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When he set out on that near-moonless night, he was leaving a dark camp behind him. He had taken nothing of his own, nothing of the meager possessions which he had needlessly clung to in the past months. It was not worth the trouble moving; he had no use for such things anymore.Another thing he was leaving behind was people. "Old friends." If he could even call them that. Maybe it was recent events. Maybe they'd changed. (Or had he changed?) Either way, they just couldn't seem to get along well anymore. There had been arguments, shouting matches out of earshot of the higher-ranking. None of them ended on good terms. He supposed, he grumbled to himself, it was for the better. In fact, he was glad to be rid of them! Who needed such ignorant squabbles anyway?He wondered if they would ever figure out the reason for his sudden departure. Surely it would not take a genius to discern: it was all because of Mr. Lincoln's damned Proclamation. Oh, how an anger inside of him burned when he heard about it! It had felt like a rug had been ceremoniously yanked out from under his feet. He was being used! He'd followed along up to that point, eating up Mr. Lincoln's pretty little words. But this? A clear-as-day attempt to buy votes from Abolitionists? It was the most blatant trickery he had ever seen. And he had no intention of staying to be tricked again.Thus, here he was. Receding deeper and deeper into the woods, the deep blue of his uniform bleeding into the dark shadows of the night. Once or twice he winced as a twig turned and snapped a little too loudly under his feet as he walked, but he continued to pass by the oblivious pickets unnoticed, the little sounds failing to garner their attention. Soon, he would be too far away for them to follow.He was going South. At first, when he had just begun nurturing the idea of desertion, the thought of going South disgusted him. After all, weren't they the ones he had signed up to fight in the first place? Back when he believed he was fighting an honest war? It took a while, but the more he considered it, the less he hated it. Though, there was another factor to this.He had heard his fellow soldiers at night talking about a man named Mosby. Mosby, they said, was a guerrilla leader who could strike as quickly as a snake and recede into the woods of Fauquier and Loudoun as if he was never real. Mosby though, of course, was very real, as proven by his constant attacks on scouts and supplies. Party after party had been sent out to apprehend the partisan chief, but none had been successful. It was this man that he was now seeking. Not to capture or to kill, but for a different purpose.He slept in the crooked roots of a tall tree that night, curled up as close to himself as he could possibly manage, and tried to ignore the late winter's chill. He really regretted not at least bringing his blanket with him, Poor judgement on his part- he had not thought he would be traveling that long.When dawn broke the next morning he woke, stretched like a bear coming out of hibernation, fixed his uniform, and continued on, further South. It was a rather nice morning. The sun was shining, reflecting brightly off the snow still on the ground, and a nagging cold bit the air. He amused himself by watching his own breath condense from the cold in front of him. He must have looked as though he was smoking.After a while of tramping through the underbrush, he found the main road, woefully muddy, but still passable. Even then, he chose to walk alongside, just in case. He had no idea how far he had traveled, or if anyone was out searching for him It was best to forget about all of that.All of a sudden, he halted himself, squinting down the road. His sailor's eyes had not yet failed him, and he could see, not too distant, two figures standing by the road, their gray overcoats blurring them into the bleak winter landscape. But were they Mosby's men? There was really only one way to find out. Plastering on his friendliest smile, he walked towards the two men. Hopefully, they would notice that he was unarmed. Hopefully. When he drew nearer, they spied him and instinctively reached for their firearms. He raised his hands, showing the two that he was no threat to them."What do you want, Yankee?" One of the men inquired with a snarl, the barrel of his revolver none-too-subtly aimed in the direction of the newcomer's face.Holding his composure, he remained firm. "I am here because I want to speak to Mosby."The man's face twisted from contempt to confusion, and the two gray-coated men stepped off to the side and spoke to each other in low whispers. He watched them thoughtfully.Eventually, they returned to him, guns still drawn and primed. "All-right, Yankee. We'll take you to Mosby. But you are our prisoner."He nodded and went along as they shoved him forward. All along the way he could feel the presence of their guns behind him, the yawning barrels watching him like two dark eyes and black and as deep as his own. He stayed quiet as they led him off the main road and down a twisted path shaded densely with evergreens and the clawing branches of bare trees.Soon he saw that they were approaching a small house in the woods. Several horses were tied up outside. He guessed maybe no more than twelve, and no less than eight. He did not plan on counting them. More pressing matters were at hand. He was a bit hesitant when they came up to the house. There was, as far as he was aware, a terrifying presence in there. A warrior and his brood. Was Mosby really as horrible as everyone said he was? There was no telling how the conversation would go. One of the men noticed his discomfort and laughed. "Oh, don't you worry, sir! We ain't gonna eat ya. Just a little talk with the Captain, that's all. That's what you wanted, right?"They didn't give him much time to respond. One of the men went up ahead while the other followed, dragging him by his arm rather roughly. The first man knocked, opened the door, and stuck his head in. "We have a Yankee here, Captain. Says he wants to talk to you."There was muffled speech from inside, but the man nodded. The gray-coated man cracked a big smile, and gestured to his companion. He was being ushered forward, now. He took a deep breath calmed himself down, and went on ahead. As he went inside, he was somewhat comforted by the mild heat that greeted him when he stepped in the door; the partisans had a fire going. He supposed that was a good thing. As he began to move his fingers, he realized just how numb they were.There were a number of men gathered around a table, studying a map. They had all looked up when he had entered, though, and now stared at him expectantly. He stood almost stupidly in the doorway like a coat hook before he was able to find his words. "I'm here to talk to Mosby."He was surprised when the smallest man of the group stepped forward. The man was several inches shorter, thin and wiry. His uniform seemed to hang off of him like it was two sizes too big. He had youthful features, and was growing a beard. But there was an intelligent spark in the man's bright blue eyes. He was learned, for sure. "Well sir, I'm Mosby. What do you want?"Upon hearing the name his stiffened his posture and gave a salute. His brain seemed to offer a last-minute doubt, asking if he was sure about what he was about to say. He pushed the thought aside. An injury was an injury. If he was serious enough to desert, he was serious enough to do this."Sir, I am Sergeant James F. Ames, late 5th. New York Cavalry. I've come to join your company."