Chapter 2: Grant’s Gamble

When the news that Mark Smith had camped on the mountain reached Silver Creek, George Grant was utterly despondent.

The campfire smoke stung his eyes, and the metallic tang of sweat and gun oil hung in the air. The only sounds were the distant barking of a dog and the clatter of horses’ hooves. Dust and resignation filled the night.

At Red Bluff, taking the high ground didn’t offer any real advantage; it was all terraced slopes, classic Great Plains. Grant had asked around, tracing the old topographical map with a weathered finger. Even now, after all these years, the land didn’t yield its secrets easily.

So he had repeatedly instructed Mark Smith to camp by the city, near water, to set up camp steady. The orders had been clear, but the hunger for glory had clouded Smith’s judgment. Grant shook his head, thinking of all the times ambition had ruined good men.

Unexpectedly, Mark Smith was still eager for achievements and insisted on going up the mountain to try. It was the kind of mistake made by those who read too many history books and not enough weather reports.

Grant closed his eyes. He rubbed his temples, wishing for a shot of strong coffee and five minutes of peace. The smell of campfire smoke drifted in from outside, grounding him in the moment.

The efforts of tens of thousands were about to go to waste. The setting sun and evening breeze blew in, stirring Grant’s gray beard. Down the steps, James Wallace was still asking, “Prime Minister, what should we do now?”

James’s voice was anxious, but Grant heard the respect beneath it. They’d come too far to turn back now.

Grant opened his eyes. At first, his voice was lower than usual, but by the latter half, it swelled with passion, as if always full of confidence in future victory:

“Rally the army, summon as many troops as possible, and immediately head to Red Bluff.”

His words snapped like a flag in the wind. Even the greenest recruits felt the surge of hope that only Grant could inspire.

Yet perhaps Grant knew in his heart—it was already too late. He looked off into the distance, watching as the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the hills. There was nothing left to do but hold the line.

Three days later, Grant’s main army had not yet reached Red Bluff when news came that Mark Smith had been defeated—not just defeated, but had abandoned the main army and fled alone, causing the loss of tens of thousands of young men from the Republic who had answered the call to revive the nation.

The telegram arrived just before dawn, rattling Grant’s nerves. The camp was silent, the men waiting for news that would never be good.

The wind howled. Grant thought: This is all my fault alone.

He gripped the arm of his chair, knuckles white. Guilt gnawed at him, sharper than any wound.

With a few more white hairs, Grant’s thoughts returned to the present: after this defeat, Harris’s army would soon arrive, and Carter would surely realize that Zach Young’s force was just a decoy.

He brushed his beard, noticing the new streaks of silver. Experience was a cruel teacher.

Surrounded front and back, he could only retreat. Retreating stung worse than any physical pain. The shame of it would echo in every letter home, every story told by the fireside.

Five years of toil day and night, venturing into wastelands, five years of open and sincere effort, exhausting all his strength—finally, three counties responded, the Midwest was shaken, the Western Territories were within reach, yet now he must retreat.

He stared at the campaign map, seeing not lines and symbols, but five years of hope and heartbreak. He could almost hear the laughter and cries of his men, see the faces of those who’d fallen along the way.

There was no heavy rain at the burning of Pine Valley in history; what ruined the northern campaign was always Mark Smith’s selfishness, and later, the factional strife of Lee Young. It wasn’t storms or bad luck that undid them—it was pride, politics, and the ever-hungry urge to be first.

People’s hearts are like knives, whittling Grant’s figure thinner in the wind. He wrapped his coat tighter around his shoulders. Leadership, he thought, meant letting the winds cut you down to size, day by day.

He sighed and said, “Retreat.”

His voice was heavy, the finality of it sinking into every tent and trench across the field.

James Wallace nodded. Having just joined the Republic, he hadn’t yet experienced these five years of hardship, only thinking that with the Prime Minister’s talent, they would surely win back the lost ground sooner or later.

