[legendsport]

Brooklyn, New York, August 23, 1863:

"Arthur!" Jake Ganley called out to his friend, moving slowly down the beach.

Jake saw a raised hand in reply, but Arthur kept his gaze cast downward, looking for the perfect shell. He raised his hands and cupped them around his mouth and shouted again: "Arthur!!"

This time Arthur Cummings did turn around and though he had advanced a good fifty yards down the strand, Jake thought he could see a look of irritation on his friend's face. Jake raised his right hand and waved for Arthur to come back.

Arthur shook his head and raised his left hand, showing the shells he had been collecting.

"Forget those! Come over here!" Jake yelled.

Arthur turned and began walking back, stopping one or twice to fire a shell out into the waves crashing into Brooklyn Beach and smiling as he watched them curve before dropping into the surf.

"Confound it Arthur, I have big news!" Jake said.

"Do you know Jake, I believe I can make a base ball curve if I can figure out the right way to hold my hand," Arthur said by way of reply. He had been coming to the beach for a week, tossing shells into the water and practicing various motions - all underhand, as that was what the rules required. "If only we could pitch the base ball over hand," Arthur was fond of muttering.

"Forget your stupid curving base ball idea, Art and look!" Jake grabbed Arthur's chin and pointed it to the west. A smudge of smoke rose on the horizon.

Arthur's eyes widened in surprise. "What is that?" he asked with a note of alarm.

Jake shook his head. "It's what I've been trying to tell you about. New York is on fire!"

Arthur looked at the smoke rising into the air, thought of his father and began running up the beach as fast as his short legs would carry him. Jake, bigger than Arthur (though both were 14, Jake was tall and thick while Arthur was short and thin), ran after his friend and soon caught up.


South of Chambersburg, Maryland, August 23, 1863:

Private Dennis Coughlin really wanted a drink. Not a canteen of water, but a real, honest to goodness spot of whiskey. He licked his lips thinking of it. Of course that wasn't going to be forthcoming. Private Coughlin was currently a prisoner of the Confederate States Army, and he doubted they'd be passing out whiskey bottles.

His blue uniform was torn and dirty and there was blood on the left leg of his pants. The blood wasn't his own, but it still disturbed Coughlin. Until recently he had been with the 140th New York Infantry, the "Rochester Race Horses" and a part of the Army of the Potomac. Then that Army had been whipped at Gettysburg, chased halfway back to New York (or so it seemed) and then captured by some of J.E.B. Stuart's cavalry. Now they were prisoners and marching south towards the heart of the Confederacy.

"Hey, boyo, might you have something beside water in your canteen?" he asked one of the graycoated cavalrymen. The reb rubbed his beard and spat.

"If'n I did, you can damn sure bet I wouldn't be giving it to you." The reb shot him a look of contempt and booted his horse into a trot.

The Rebs assigned to watch Coughlin and his fellow prisoners as they marched south behind the main body of the Army were not happy about their current assignment. Coughlin had already seen them shoot one man for not keeping up - which wasn't easy when the prisoners walked while the guards rode - and also explained blood on his pants leg. No doubt they'd rather be with the main force as it attacked Washington City.

Coughlin cast his mind away, a trick he had picked up during the long and boring marches he had endured since joining the Union Army in 1862. It was a good way to beat the boredom. He thought about his days playing base ball in Rochester. The competition had been good - and so was he - and he sincerely missed the contests.

He sighed and trudged on into an unknown future.