Waiting in Galena 
Ed Lynskey 
It was a windless night, that April 15th 1861. Ulysses S. Grant padlocked his father's leather goods shop a few minutes after moonrise. He hurried down a well-trod path past the post office and over a washboard prairie, the tank town of Galena, Illinois sound asleep behind him. 
Inside a haversack, Ulysses toted a bottle of rotgut whiskey. The shrewd ex-West Pointer played up his growing reputation for intemperance. A sip just before he returned home provided a potent breath. Moreover, he had the lurching shuffle of a slovenly drunkard down pat. 
"Alas, there ventures Ulysses," farmer-folks would mutter, rolling their eyes. "Such a shameful waste, slinking off to drink himself into oblivion."
If they only knew what I did, Ulysses thought, doubling his gait.
Presently Ulysses' spyglass traveled not far ahead to a luminous green glow amidst the copse of cottonwoods. A spring breeze reversed, fanning his frazzled cheeks. He pressed on. Downhill a buzzing thrum perked up his ears. High in a tight throat, his heartbeat was a blacksmith's hammer bending iron on an anvil. Fearless to a fault, Ulysses battled to retain composure and not flee.
That first encounter Ulysses could scarcely believe his eyes and blamed the firewater. He had been returning late from delivering a mended harness when accosted. Breathless, he now invaded the eerily lit cottonwoods.
"Ah. Captain Grant, welcome!" A silver midget in a pointy hat arose from the first ladder rung leading up to the spacecraft, a cigar-shaped boilerplate structure. "You are a trifle tardy, however."
Ulysses spat. "Sorry, sir. It took subterfuge to evade my brother. He's fraught with suspicion about my roving at large these past few nights."
The silver midget waved off his explanation. "Never mind. Come, let's continue."
Stroking a cropped sandy beard, Ulysses nodded, agreeing. "You left off prognosticating war is imminent."
"Yes, southern men are taking up arms," the silver midget explained. "The bloodshed shall grow mind-boggling."
"Except hostilities will last, what, three weeks, maybe a month at the most," Ulysses speculated.
The silver midget scowled. "Guess again. Four winters. I josh you not. Patriotic fervor dies hard. Armies will clash again and again."
Somewhat disgusted, Ulysses spat again. "Why tell me? You see I now wear civilian togs."
"Because you'll field the mightiest army. It's destiny," corrected the silver midget. Just then overhead, rows of green lights flickered, purring intensified. "My aviatrix is powering up to blast off. We must conclude anon."
"My military skill was jeered," protested Ulysses, his proud features darkening.
The silver midget mounted a rung, his rapt eyes meeting Ulysses' glare. "You must dog your foe, burn as you conquer. Don't relent, no matter what the cost in human life."
"Lincoln and the citizenry will never abide such barbarism and butchery," Ulysses declared. 
Mauve plumes akin to a ponderous fog spewed into a cloud that obscured them. Annoyed, the silver midget hollered up through the orifice, "Wait one second more!"
"I glean your current national mindset," the silver midget shouted over the din. He climbed the retracting ladder, paused. "It will change. Remember: total warfare is the sole road to victory." 
Waving his pointy hat in a jaunty farewell, the silver midget scooted through. After a coarse rumble and expulsion of smoke, the spacecraft shifted to hover like a hummingbird before a columbine bloom. 
As the spacecraft zigzagged over skyline to ascend, Ulysses shielded his eyes, didn't peer up again until that rumbling had receded. Familiar shrill barks from tree frogs dominated the nocturnal noises. He felt safe again.
Uncorking the whiskey bottle, halfway to his lips, Ulysses nixed taking a swig. Upon readjusting the haversack, he grumbled en route to his plank-house north of Galena. 
"Command an army. Imagine that -- forgoing my warm berth for the hospitality of bedbugs and garter snakes while hounding Rebels through bogs and brambles. Fat chance I'll draw my sword for this country ever again."
Later that evening, once subsided in a rocker to put fire to his clay pipe and opening Pilgrim's Progress to read to his wife Julia, Ulysses tilted his concentration out the window.
Julia slipped in, lit an astral lamp, and occupied a ladder-back chair.
"What cruel matter vexes you so?" She stroked his unruly hair. "You're intoxicated more now. Why?"
Grunting, Ulysses propped his stocking feet atop the potbellied stove. "Huh? It's something I cannot begin to explain."
"What?" Her tone saddened. "I am your betrothed, Ulysses. You have to share with me." 
"No I don't," Ulysses argued. "Truth be told, I don't understand the entirety of it anyway." 
Through bleary leaden panes, he watched a sickle moon drip red, a blood red he had last rued mere days before the outbreak of the Mexican War. Until called to duty, he would remain waiting in Galena.