Read the Prologue and Chapter 1

Prologue

The lieutenant went down in the middle of the field, and Private Henry Marsh saw him fall but could not say from where the shot had come. The smoke was too thick, the enemy too distant, the stone wall ahead lost in a white haze that rolled across the frozen ground. Marsh pressed himself against the earth and tasted mud and powder on his lips.

Behind him men were still advancing. He could hear the officers calling them forward, could hear the drums, but the noise seemed to come from somewhere far away, as if he had dropped into a well and the battle was happening up above. The ground shook with artillery. A shell burst overhead and dirt rained down on his neck.

He lifted his head. The lieutenant was maybe twenty yards ahead, lying on his side with one arm stretched out before him. Not moving. Marsh looked for the stone wall again but saw only smoke and the dark shapes of men running. Some fell. Others kept going until they too disappeared into the white.

To his right a corporal from another company was loading his rifle, ramming the charge home with quick, practiced movements. Marsh watched him stand, aim at nothing he could see, and fire into the smoke. The corporal dropped back down and began loading again.

“Can you see them?” Marsh asked.

The corporal shook his head. He did not look at Marsh. His hands were steady on the ramrod.

A man screamed somewhere close. The sound went on and on until it stopped.

Marsh pulled his rifle to his shoulder and tried to find something to aim at. There was only smoke. He fired anyway, felt the weapon kick against him, and started reloading. His fingers were cold and clumsy. He dropped a cartridge and had to fish it from the mud.

More men came up from behind, stepping over the bodies, walking through the wounded. An officer on horseback rode past, sword raised, shouting something Marsh could not make out. The horse was bleeding from its shoulder. Twenty paces on the officer jerked sideways and fell. The horse kept going, reins trailing.

Marsh finished loading and looked for the corporal, but the man was gone. In his place was a boy no more than sixteen, face white, breathing in short gasps. The boy’s rifle lay beside him. He was holding his stomach with both hands.

“Where are you hit?” Marsh said.

The boy did not answer. His eyes were very wide.

Marsh crawled over to him. Blood was coming through the boy’s fingers, dark and slow. He tried to pull the hands away to see the wound, but the boy would not let go. He was making a sound in his throat, high and thin.

“Let me see it,” Marsh said, but the boy just stared at him.

Another wave of men passed through. Marsh crouched low as they went by, then pulled the boy down with him. The boy gasped and his hands fell away from his stomach. There was a hole there, small and neat, just below the ribs. Not much blood on the outside, but Marsh knew what that meant.

The firing had grown heavier. It came from ahead, from the wall, from batteries positioned somewhere beyond. Marsh could hear the minie balls passing overhead, a sound like tearing cloth. He looked back the way they had come and saw the ground covered with men. Some crawling, some still. The town was a quarter mile behind them, the church steeples rising above the rooftops. Between here and there was open ground, and all of it swept by fire.

The boy had stopped making noise. His eyes were half-closed now, his breathing shallow. Marsh stayed with him, one hand on the boy’s shoulder, and waited. There was nothing else to do.

After a while an order came down the line to withdraw. The men around Marsh began moving back, bent low, some of them dragging wounded. Marsh looked at the boy, but the boy was not breathing anymore. He left him there and started back toward the town.

He passed the lieutenant on the way. Still lying with his arm out. A sergeant knelt beside him, going through his pockets. The sergeant looked up at Marsh but said nothing.

Jacob Irons was down in the mud ten yards away, both hands clamped on his right leg. He looked up at Marsh. Neither of them said anything.

By the time Marsh reached the edge of the field the light was failing. The smoke had thinned enough that he could see the stone wall clearly now. It ran along the base of the heights, maybe four hundred yards from where he stood. Men were visible behind it, walking back and forth, their rifles stacked against the stones. They did not look like they had been in a battle at all.

Marsh sat down on the frozen ground. His rifle was still loaded. He thought about firing it one more time, just to empty the barrel, but he did not. Instead he sat and watched the dark come on.

Less than two weeks until Christmas. The thought came to him unbidden and didn’t mean much. Somewhere far from here, men were sitting by fires with their families, unaware of the carnage happening in a distant place. What they’d needed here was men who could see what to shoot at. Men who didn’t waste lead on smoke.

Corbin LaCroix shouldered his grandfather’s bow and adjusted the leather cord holding the brace of snowshoe hares. The rabbits hung heavy against his hip, their white winter coats still pristine except for the small puncture wounds where his arrows had found their mark. His breath misted in the bitter air, and his fingers ached from the cold despite his mittens. The hunt had been good, two clean kills in the failing light, both taken at distances that would have impressed his mishoomis, Wise Wolf, himself.

