Chapter 1: The Wind Across Blue Ridge

The wind had swept across the Appalachians for four hundred years, now settling on Blue Ridge Mountain, where the sharp scent of pine and the distant bark of a hound dog cut through the hush of a southern winter afternoon. In the twenty-third year of the Jefferson Era, during the height of the American Republic, the air was thick with waiting—like the land itself held its breath for news that would ripple from every Georgia farmhouse to Ohio’s city blocks.

Word was, Michael Jefferson—the man who once raised his banner against the old Confederacy with boundless vigor, who stood tall as all states paid homage—had finally reached the end of his strength. The years had hit him hard—old wounds aching like a bad back before a storm, sicknesses he’d shrugged off as a kid now coming home to roost.

He’d lived a life worthy of the history books, but as the aches in his chest and the tremble in his hands made each day harder, Michael felt every year he’d carried the Republic pressing down. It was the American way—work till you drop, and if you’re lucky, folks remember you kindly.

In his mind, gunfire and bayonets flashed. Suddenly, he smiled wryly: So be it—in this life, I have no regrets. If there’s a next life, I’ll still lay the nation’s foundation, I’ll still fight to make the world better for everyone.

He could almost see the faces of those he’d led, hear the shouts on battlefields now grassy memorials. He pictured future generations, sitting on porches with sweet tea, swapping stories about the days he’d shaped.

As that thought surfaced, a wisp of wind from centuries past drifted into White Pine Hall at Cedar Ridge Mansion. The flag outside rustled against the pole, portraits of presidents past flickered in the afternoon sun, and somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed quietly.

President Michael Jefferson closed his eyes.

1

In the city of Austin, the twenty-one-year-old president, Andrew Lee, opened his eyes.

The spring air was thick with wildflowers and barbecue smoke, the city alive just beyond the mansion gates. Sunlight poured through high windows, cutting sharp lines across the maple floors.

That wind had traveled backward through four hundred years, carrying the soul of President Jefferson into the body of the future President Lee. As for Andrew Lee? Well, he’d probably gone off to join Sam Houston chasing Benedict Arnold. Some history buff would have a field day with that one. Either way, Andrew Lee was gone, and Michael Jefferson was here—reborn in a world buzzing with the hope and trouble of another American spring.

When Michael Jefferson opened his eyes again, he found himself in a strange mansion, and then Andrew Lee’s memories flooded his mind: unfamiliar wallpaper, the sharp tang of lemon polish and the scent of old books, anxiety pulsing in the air. Then it all crashed in: campaign trail arguments, childhood days by the Colorado River, heartbreak at lost friends, the pride of new beginnings.

Fragments from two lives overlapped in Michael’s mind: chaos at Little Rock, the raging fires of Gettysburg, triumphant laughter as the army entered Austin—all of it condensing into two clear streams of tears outside the old ‘Call to Service’ speech.

His mind spun, nearly dizzy. For a moment, he tasted burnt coffee from campaign rallies, remembered the feel of his first boots sinking into Tennessee mud, and the heat of victory and sorrow washing over him at dusk.

These memories washed over Michael’s heart, leaving his thoughts in turmoil:

Damn it, I’m alive again.

His heart thudded, wild and young. He squeezed his eyes shut, half-expecting to wake up in his old bones, but the energy in his limbs was real—almost frightening.

I’m only twenty-one, still forced every day by that big-eared, long-armed man to practice marksmanship and horseback riding.

Michael’s lips curled into a half-smile, half-grimace. Only in America would you find a kid who’d rather snooze through sunrise than muck out the stables—yet here he was, reliving it all.

Hell, I’ve actually become Andrew Lee.

A wave of disbelief crashed through him, part panic, part wonder. Was this a dream, or was this just the kind of thing that happened to legends?

