The Second American Civil War
A History
By: Zoidberg12
Prologue
Sunday, December 17, 1925
Ottawa, Ontario, Dominion of Canada
11: 50 A.M.
Hiram Johnson pulled back the curtain and looked out of the window of his apartment. It was a cold day in Ottawa, the capital of America's northern neighbor. It was snowing quite a bit outside, and snow was almost everywhere he looked; on the streets, on the buildings, on the corners, in the gutters, and the people were all bundled up as they walked through town, many of them either running errands or making last minute preparations for the holidays no doubt. But these were the last things on Johnson's mind. He closed the curtain after a few seconds. All he thought about as he looked outside, for those few seconds, was how empty he felt.
He sighed as he slumped back into his armchair. He lived in a modest and rather small apartment, the was a bed in the center which almost faced the entrance door, a large bookshelf to the right of the bed, a small closet to the left, and an armchair and small table by the apartment's only window. To think he'd been sitting in the Oval Office only a few years ago, even if it was for the shortest time of any President, save for Tippecanoe anyway.
He sighed again and looked at his small, rounded table. It was painted dark green on the top, and all that was on it was a newspaper and a half empty glass of water. Under the table was a small carpet bag and an empty, old wooden box.
He sighed for the third time and took the newspaper from his small table and read it, for little reason than the for the sake of doing so. He bothered to get it last week, so why not?
“Troops kept on the Border”
“Prime Minister King agrees to keep a sizable number of soldiers stationed along the border of the former United States. While the Tories proposed a much greater number of soldiers and a number of new fortifications being built, a compromise was reached between the Prime Minister and the Tory leader of the opposo- ”
Johnson then dropped the paper, which quickly landed on the floor. Just reading that passage reminded him of everything, every reason why he felt the day he did.
He drank some more water and looked at the small clock above the door.
“Almost Twelve.” He thought to himself. He decided he would go to the local restaurant for some lunch.
Johnson, wearing his thick winter coat and all bundled up, then walked outside of his apartment room, “number 271”, and walked down the old wooden stairs to center of the lobby.
“I'll be back in an hour Smith.”
“Okay Mister President, I....”
“Don't call me that again, just call me sir!” Johnson said quickly.
“Okay sir.” the clerk responded rather nonchalantly.
Johnson walked out of his apartment, through the streets, kicking up snow as he walked through the harsh weather, much, much more then he was used to in his native California. He was almost completely bundled up, which suited him just fine. Barely a soul could recognize him as he walked through town. All he wanted at this point was some privacy. Thus, he was glad when he finally got to the restaurant and found it almost empty, save for three other costumers.
It was a quaint establishment, small but nice.
The ex-President then sat on a wooden bar-stool. “I'd like the menu good sir.” He told the bartender.
“Alright sir.”
Johnson, still bundled up, then noticed a man, about the age of forty, sitting right next to him. He was wearing a ragged old uniform of some sort, a type of winter hat, thick gloves, long black boots, and he had a pair of large round glasses in one of his pockets.
“Hello there, I was wondering if you knew who to get the local train station?” The man asked in a southern accent. With that, the Ex-President knew this not what not one of the locals. Could he have been here for the same reason he was?
“You see I need to....”
“No sir I don't now.” Johnson cut him off.
“Very well then.” The man shrugged.
“Here's your menus gentleman.” The bartender said as he handed out the menus to the two men.
“Guess I'll have to find some other way to visit my war buddies in Fredericton.” The man muttered.
Johnson's interest then piqued when he heard “war buddies.” “What was that you said good man?” He asked.
“Well most of my buddies from the Civil War went up to the Maritimes after the war ended a few years back. I....”
“You fought in the Civil War son?” The Ex-Preisdent asked.
“Why yes. I was a major. Anyways my buddies are out east, while I was....” He paused. “I guess...under different circumstances, so I ended up here. I don't want to talk about it. All I will say is that the Red's captured me, but I'm fine, I'm fine. They never mistreated me in any way, but that's because I left in the nick of time I guess.” The man sighed.
“Don't want to talk about anything? Neither do I.” Johnson shrugged. This man reminded him that he was but one out of many who "fled the Red's". So many fled up north, about an equal number went across the pond to Europe. Some albeit much fewer, went to Australasia, or to even more exotic places like South America or Asia. Johnson'd wasn't sure If he was happy or depressed to see this man. He was reminded how many others tried to flee, but failed.
“Well, I've re-started life and things seem to be going okay. Okay enough I guess. Say your not from around here are you.”
“Just leave me alone for a second. Maybe later.”
The former major didn't respond, but did motion over to the bartender.
Johnson then looked down at the bar table, and within seconds was deep in thought. He remembered it all, he remembered it all too well.