Snow crunched under his boots as he made his way back from the forest along the Grand River where scattered Anishinaabe families kept their homes, heading toward the warm glow spilling from the windows of his father’s house at the edge of town. Smoke rose from the chimney, pale against the darkening sky. Through the frost-rimmed glass, he could see his father’s silhouette bent over the newspaper.

He stopped at the edge of the yard. The house looked small from here, tucked between the tree line and the road to town. Most days that was enough — the hunt, the work at the docks, the river, his father’s voice reading aloud by the fire. But lately something had been pulling at him, a restlessness he couldn’t name, like standing on a frozen lake and hearing the water move underneath.

Corbin paused at the door to knock the snow from his boots, then stepped inside. The heat hit his face first, then his hands, the cold leaving his fingers in slow pulses as he stood near the fire. The familiar scent of Jean-Paul’s pipe tobacco mixed with wood smoke. His father’s coat hung on its peg by the door, still damp from the docks, smelling of lake water and fish oil.

“Ah, mon fils,” Jean-Paul looked up from his reading, his lined face creasing into a smile. “I see the hunt was successful.”

“Two hares,” Corbin said, holding up the rabbits. “Clean shots, both of them.”

“Bon. Your grandfather would be proud.” Jean-Paul’s eyes moved to the ancient bow in Corbin’s hands. “It’s been four winters since we lost him — Ma’iingan Nibwaakaa — but I can still hear him saying you were born with steady hands. I remember when he first took you hunting. You were, what — seven? Eight? So impatient you could hardly stand still long enough to nock an arrow.”

Corbin smiled at the memory. “He made me sit in the snow for an hour before he’d let me touch the bow. Said a hunter who can’t be still might as well stay home.”

“And look at you now.” Jean-Paul gestured at the rabbits. “Fresh meat is always welcome in winter.”

“These will make good eating tonight. In another week or two, I’ll get us a turkey for Christmas.”

“Your grandfather used to say something about arrows, didn’t he? About knowing where they’re going?”

Corbin hung the bow carefully on its pegs by the door. “He said a nocked arrow knows its mark. The archer just has to let it fly.”

“Wise words.” Jean-Paul’s expression grew thoughtful.

Corbin carried the rabbits to the kitchen. The knife work was quick and clean, the way his grandfather had taught him: blade angled, hands steady, nothing wasted. As he cleaned them, he could hear his father’s voice from the parlor.

“Mon dieu, they want three hundred thousand more men. Where do you find that many? You sweep the streets, non? You take whoever’s standing.”

Corbin finished cleaning the rabbits and washed his hands before joining his father by the fire. He settled into his chair and picked up the snowshoe harness he had been mending, his hands moving with practiced ease. The leather was stiff from cold, and he worked it between his fingers to soften it.

“Bounties now: fifty dollars from the state,” Jean-Paul continued, pipe smoke drifting through the room. “When a government pays men this much just to sign up, you know the war’s going badly.”

“What kind of men are they seeking?”

Jean-Paul folded the paper and set it aside, reaching for his pipe. “Any kind they can get, it seems. There was a time, not so long ago, when they refused Thomas Kechittigo and his warriors. Too proud, too particular about who could wear the uniform.” He struck a match and applied it to the pipe bowl. “But desperation makes strange allies, non?”

Corbin’s hands stilled on the leather strapping. Sergeant Kechittigo, Big Tom, had walked into the recruiting station with a dozen Anishinaabe men ready to fight. The officer behind the desk had looked at them the way a shopkeeper looks at someone who can’t pay. Sent them home without a word of thanks.

“You think that might change?”

Jean-Paul drew on his pipe and let the smoke go slowly. “It already has.” He set the pipe down and looked at his son directly. “I heard something at the docks today. Word is they’re accepting Anishinaabe men now — real soldiers, not scouts, not laborers. A new regiment forming: sharpshooters.”

Corbin set down the harness entirely. “Who?”

“John and young William are planning to try. Going to see Captain Dicey, who’s been recruiting here in Grand Haven.”

Something turned over in Corbin’s chest. John Kedgnal had been part of his life as far back as memory reached, running the riverbank as boys, learning to track deer in the same woods, sitting in the same circle when the elders spoke. If John was going, the pull of it was not something Corbin could set aside like a harness on a chair.

“When?”

“Soon, from what I hear. Maybe this week.” Jean-Paul studied his son’s face through the pipe smoke. “The question is what you’re going to do about it.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the fire crackling and wind rattling the windows. Corbin thought of his grandfather, that a hunter who moves too quickly frightens away his prey. But he also thought of Kechittigo’s men walked home without a word of thanks, and of the door Dicey had just left open.

“I think I need to talk to John.”

Jean-Paul held his gaze a moment longer than usual. Then he nodded. “Bon. Talk to your friend. See what he knows.”

The next morning the sky was hard and blue, the storm gone, last night’s snow unmarked except for the tracks of a single fox cutting across the road. Corbin made his way through Grand Haven’s snowy streets, his boots leaving sharp prints in the fresh powder.