Michael shot up from the bed like he’d touched a live wire. The old wooden bed creaked beneath him, sunlight flooding his face. He swung his legs to the floor, toes digging into a faded Texas flag rug. Adrenaline surged—the kind that makes you think you could run all the way to Dallas.

His eyes were bright, his spirit soaring.

He flexed his hands, marveling at the strength in these unfamiliar fingers. A whole new life—and a whole new shot at making history.

He cleared his throat, testing his voice—"Howdy," he said, then, grinning, "God bless America." The words sounded strong and strange in his ears, grounding him in this new skin.

That day, a rumor swept through the mansion: the president had gone off the deep end. A perfectly healthy man suddenly jumped up and started laughing for no reason, wild and loud, babbling nonsense, pointing at the sky and the earth, and declaring, “Since I am here, if loyal citizens still weep in the autumn wind, if schemers try to steal the nation, and the land of the fifty states is plunged into misery, then I am not named Jefferson!”

Staff members in the hallway stopped dead, coffee mugs halfway to their lips. The White Pine Hall had seen its share of eccentric presidents, but this was something else. Phones started buzzing—one intern even snapped a quick photo, just in case this went viral. Folks whispered behind their hands, texting each other: “The boss has totally lost it!”

Ryan Grant...

Ryan Grant said, “Uh, sir, your name’s Lee, remember? Unless you’re pulling a fast one on us.”

Ryan, sharp-eyed and a bit too serious for his age, fidgeted with his tie and glanced nervously at his smartwatch. You needed a sense of humor to work here, especially when the boss was acting like he’d seen a ghost.

After saying this, Ryan coughed twice. Michael waved him off, saying, “That’s not the point. Why are you here?”

Michael’s voice rang with impatience, the tone of someone used to being obeyed, not questioned. He barely glanced at Ryan, already thinking a dozen moves ahead.

Ryan paused, then replied, “Mr. President, I’m your Chief of Staff. Isn’t it normal for me to be in the mansion?”

He clutched a folder to his chest, straightened his tie, and tried to keep his voice from trembling.

Michael gave two perfunctory ‘oh’s, then said, “I forgot, I forgot.” He laughed again, the sound wild as sunlight scattered on water—yet when it settled in his eyes, it became a blade of determination.

It was the kind of laughter that could fill a room, make a flag seem to wave a little prouder. Even the most cynical staffers felt the spark that built the country.

This smile left Ryan a little dazed. He could sense something was off with the president today, but couldn’t put it into words.

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing down at his scuffed shoes, uncertain whether to smile back or call for a doctor.

Ryan lowered his head, coughed twice more, and a sickly flush crept onto his face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his lips. His shoulders hunched, fighting off a chill that seemed to cut straight through the morning sun.

Michael raised an eyebrow and said, “You look like you haven’t slept in a week, kid. What’s got you so run down?”

His words were blunt, almost fatherly, like an old friend ribbing you at a barbecue for skipping breakfast. A flash of concern passed through Michael’s eyes, hidden beneath the bravado.

Ryan’s face turned even paler. He forced a bitter smile and said, “My body’s always been like this, Mr. President, no need to worry... This is the latest military report I received. I’ve come to present it to you.”

He tried to steady his hands as he passed over the folder, making sure his voice didn’t crack. Everyone in the mansion knew Ryan worked himself to the bone, even when he could barely stand.

Michael’s gaze sharpened. He took the report and glanced over it: it stated that General Zach Young’s decoy troops had pinned down Colonel Carter at Junction, the Prime Minister’s main force had marched north out of Blue Ridge, three counties had responded, the Midwest was in turmoil, and taking advantage of the West being left unguarded, they had already taken Silver Creek. Paper still warm from the printer, a half-empty cup of diner coffee leaving a ring on the corner.

The report was written in tense, clipped lines, with the occasional coffee stain—signs of a night spent hunched over a desk. Maps were scrawled with notes, urgent arrows slashing across the Midwest.

