Free Gettysburg: A Tale of the Second War for Pennsylvanian Independence by Chris Pourteau

Lieutenant Hatch?”
    “Yeah, why so shocked?” asked Stug. “I was raised plain
too.”
    The sergeant’s tone was defensive, challenging his superior
to make something of it. But Hatch just shook his head, laughing to himself.
The irony of two of B Company’s best fighters—one with the iron will of a billy
goat, the other the strength of a bear—raised as plain folk could not be
denied.
    “Guess that whole pacifist thing fell through, eh?” he said.
    Neither his captain nor his sergeant was laughing.
    “Lieutenant,” said Stug with barely repressed anger, which
in such a large man was somehow more frightening then all-out rage, “all due
respect—but try not to speak about things when you don’t know anything about
them. Sir.”
    Hatch stared at his old friend. He’d really hit a nerve. “Stug,
I—”
    “We don’t need to go ranging, ma’am,” cut in Smoker.
    “Lieutenant?”
    “ They’ve found us .”
    Rifles came to ready positions, but when Smoker nodded in
the direction of the threat, she did so without raising her own. Coming toward
them were two men wearing simple clothing and sporting long beards, which
wisped in the light warm breeze as they walked. Both were shaded by
broad-brimmed, flat hats, and they seemed to have no qualms about approaching
the heavily armed soldiers.
    “Weapons down,” said the QB simply as the plain men
approached.
    “Good morning,” the older man said. He removed his hat,
shaded his eyes, and noted the position of the sun. “Although, it is getting along a bit.” Replacing his hat, he said, “I’m Paul Noffsinger, one of
the elders here in the AZ. Welcome.” He held out his hand.
    Every member of B Company stared at it. They weren’t sure of
protocol. And one or two were just a little wary of touching the hand of what
were, to some, near-mythical people.
    The QB moved forward. “Mary,” she said shaking his hand
firmly. “Captain Mary Brenneman.”
    The second man stepped forward. He didn’t offer his hand.
    “That’s an Amish name,” he said simply. Direct, as if
stating the current temperature for everyone’s edification. “Are you Amish, Ms.
Brenneman?”
    She stared just as directly at him. “And who are you, sir,
if I might ask?”
    “Name’s Shetler,” he said. Each syllable was cut sharply.
    Noffsinger stepped forward. “Aaron, is that tone necessary?
These people are tired and could use a good meal.” The fact that they were
TRACE soldiers recently in battle and clearly on the run from the Authority
hung unspoken in the air.
    “If we feed them, we could incur Transport’s wrath,” said
Shetler.
    “And if we don’t, we could incur God’s,” responded
Noffsinger with a sigh that said they’d had a score of such conversations.
“Come,” he said, motioning to the soldiers, who stood awkwardly, unsure how to act
around such pious people. “We have food. It isn’t far.”

    Shortly after noon, they were sitting in Paul Noffsinger’s
barn and wolfing down a hastily prepared meal of fresh vegetables, warm bread,
and jerked beef. The curious community had gathered as word spread of their
arrival. Out of respect for Amish traditions, the QB had made her troops stack
their weapons and packs against one of the horse stalls, though she was careful
to keep them in plain sight.
    “We know about what happened in Gettysburg,” said
Noffsinger. “It was . . . unfortunate.”
    Smoker stopped eating. “Unfortunate?” She sounded insulted.
    “ Lieutenant ,” the QB admonished. “Elder Noffsinger,”
she said, drawing the conversation away from the previous day’s events, “you
are the minister here?”
    He nodded, glancing once at Smoker. “One of them.”
    “The Amish have multiple preachers speak when they worship,”
explained Stug for the group’s benefit. “Services can last for hours.”
    “That sounds awful,” said Trick without thinking. He looked
up sharply. “Sorry.”
    The captain gave him the eye, then said to