James tried to sound confident as he prepared to relay the order. He still believed in happy endings, the way only newcomers can.

So he waved his hand, ready to pass on the order. He turned to the nearest runner, clearing his throat, but was interrupted by the distant thunder of hooves.

A fast horse suddenly galloped from the rear of the formation. The rider wore the dust and sweat of a man who’d crossed half the country without stopping. Heads turned as he approached.

It was a Republic scout, so the rear let him into the main camp, but as soon as Grant saw the scout, his eyes flashed. A couple of sergeants muttered about imposters and false flags—nobody trusted good news delivered on horseback.

This man was not from his army. Grant narrowed his gaze, but kept his hand away from his sidearm. In wartime, trust was a precious, dangerous thing.

The scout galloped up, dismounted, and knelt. “The President has an order, asking the Prime Minister not to retreat, but to gather the routed troops at Red Bluff and block Harris.”

James’s jaw dropped, the runners pausing in their tracks. The idea of the president issuing battlefield orders was unheard of.

James frowned—aren’t all military affairs in the Prime Minister’s hands? How, after a defeat, does a presidential order suddenly arrive?

He shot Grant a look, as if asking for permission to challenge the scout’s words.

Unlike James, Grant took the order, not thinking of such intrigues, but carefully checked the presidential seal, and asked the scout, “Is this truly the President’s will?”

He examined the wax, searching for the hidden mark known only to the inner circle. Satisfied, he met the scout’s gaze, waiting for confirmation.

The scout said anxiously, “Absolutely true, Prime Minister. The President—no one knows what came over him—after giving this order to Chief Grant, left Austin and went straight to the camp at Junction.”

The scout’s voice trembled with awe and fear. The story was already spreading through the ranks like wildfire.

James’s pupils trembled on the spot. I just switched sides, and the Republic already has such a huge incident?

He wiped his brow, muttering under his breath about the madness of American politics.

Grant remained calm. He pointed at the order and said solemnly, “Since you came from Austin, you must have set out three or four days ago. Three or four days ago, the President already knew Mark Smith would be defeated?”

His mind raced, piecing together the timeline with the precision of a chess master.

James was stunned. He felt the ground shift beneath him. Was this prophecy, or just shrewd intuition?

Yes, how could the President have foreseen Mark Smith’s defeat in advance?

The question lingered, making the camp feel suddenly colder.

Ryan had told the scout this, so the scout repeated to Grant: “The President said Mark Smith is all talk, eager for achievements, given a chance to command alone, he will never camp honestly by the city, and Harris is a true master of war—so Red Bluff will surely be lost, and the northern campaign ruined.”

The words carried the weight of bitter experience, the kind that comes only from having lost before.

Grant’s face darkened for a moment, then his eyes blazed with new fire. He drew himself up to his full height, feeling the years fall away. The fight wasn’t over yet—not if he had anything to say about it.

It was the soaring spirit of someone who, after much hardship and whitening hair, finally sees the long wind and breaking waves ahead.

In that instant, Grant remembered the boy he’d once mentored—the one who now stood at the helm, ready to risk everything. He grinned, remembering a scrawny kid with more guts than sense, and thought: Maybe this time, we really do have a fighting chance.

Before Grant could finish sighing, James asked again:

He leaned in, voice low, wanting to understand this new turn of fate. “Since the President knows Red Bluff is lost and the northern campaign ruined, why ask the Prime Minister to hold here?”

The scout’s eyes were red with anxiety. “Prime Minister, please write to persuade the President. The President insists there is still a chance to save the northern campaign. As long as General Zach Young can defeat Carter at Junction and threaten St. Louis, Harris will have to withdraw. So the President has gone to Junction himself.”

The scout’s words tumbled out in a rush, as if hoping to outrun disaster. The hope in his voice was infectious, even in the gloom of defeat.