Although the usurper Richard Cole had personally come to St. Louis to oversee the situation and General Harris had brought reinforcements, the Prime Minister still said the President need not worry.

Somewhere, a radio played quietly in the background, a country ballad about heartbreak and home. Michael read on, feeling the heaviness in his chest grow.

The Prime Minister said that Major Mark Smith had already set out for Red Bluff. Red Bluff is easy to defend and hard to attack; as long as it is held for a few more days, the three counties will surely be recovered. Then, with the main army engaging Cole’s forces, they could cut off their reinforcements, and the Western Territories would collapse without even being attacked.

The language was confident, but Michael could sense the nervousness behind the words—the kind of optimism that came from a man clinging to hope in the face of chaos.

Michael...

Michael thought: Oh no, it’s over.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering under his breath like any worn-out leader who’s seen one bad plan too many.

Damn it, Mark Smith has already gone to Red Bluff—what’s the use now?

He let out a sigh, one that seemed to pull the warmth from the room. Michael’s eyes grew distant, focusing on memories of other battlefields, other failures.

Staring off into the distance, Michael felt a wave of gloom and casually tossed the military report back to Ryan. The folder landed with a dull thud, scattering a couple of yellow sticky notes onto the floor.

He slumped into a nearby armchair, the springs squeaking in protest. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration leaking out with every movement.

This guy, of course, didn’t know about Mark Smith’s blunder at Red Bluff; he was just excited and overjoyed, his eyes bright for once. He said, “Who could have imagined? Just a few years ago, after the last president passed, the people were in panic, uprisings everywhere, no food, no money, no men. In just five years, who would have thought Prime Minister George Grant could bring such order to the country and even push the northern campaign this far?”

Ryan’s words tumbled out, eager and hopeful. He leaned forward, eyes shining with pride. It was the kind of talk you’d hear at a Fourth of July picnic—believing in a comeback, even when the odds were long.

Michael glanced at him. This poor kid still didn’t know that the northern campaign was about to fail.

He almost wanted to say something gentle, but held his tongue. Some truths, he thought, were best learned the hard way.

Looking at the excited Ryan, Michael seemed to see the sun setting on the old Republic, distant victory songs fading into the autumn wind across the prairies.

He imagined the old campaign songs—those hymns to freedom—drifting away over endless fields, lost to time.

Michael’s smile faded. He beckoned Ryan closer and asked, “From here to the frontlines, how many days does it take for a military report to arrive?”

His voice took on a new seriousness, the kind that demanded a straight answer. Ryan blinked, caught off guard.

Ryan, still in high spirits, was stunned by this question. In the past, no matter what news came from the Prime Minister, the president would just glance at it and never ask questions. Upon receiving a victory report, he would simply be happy.

The question cut through the usual routine like a bell in the night. Ryan shuffled his feet, searching for the right words.

Today was different.

Even the light in the room seemed to change, shadows stretching across the polished floorboards. A sense of urgency hung in the air.

But Ryan still had to answer. He said, “Three or four days.”

He checked his phone, double-checking the time stamps, just in case the president wanted proof.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “The roads in the Midwest are so rough—can it really be that fast?”

He remembered the muddy backroads, the endless fields broken only by truck stops and old diners. Even in the Republic, the heartland never made things easy.

Ryan replied, puzzled, “Hasn’t it always been this fast? When the last president traveled from Riverbend to Austin, post stations and official lodges were set up all along the four hundred miles. All used fast horses, and the Prime Minister made it a military crime to delay transmission, so the reports are naturally quick.”

He spoke with the earnestness of a man who still believed in the system—who hadn’t yet learned that even the fastest relay can’t outrun fate.

Michael suddenly sighed:

He leaned back, eyes closed for a moment, thinking of the weight of every decision, every missed opportunity. He felt the ache of responsibility deep in his bones.

The business of the Republic runs like a muddy river—always twisting, always looking for the path of least resistance.

