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Description
Alexander F. Jones led them. Jefferson Davis was their President. Their uniforms were dark, homespun grey. They rode whatever they had in the barn. Texas and Louisiana rode their Missouri Fox Trotters. Florida rode the breed that bore his name, the Florida Cracker. North Carolina and South Carolina rode twin Thoroughbreds. Georgia also rode the hot-blooded horse that was unsuited for any sort of battle. Mississippi rode a tall Morgan. Alabama and Tennessee were lucky enough to have the smoothly gaited ride of their Tennessee Walking Horses. But Virginia and Confederacy had the best mounts.

The sudden split between America and the Confederacy had left America dazed and in serious pain, not to mention incredibly short-sighted. Confederacy had fumbled into a pair of trousers and a shirt, stolen two of the Union horses and fled into the night. The horses were a special line of Morgans, specifically bred to meet the needs of a light cavalry. They were Lippy Morgans with high withers and a smooth gait. They were taller and heavier than the daintier strain that came from the Arabian influence. The ride was smooth, smoother than perhaps any of the other gated breeds the states were riding; definitely smoother than Thoroughbreds who weren't meant for a butt-saving ride.

Texas and Louisiana grinned at each other.

"Five backs says North Carolina stays in the saddle longer." Texas' hazel eyes glinted mischievously.(1)

Louisiana suppressed a laugh. "You're on! Did you forget Georgia has been riding longer than North Carolina?"

Georgia groaned and shifted in his saddle as they moved into a faster gait—or a trot for the Thoroughbreds. "Can't we speed up a little?" he whined as he bounced through the trot.

"Or slow down," North Carolina muttered as he did his best to post through the rough ride.

"No, but you forgot that Georgia can't post worth a damn." Texas grinned.

Louisiana grumbled, his vibrant green eyes shooting a dark look at his brother-friend.

"Quiet," Confederacy snapped. He held his hand up, hushing his states.

South Carolina glared over her shoulder at the group behind her. (2) There was someone up ahead; someone not wearing Confederate grey. The tension rose again when America rode in on his own Lippy Morgan and pulled the big gelding to a stop in front of them.

His eyes wandered across the group, locking gazes with each state. Eventually, his soft blues locked with a pair that was as cold and clear as a winter sky. The two national personifications stared each other down, daring and waiting for the other to speak first.

"Don't do this." America was the first. "We don't have to fight." The states could see the bruises, cuts and wounds that littered the nation's body. "We can talk this out." His lips were split and swollen. (3)

"Your vision is still so short," Confederacy sneered. "Even with those new glasses4, you still can't see past the end of your horse. We tried to talk. You didn't listen. You've been living high and fine since England finally let you alone. You've forgotten what it's like to be pushed into hardship; what it's like to be taxed beyond imagination. You've gone soft." He spat the last word.

America stared at them again, silently willing them to come back. "Please," it wasn't obvious begging, but it was close. "You have to know it wasn't my decision. I can't control what my boss does!"

"No," South Carolina snapped, "but you have a helluva lot more influence than I've ever seen you use. You always liked to stay out of the politics. You just wanted to fight and make friends. Why couldn't you ever muster the sand to tell your boss to back off?(5) Why not tell him that the South isn't as evil as he thinks? We live off what we grow. Our entire way of life is dependent on our peculiar institution. (6) Cotton is king. We work in the fields with our slaves. Most of us don't beat them or whip them or any other thing that horrid novel accuses.(7)We're fighting for our homeland and the preservation of our way of life." The vocal Confederate state panted as she wound down her rant.

"Mr. Jefferson would have been proud of us.(8) He would have been ashamed of you, whom he counted his best student," Virginia sneered.

America looked like he had been struck, his face pale and drawn.

"C'mon, boys," Confederacy reined his mount away, leading his group towards the rolling hills in the distance. He ignored South Carolina's slight bristle at his bit of sexism.

