Chapter 5: The Price of Honor

Back in camp, Quinn’s chest burned with fury. Every time Quinn replayed the ambush in his mind, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. He wanted to see the Old Fox dragged through the mud, begging for mercy.

He barely slept, pacing under the cold stars, fists clenched, plotting revenge. His men saw the change—nobody joked now. They marched at dawn, boots thudding over frosty grass, banners snapping, faces grim. The songs were gone, replaced by the silence of men who knew the cost of war.

But when they reached Maple Heights, scouts reported Crawford was already gone. The Old Fox, knowing Quinn would want blood, slipped away—leaving only warm ashes and a mocking note on a tree: “Better luck next time, General.”

Crawford’s skill was survival—disappearing into the pines, reappearing when you least expected it. He turned every victory into a question mark.

With Crawford’s retreat, the tide turned. From July to September, towns surrendered—Denton, Ashland, and more. Parades, church bells, wildflowers, mothers weeping—hope, at last, seemed possible.

By mid-September, Savannah was all but surrounded. Its squares were silent, pickets jumpy, supplies running thin. The end felt close enough to taste.

Quinn set up at Cedar Hill, the men digging trenches, sharing stories by lantern light. The air stank of pine and sweat, gospel songs floating from shuttered churches in the city below.

Desperate, Crawford came to negotiate, crossing the river to plead with Quinn. He offered up a battered Confederate flag, his hands shaking as he tried to hand it over—an heirloom, or maybe just a prop. Quinn looked at the flag, then coldly turned away, refusing the gesture. Crawford cursed his own hide, swore he’d serve as a vassal, begged for mercy. But Quinn saw only a frightened man.

He turned his back. “You’re done, Fox.” The words hung heavy over the water. His officers muttered that honor was wasted on men like Crawford, but Quinn’s youth still colored his judgment.

September 21, Quinn led five hundred guards to scout the old President’s mausoleum—a routine mission, or so he thought. The sky was bruised, the air heavy. He scanned the horizon, unease prickling his skin.

A horn wailed in the distance. Quinn’s blood ran cold. Crawford appeared—this time with ten thousand men, blocking every escape.

The ground shuddered, Confederate banners streaming, drums pounding like a funeral. Crawford rode at the front, eyes wild. All exits were cut off. The Republic’s guards tightened ranks, faces pale.

In the blink of an eye, Crawford’s forces closed in from every side.

Sabers flashed, rifles cracked, and Quinn’s world narrowed to blood and steel. There was no way out—unless he could carve one himself. [To be continued]