He thought of backroom deals, midnight meetings, the way ambition could rot the roots of any nation. Still, there was hope if the right people stood up.

Having seen too many who muddle through, Michael, seeing now the officials of the Republic—who, no matter how poor or desperate, never forget to prepare for the northern campaign—couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion.

He caught a glimpse of the old flag outside, fluttering stubbornly against the breeze. There was grit in the Republic yet.

Michael stared at Ryan, enunciating each word: “The last president’s ambition has not yet faded, unyielding, and the Prime Minister’s devotion to duty, dying only after exhaustion, is truly admirable.”

His words came out like a pledge—something you’d say before an altar or at a graveside. The room seemed to grow warmer, the shadows lifting just a little.

Ryan understood the sentiment, but was still puzzled. “Shouldn’t you call him ‘Father President’? Why do you also call him ‘the last president’?”

Ryan’s brow furrowed, unsure if this was a trick question or a sign that the president was really losing it.

Michael...

Michael coughed twice and said, “I always feel that calling him ‘Father President’ kind of diminishes the last president.”

He tried to sound casual, but a note of longing crept into his voice, as if he were talking to an old friend who’d slipped away.

Ryan: “Ah... ah.”

Ryan gave a nervous little laugh, tucking his folder under his arm. For a moment, the tension in the room eased.

Before Ryan could react, Michael had already come closer, speaking quickly: “No matter how fast, three or four days is still too late. By the time this report arrives, Mark Smith will already be at Red Bluff. The last president already said: Sending Mark Smith out there is like handing the car keys to a kid who’s never driven stick. He’ll never camp honestly by the city. And Harris is a true master of war—how could he give Mark Smith any chance?”

Michael’s tone was urgent, as if he could already hear the cannons firing at Red Bluff, the cries of men caught in a trap.

“In the battle of Red Bluff, Mark Smith will certainly be defeated, and the Prime Minister’s entire plan for the northern campaign will be ruined by this.”

He spoke with the conviction of a man who’d seen too many plans fall apart at the last moment.

Maybe Michael’s tone was too confident, too calm, or maybe the early spring sunlight was too dreamlike, but it actually made Ryan feel that the president’s judgment was right.

Ryan’s heart pounded in his chest, caught between fear and admiration. He wondered if he was witnessing the birth of a new era.

Michael looked at Ryan and said, “Now, sending a report to the frontlines is already too late. What do you think we should do?”

He fixed Ryan with a stare that brooked no easy answers. The weight of responsibility settled on Ryan’s shoulders.

Ryan seemed to wake from a dream. He smiled bitterly. “Mr. President, isn’t this a bit too much speculation? The Prime Minister surely has his own plan...”

He faltered, not wanting to challenge authority, but unable to swallow his doubts.

“The Prime Minister is also human. The Prime Minister can make mistakes. If there really is defeat at Red Bluff, how can the northern campaign be saved?” Michael cut him off, turning back to write something.

Michael’s words hung in the air, as sharp and cold as the steel tip of a bayonet. He reached for a pen, his hand steady despite the chaos swirling around him.

Ryan asked in confusion, “If even the Prime Minister is defeated, what could I possibly do...?”

Ryan’s voice was barely a whisper, the question more to himself than anyone else. It was a question millions before him had asked, facing the tides of history.

Michael, with his back to Ryan, suddenly said, “Don’t you want to avenge your father?”

The room went quiet. Even the ticking of the old grandfather clock seemed to pause. Ryan’s breath caught in his throat.

Ryan straightened up as if struck by lightning, then slumped again. “My father’s revenge is my private matter. Now, Cole’s forces are the true enemy. I must not forget public duty for private vengeance...”

He spoke with the kind of dignity that comes from losing too much, too soon. Still, a flicker of pain crossed his face, old wounds reopened by Michael’s words.

“So your heart is troubled, and your health declines day by day. If this northern campaign succeeds, you might yet see the day when the army marches east and your revenge is fulfilled in your lifetime. If the campaign fails, you’ll probably die of heartbreak. Isn’t that so?”