Grant, always calm, swayed. He said, “The President went to Junction—to fight Carter?”

He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself, trying to process the enormity of the decision.

This was not just growing up—this was reaching for the sky.

Grant, rarely flustered, said, “Didn’t Chief Grant or the other officials tell him that Junction is all decoy troops?”

Grant’s mind raced, imagining the chaos that might greet Michael at Junction. He prayed the boy had some trick up his sleeve.

The scout was on the verge of tears. “The President said, as long as he goes, even the decoy troops can become the main force.”

The old soldiers in the tent murmured among themselves. Some shook their heads, others gripped their rifles a little tighter.

Grant looked up at the sky, speechless. Besides the howling wind, his mind was blank. He watched a hawk circle overhead, the symbol of freedom and struggle. The world seemed impossibly large, the Republic impossibly fragile.

At this point, James actually stepped forward. “No one stopped the President? If the President really reaches Junction, General Zach might not even join him in this doomed battle, right?”

James’s face was pale, his voice almost pleading. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if Michael fell at Junction.

The scout finally burst into tears. “Those who tried to stop the President—before they got within a hundred feet, the President shot their hats off with his rifle. Then he shouted, ‘The Commander-in-Chief is here—whoever blocks me, beware!’ He raised the presidential seal high above his head, his heroic spirit surpassing even the last president. So no one dared, or wanted, to stop him. I’m not afraid of anything else, but I’m afraid that such a spirited President, after running for three or four days, will really inspire General Zach to fight to the end, but... but...”

The scout’s voice broke, sobs wracking his thin shoulders. The men around him fell silent, each remembering their own moments of reckless courage.

The scout choked up, sobbing. Even the grizzled old sergeant in the corner blinked back a tear, thinking of all the young men who’d followed leaders into the jaws of fate.

James’s expression changed. He turned to Grant, only to find Grant had calmed down at some point. James expected anger, maybe even panic, but instead found a serene determination in Grant’s eyes.

The great wind still blew. It rattled the canvas, kicked up dust, and carried with it the faint hope that maybe—just maybe—this time would be different.

But a smile appeared on Grant’s face. He said to James, “Actually, the President knows—there’s no need for this order. As long as I know he has gone to Junction and is determined to fight Carter, I would never withdraw.”

He clapped James on the back, voice steady and strong. “Sometimes you just need someone to stick their neck out first. That’s how you turn a stampede into a charge.”

“If the President is still willing to fight to the end, how could we retreat?”

The question rang out like a challenge, a dare to every man in camp to find the same courage.

James’s eyes focused, his body tensed involuntarily. He said urgently, “But for the sake of the country—”

He started to argue, but Grant’s look silenced him. This was not a debate—this was destiny unfolding.

“Who is thinking for the country? Is it only what you and I think that counts as ‘for the country’?” Grant said slowly. “That is not the way of a true leader, nor the way to victory. Pass the order: camp on the spot, gather the routed troops, find another place to set up camp, and be sure to pin Harris’s army at Red Bluff.”

Grant’s words were calm, but carried a force that brooked no argument. The room snapped to attention, the mood shifting from despair to resolve.

James nodded in agreement. He swallowed hard, realizing he was witnessing a turning point in history. He hurried off to pass the order, feet pounding the muddy ground.

Turning away, his mind was still in turmoil. He wanted to speak, but stopped. He still didn’t understand how much chance there was for the President to defeat Carter’s main force with decoy troops, or why the Prime Minister was willing to gamble with the President.

As he left, the wind whipped his coat around his legs. He wondered if he’d ever understand men like Grant—or Michael.

Perhaps sensing James’s doubts, Grant’s voice came riding the wind:

It carried across the camp, steady as a hymn. “I know what kind of person the President is. Now that he’s willing to stand up, I believe in him—just as the last president once believed in me.”

The wind carried Grant’s words through the camp, and for the first time in days, the men dared to hope. Tomorrow, everything would change.