and his men’s courage wavered.

He shouted, “Iron Guard!” His voice cracked like a whip. The officers stiffened, faces pale.

The Iron Guard hit like a landslide. Men stumbled, tried to rally, but the Guard pressed forward—unstoppable, inhuman.

Quinn’s confidence cracked. For the first time, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. His mind flashed back to his first real firefight, the panic, the helplessness. Was this how it ended?

Desperate, he led his Blackridge Battalion into the fray—thousand black-clad cavalry, rifles blazing. “Blackridge, with me!” he roared, spurring Midnight forward. The ground shook as they charged, black banners flying.

They hammered the Iron Guard’s flank, bullets ricocheting in the storm. The air reeked of iron and cordite, the noise deafening. Quinn’s men aimed for the gaps, breaking the Guard’s line by sheer nerve.

But every volley was met with more blood. The Guard fought to the last man, bodies falling, steel flashing, the outcome hanging by a thread.

Quinn’s mind raced—memories of drilling late into the night, his instructor’s voice in his ear: “Don’t blink, don’t flinch, or you’re dead.” He forced himself forward, even as fear chewed at his insides.

At last, the Blackridge broke the Guard’s assault. The Confederates staggered back, leaving the field strewn with dead and dying.

Crawford pulled his men into Maple Heights, not routed but beaten. The Republic cheered, hope flickering anew.

That night, the men bandaged wounds, wrote shaky letters home, and huddled around lanterns. One soldier sobbed quietly behind a tent. Another tried to joke about the taste of army stew, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Quinn toasted his men with stolen whiskey, laughter masking the exhaustion and doubt gnawing at him.

He didn’t see the next move coming.