Michael’s words dug deep, but they were true. The mansion seemed to hold its breath, the afternoon light growing softer.

Ryan fell silent.

He stared at his shoes, thinking of family photographs tucked away in drawers, of promises made at gravesides. His silence spoke volumes.

At this, Michael turned around, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry. Since I am here, this northern campaign will not fail. I swear on Old Glory herself, we’ll see this through. Within five years, I’ll let General Grant’s spirit in heaven see the traitors brought to justice and the Republic unified.”

Michael’s promise filled the room, sounding less like bravado and more like faith—faith in a country that’s always found a way to pull through.

In the sunlight, deep within the mansion, Ryan gazed at Michael’s confident smile, and a phrase suddenly echoed in his mind:

That old American rallying cry echoed in his mind: If not me, then who?

The previous president never had this youthful spirit of ‘If not me, then who?’

Ryan was at a loss, unsure whether to pour cold water on the president and urge caution, or to grit his teeth and follow the president forward.

He weighed duty against doubt, hope against fear, feeling the gravity of history pressing down on him. He remembered his father’s old campaign hat, the one gathering dust in the closet, and felt a new determination settle in his chest.

Michael laughed. “Come, let’s go save the Republic together.”

He slapped Ryan on the back, the way a football coach might after a good play. For the first time in months, Ryan grinned back.

Ryan wanted to say, ‘Forget it, you’re only twenty-one. How can you question the Prime Minister? If you act so rashly, people will say you’re just trying to make a name for yourself at your age. In the end, you’ll be the one left making empty boasts, a laughingstock.’

He opened his mouth, but the words stuck. The old doubts lingered, but Michael’s confidence was infectious.

But looking at Michael’s smile, three words slipped from his mouth before he realized: “I accept the order.”

He felt the fire stir in his chest—maybe for the first time since his father’s funeral.

Michael laughed heartily, slapped the written order onto Ryan’s chest, and said, “Quick, go find Greg Young, Doug Yates, and Charlie Cross. I’m going to Junction—no time to argue with them. I’ll leave those guys to you.”

He pressed the order into Ryan’s hands, his touch steady and sure, then turned away with a swagger that made the old mansion seem brighter.

Ryan didn’t know what power was moving him, but for once, his blood boiled.

He watched Michael stride out and subconsciously followed a few steps. “Mr. President, you’re going to Junction? General Zach’s troops there are just a decoy. Aside from some light cavalry, the rest are all garrison troops—they can’t stand against Carter’s main force.”

Ryan’s voice wavered, the old fear creeping back in, but Michael didn’t slow down.

Michael didn’t even pause. “If I go, even the decoy troops become the main force. I want to stand at the gates of St. Louis and see if Cole dares face me.”

Michael’s voice rang out, bold as a sermon, as he threw open the doors and let in the fresh spring air.

Ryan could only watch Michael stride into the sunlight, not knowing what madness had possessed him, but actually feeling that this back was holding up the sky and carrying the sun and moon.

He stood in the doorway, blinking against the glare, his heart thundering in his chest. Was this what it meant to witness history?

At that moment, Ryan even thought: It doesn’t matter if the president is unreliable. Once at Junction, General Zach will be there to hold the line.

He tucked the order inside his jacket, steeling himself for the road ahead. For once, hope felt real.

No one expected that in this battle at Junction—later called the turning point of the Republic—the white-haired Zach Young, following Michael who led the army in person, would charge more fiercely than anyone.

Stories would be told for generations: how two men changed the course of a nation in a single afternoon. Every small town and big city would remember that day.

In a single day, they cut through twenty years of time.

It was as if the hands of every old clock in the country spun back, just for a moment, to give them one more chance at glory.

Somewhere, the church bells in Austin started ringing. By the time they stopped, the Republic would never be the same.