He found John Kedgnal splitting wood behind Julia Duvernay’s house, his axe biting cleanly through the frozen logs. The rhythm was steady and sure, the mark of a man who had been doing such work since childhood. John moved the way he did everything: deliberate, unhurried, each stroke finding the grain. He was eighteen, four years younger than Corbin, but something about the set of his shoulders made him look older.

“Boozhoo, Gekek,” Corbin called out, using John’s shortened tribal name, Hawk.

John looked up, grinning despite the cold. “Boozhoo, Makwa,” he said, using the name Wise Wolf had given Corbin as a child, meaning Bear. “What brings you out so early?”

“Heard you and Chid are planning something important.”

John set down his axe and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Word travels fast. Come inside, Nookomis Julia will want to see you, and it’s warmer by the fire.”

Julia Duvernay looked up from her sewing as they entered, her face creasing into a smile. The parlor smelled of cedar and bread dough, and a kettle hung over the fire.

“Boozhoo, Corbin. How is your father?”

“He’s well, miigwech. How are you managing this winter?”

“We get by. John helps, and young William does his share.” She glanced toward the corner where thirteen-year-old William, Chid as the family called him, sat practicing drum patterns on a wooden block, his fingers moving in complex rhythms. “Though his mind seems to be on other things these days. He’s been pestering me for weeks about enlisting as a drummer.”

John poured coffee from the pot by the fire and handed a cup to Corbin. The warmth spread through Corbin’s hands. He wrapped both palms around the tin cup and let the steam rise against his face.

“So, what did you hear?” John asked.

“That you’re planning to see Captain Dicey. About enlisting.”

The drumming stopped. All three pairs of eyes turned to John. He set his cup down and nodded.

“It’s true. Dicey’s been recruiting here in Grand Haven for the First Michigan Sharpshooters. Word is they’ll take Anishinaabe men now, as real soldiers.”

“You believe that?”

“Dicey has always been good to our family. He made a promise to grandfather Pierre, told him he’d look out for Chid and me.” John’s expression grew more serious. “A man who keeps his word to the dead keeps it everywhere. If Dicey says it’s true, I believe him.” He paused. “But Makwa, this is bigger than just Chid and me. If they’re really forming companies of our people, they’ll need men who can lead.”

Julia looked up from her sewing. “John’s been talking about this ever since we heard that Thomas Kechittigo was turned away in sixty-one. He thinks this time is different.”

“Is it?”

“Only one way to find out,” John said. “Chid and I are going to see Dicey tomorrow. Come with us.”

“I’m not ready to enlist.”

“I’m not asking you to enlist. I’m asking you to come and listen.” John leaned forward. “You’re the best shot in three counties, Makwa. If this opportunity is real, you should at least know what it looks like.”

William finally spoke up, his young voice surprisingly steady. “Uncle Corbin, if they really will take us as equals, shouldn’t we at least find out what that means?” The boy addressed Corbin as uncle, not by blood, but by standing and care. “And if they’ll let me serve as a drummer, I want to do my part.”

Julia’s hands tightened on her sewing. William leaned forward, eyes bright. John met Corbin’s gaze, unwavering. Something passed between them that didn’t need words, the understanding of two men who had grown up in each other’s shadow, who knew each other’s silences as well as their speech.

Corbin set down his coffee cup. “All right. I’ll come with you. But I’m just there to listen.”

John’s grin was broad. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The next morning, Corbin found himself on the street outside Captain Dicey’s temporary office with John, young Chid, Julia Duvernay, and Charles Kedgnal, John’s father.

“You nervous, Nookomis?” John asked gently.

“Eya’,” Julia replied. “But if this is what Chid wants, and Captain Dicey has always been good to our family…”

Charles walked quietly beside them, his calloused hands clasped behind his back. He’d said little about John’s decision, but his presence spoke of support the way he’d always stood behind John, steady and silent and there.

When they reached the office, the moment Dicey saw John and Chid, his face lit up with genuine pleasure.

“There are my boys!” he said. “And Charles, Julia, how are you both managing this winter?”

Dicey welcomed them like kin, asking about their health and explaining the terms of service with patient care. When it came time for the demonstrations, John stepped outside with Dicey to a makeshift range set up in the back alley, a few fence posts with playing cards tacked to them at measured distances, to show his marksmanship, putting several shots clean through the cards. Chid demonstrated his drumming skills with steady, confident rhythms, the sharp beat echoing like a marching cadence.

Then Dicey turned to Corbin. “And how about you? I’ve heard talk around town about your shooting.”

“I’m just here to watch,” Corbin said.

Dicey studied him with shrewd eyes. “Word is you can put an arrow through a playing card at fifty paces. And that you’re just as good with a rifle. That so?”