Tennessee paused. He pulled up beside Alfred, resting one hand on the nation's arm. "This war is bloody and difficult." He glanced over his shoulder at the like-minded states that were steadily moving on without him. "Just make sure you don't kill your brother.(9)"

Description
Alexander F. Jones led them. Jefferson Davis was their President. Their uniforms were dark, homespun grey. They rode whatever they had in the barn. Texas and Louisiana rode their Missouri Fox Trotters. Florida rode the breed that bore his name, the Florida Cracker. North Carolina and South Carolina rode twin Thoroughbreds. Georgia also rode the hot-blooded horse that was unsuited for any sort of battle. Mississippi rode a tall Morgan. Alabama and Tennessee were lucky enough to have the smoothly gaited ride of their Tennessee Walking Horses. But Virginia and Confederacy had the best mounts.

The sudden split between America and the Confederacy had left America dazed and in serious pain, not to mention incredibly short-sighted. Confederacy had fumbled into a pair of trousers and a shirt, stolen two of the Union horses and fled into the night. The horses were a special line of Morgans, specifically bred to meet the needs of a light cavalry. They were Lippy Morgans with high withers and a smooth gait. They were taller and heavier than the daintier strain that came from the Arabian influence. The ride was smooth, smoother than perhaps any of the other gated breeds the states were riding; definitely smoother than Thoroughbreds who weren't meant for a butt-saving ride.

Texas and Louisiana grinned at each other.

"Five backs says North Carolina stays in the saddle longer." Texas' hazel eyes glinted mischievously.(1)

Louisiana suppressed a laugh. "You're on! Did you forget Georgia has been riding longer than North Carolina?"

Georgia groaned and shifted in his saddle as they moved into a faster gait—or a trot for the Thoroughbreds. "Can't we speed up a little?" he whined as he bounced through the trot.

"Or slow down," North Carolina muttered as he did his best to post through the rough ride.

"No, but you forgot that Georgia can't post worth a damn." Texas grinned.

Louisiana grumbled, his vibrant green eyes shooting a dark look at his brother-friend.

"Quiet," Confederacy snapped. He held his hand up, hushing his states.

South Carolina glared over her shoulder at the group behind her. (2) There was someone up ahead; someone not wearing Confederate grey. The tension rose again when America rode in on his own Lippy Morgan and pulled the big gelding to a stop in front of them.

His eyes wandered across the group, locking gazes with each state. Eventually, his soft blues locked with a pair that was as cold and clear as a winter sky. The two national personifications stared each other down, daring and waiting for the other to speak first.

"Don't do this." America was the first. "We don't have to fight." The states could see the bruises, cuts and wounds that littered the nation's body. "We can talk this out." His lips were split and swollen. (3)

"Your vision is still so short," Confederacy sneered. "Even with those new glasses4, you still can't see past the end of your horse. We tried to talk. You didn't listen. You've been living high and fine since England finally let you alone. You've forgotten what it's like to be pushed into hardship; what it's like to be taxed beyond imagination. You've gone soft." He spat the last word.

America stared at them again, silently willing them to come back. "Please," it wasn't obvious begging, but it was close. "You have to know it wasn't my decision. I can't control what my boss does!"

"No," South Carolina snapped, "but you have a helluva lot more influence than I've ever seen you use. You always liked to stay out of the politics. You just wanted to fight and make friends. Why couldn't you ever muster the sand to tell your boss to back off?(5) Why not tell him that the South isn't as evil as he thinks? We live off what we grow. Our entire way of life is dependent on our peculiar institution. (6) Cotton is king. We work in the fields with our slaves. Most of us don't beat them or whip them or any other thing that horrid novel accuses.(7)We're fighting for our homeland and the preservation of our way of life." The vocal Confederate state panted as she wound down her rant.

"Mr. Jefferson would have been proud of us.(8) He would have been ashamed of you, whom he counted his best student," Virginia sneered.

America looked like he had been struck, his face pale and drawn.

"C'mon, boys," Confederacy reined his mount away, leading his group towards the rolling hills in the distance. He ignored South Carolina's slight bristle at his bit of sexism.

Tennessee paused. He pulled up beside Alfred, resting one hand on the nation's arm. "This war is bloody and difficult." He glanced over his shoulder at the like-minded states that were steadily moving on without him. "Just make sure you don't kill your brother.(9)"