The bright sun and cloudless sky made for rare, perfect weather for an outing. Yet the thick smoke and rumbling roar of the steam locomotive rendered such whimsy ill-timed.
As the train's shrill whistle pierced the air and it slowly ground to a halt, Sheffield—whose vacant eyes had been lost in a daze—snapped back to reality, interrupting what felt like the umpteenth time he'd wondered: Am I dreaming?
"Young master, won't you step out for a stroll while we're stopped?" asked the burly man seated across from him.
"We're almost home. Why bother?" Sheffield replied. "Fetch me a newspaper instead." Over the past sixteen years, he'd developed a habit of reading newspapers, one of the few entertainments of this era—even though it hadn't been his habit in his previous life.
The station stop was brief. As passengers shuffled on and off, the familiar whistle sounded again, and the train lurched forward. Under the cover of the noise, Sheffield stared at the headline in his newly acquired paper and muttered aloud, "Am I dreaming?"
This question had haunted him countless times in his not-so-long life. Now, the newspaper's front page forced him to ask it again. The lead story covered the ongoing civil war in Brazil—a conflict he had no memory of from his past life. Worse, the year was 1895.
Even the United States he now inhabited bore little resemblance to the "shining beacon" he once knew. Take Arlington, his destination: he knew of the famed Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C., the final resting place for American soldiers. Yet here, another cemetery shared the same name, nestled near his family's estate in Texas. This one held soldiers from the Confederate Army of the Civil War—a burial ground he was certain hadn't existed in his previous world.
Historically, Texas hadn't played a prominent role in the Civil War, let alone fielded a "Texas Legion." But here, that legion had existed, commanded by his grandfather in this life: Edward Sheffield.
Even someone as slow to adapt as Sheffield had pieced together the roots of this warped history over sixteen years. The source? His so-called grandfather—a man who'd started as a Louisiana cotton planter. Probably a time traveler too ?
Sheffield had never met this time-traveling patriarch, who'd died of war injuries shortly after the Confederacy's defeat. The family was now ruled by his grandmother, Annabelle—a stern, black-clad matriarch whose iron will and stubbornness made her a force to reckon with. Merely thinking of her tightened his throat.
Alighting from the train, Sheffield needed no guide to spot his family's carriage. It stood out easily, drawn by two rare, towering Shire horses—a breed typically used for plowing, not transport. But in Texas, where "bigger is better" reigned supreme, the massive animals drew stares from onlookers.
Shires, the world's largest horse breed, originated in Britain and could haul up to five tons. These two stood nearly two meters tall at the shoulder, their hocks feathered with fine hair, making them a spectacle. The driver, however, drew equal attention: a Black man under twenty, who met the crowd's gaze with calm defiance—unlike most Black men of the era, who shrank under white scrutiny.
"Martin! Been waiting long?" Sheffield greeted the young man warmly, though the name always threw him. Before the Civil War, enslaved Black people bore names given by their owners. Martin's ancestors were no exception—but his grandfather had a twisted sense of humor. Three generations of this family had been named Martin Luther King, a darkly ironic joke.
The humor didn't end there. Martin's father was a mayor—a century ahead of its time, making him the only Black mayor in the entire country.
After the Civil War, Sheffield's grandfather had pushed relentlessly for this "experiment" in Black self-governance—a veiled form of segregation. The move wasn't isolated. Martin's relatives resided in Liberia, a nation shaped by pre-war efforts to "repatriate" freed Black Americans. Post-war, the Sheffield family had swiftly taken control of this fledgling migration, replacing Liberia's original settlers with their own Black laborers and even redesigning its flag from the Stars and Stripes to a Confederate-style cross.
The simplicity of that description belied the era's brutal realities. Pulling this off required immense power—power the Sheffields had wielded during the Civil War. By the time Edward died, he'd spent a lifetime tripping up the Union. Now, his grandson surveyed this distorted "beacon of liberty" with unease.
How much had two extra years of civil war altered the United States? Was it stronger or weaker? Having never left Texas, Sheffield couldn't say. But the fact that his family—key players in the failed Confederacy—had escaped Northern reprisals suggested the Union's exhaustion.
Texas itself told a different story. Beyond the "autonomous" Black enclave (a segregationist ploy), Sheffield's carriage passed an Orthodox church—an oddity in conservative Texas. Before the war, the state had barely 60,000 residents. Its population boom traced back to his grandfather's migration from New Orleans, aided by Annabelle's ruthless recruitment of European settlers via her family's shipping empire. Their original trade? Human trafficking—simply redirected from Africa to Europe.
Soon, the carriage arrived at a square flanked by two flagpoles. One bore the Lone Star flag of the Republic of Texas; the other, the Southern Cross of the Confederacy.
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(End of Chapter)