Corbin hesitated, then nodded.

“Humor me,” Dicey said. “Let me see what you can do.”

The rifle felt natural in Corbin’s hands. He squeezed the trigger, and the shot punched dead center through the king of hearts. Then another. And another. Five shots, close enough to be covered by two fingers.

Dicey whistled low. “That’s a gift. Papers are right here if you want them.”

John was signing his name in careful letters, Charles signing his beside it. Chid scrawled his name with the slow precision of someone still learning, Julia pressing her own mark beside his. The scratch of the nib carried across the small room. Dicey held the pen out, and Corbin’s eyes went to it. The wet ink was still dark on John’s signature, the paper thick and cream-colored, official in a way that made something shift behind his ribs. He could smell the ink, sharp and mineral. His right hand came up slightly, fingers loose, the way they opened before closing around a grip. His thumb moved against his first two fingers. His fingers began to curl, the way a hand will when it expects something to be there. The pen scratched again as Dicey made a note. Somewhere behind him Charles shifted his weight, boot heel on the floorboard. John’s name on that paper — it looked permanent. It looked like a door that only opened one way.

Then his hand dropped back to his side.

He shook his head. “I need more time to think.”

Dicey nodded without judgment. “Fair enough. But don’t take too long. The chance won’t wait forever, and men like you are needed.”

John clapped Chid on the shoulder as they left Dicey’s office. “Thirteen dollars a month. Did you hear that?”

“When do we report?” Chid asked, practically bouncing.

“He’ll send word. Probably a few weeks.”

Chid fell into step beside Corbin. “You’ll come too, won’t you, Uncle Corbin? You have to.”

Corbin didn’t answer. Julia walked quietly beside them, occasionally pressing a handkerchief to her eyes. Charles remained silent, his hand resting on John’s shoulder.

When they reached the Duvernay house, John walked Corbin out to the road. The sun was already dropping toward the lake, the light going copper through the bare trees. John stood with his hands in his coat pockets, breath coming white.

“You felt it in there,” John said. “I watched your hand.”

“I felt it.”

“Then what’s holding you back?”

Corbin looked past him, toward the road that led south out of town. “I don’t know yet.”

John stepped closer. His voice dropped, not to a whisper, but to the tone he used when something mattered more than he wanted to show. “Makwa. I’m not asking because the army needs another rifle. I’m asking because I don’t want to go without you beside me.”

The words sat between them in the cold air. Corbin held John’s gaze and saw the boy he’d run the riverbank with and the man standing in front of him at the same time.

“I hear you, Gekek.”

“Then don’t take too long.” John gripped Corbin’s arm once, hard, then let go and turned back toward the house.

Corbin made his way home through the deepening twilight. The snow had a blue cast to it now, and the houses along the road glowed yellow at their windows. He found his father waiting by the fire, pipe in hand, a book open on his knee.

“Well?” Jean-Paul asked, looking up.

Corbin settled into the chair across from him. “They did it. John and Chid both enlisted. Dicey treated them no different than any white recruit.”

“And you?”

“He offered. I could have signed the papers right there.” Corbin stared into the fire, the flames shifting in his eyes. “Everything in me pulled toward it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I told him I needed time.”

Jean-Paul nodded slowly, tamping the bowl of his pipe with a thumb. “And now?”

Corbin looked out the window at the cold dark. “John and Chid have chosen their road.”

Jean-Paul set the pipe in its stand and put a hand on his son’s arm. His grip was firm, the way he used to hold Corbin’s shoulder when he was a boy and something needed saying plainly. “Your mother used to tell me — she said it more than once — that you came into the world already listening for something. That you’d know the call when it came.” He was quiet a moment, his thumb pressing once against Corbin’s sleeve, then once more, the hand lingering a bit before it fell away. The fire had burned low, and the room smelled of pipe ash and the cold that seeped under the door. “Don’t let fear make the choice for you.”

Corbin said nothing. Outside, the wind picked up and rattled the shutters. He thought of John’s grip on his arm, the pressure of it still there like a handprint. He thought of the ink drying on that paper, the door that only opened one way.

Jean-Paul picked up his book again, holding it close to the lamp. The light caught the deep lines around his eyes, the gray coming in at his temples, the knuckles swollen from years of dock work. His father had never been to war. He had built this house with his own hands, raised a son in it, grieved a wife within its walls. Everything Jean-Paul had made was here, in these rooms, in the smell of pipe smoke and wood ash and the cold that pressed against the walls. Corbin looked at him. The swollen knuckles. The lamp held close because the eyes were going. The gray coming in at his temples. He said nothing.

He sat with it while the coals ticked down, then went to bed and lay still, listening to the timbers contract in the cold. Somewhere across town John was already a soldier.

His own road still lay before him. Through the window, the stars burned sharp and cold over a town that had no idea what was coming.