Hurrah for Dixie (Ending A)

	The general's two short words appeared to have an effect on her, or more specifically, the way he said them. His stutter brought back a flood of memories with her owner, like his bold declaration to enlist at the dinner table three years ago. Though she had held conversations with dozens of stutterers the past few years, when she stared into the general's scared face, she didn't see a Yankee begging for mercy; she saw a bearded copy of Private Anon. She saw his identical blue eyes.
	Empathy completely overtook her mind, and she slumped her rifle to the floor and looked down in shame. The general didn't know how to react to her mood shift, his imminent death becoming less likely with each passing second. The tense feeling in the room faded as she glanced up and extended her arm.
	"Come on, General," she spoke as if talking to an injured Rebel soldier, "let's get you out of here."

	"Ladies and gentlemen," General Grant addressed the crowd, "less than a month ago, the port town of Elmsburg, Virginia was recaptured by a Rebel brigade that attacked in the early morning. I was unfortunately visiting during this invasion, but someone saved my life and helped me escape north. Someone that I, nor anyone else, would have ever expected to do such a generous act. Someone who didn't have to show mercy to me of all people..."
	Behind the sloped stage you stood alongside Dixie and several other Yankee officers. Last week, when she told you she was going to Washington with Lt. General Ulysses S. Grant for some kind of ceremony, you initially forbade her to go. You tried to explain that this was obviously a trap to imprison her, but she strangely had complete faith in him. She told you of her experience during the town's siege, where she spared his life for no other reason than, in her own words, "he reminded me of you".
 	Still, you weren't convinced it was safe, but you ultimately decided to go with her whether it were a trap or not. If it were, you wouldn't have to spend the last months of the war hundreds of miles apart, but if it weren't, you'd get to see what Grant would say at this event.
	"...So I'd like to give this fine soldier a warm welcome to our nation's capital," he orated while turning around and motioning for her to step up, "Would my savior please come forward so the audience can see her?"
	Some of the crowd glanced at each other in confusion. "Her?" you heard one man ask aloud. When she ascended the steps and was visible to them, they fell silent. You knew that for two and a half years, this lone Confederate nandroid was like a rash all over the Yankee papers. Stories of her continuing "murder spree" had been circulating ever since the late Colonel Angel's "Dixie Killer" had failed to take her down. For a moment, you feared that the spectators would start booing and hurling things at her.
	"Yes, Miss Sergeant Major Dixie was the one who spared my life," Grant announced, verbally giving them the cue to applaud, "and I thank her for it immensely."
At first, only a few folks clapped, but after she took his hand and gave an enthusiastic shake, more started to chime in with the respect he felt she deserved. Within seconds, the onlookers erupted into a proper cheer when she confidently removed her kepi and took a bow.
	You couldn't believe what you were hearing. A crowd of Yankees were at last giving her a hearty hurrah. Grant then raised his arms to get them to quiet down as he prepared to introduce her associate.
	"But she is not the only one that deserves our adoration, people! Her owner, who has agreed to come here today, is the youngest general in the whole Confederate army at only 26! It doesn't matter that he led the attack on Elmsburg. What matters is that he means the world to her, so I'd like to welcome Brigadier General Anon Ardwick to the stage!"
	That's your cue. You marched up to the platform, but received little recognition from the audience. "Ardwick" must not have been as frequently uttered up north as "Dixie". Nevertheless, you shook Grant's hand with a friendly grin and got a good look at his bearded face.
	Dixie was right. His eyes were as blue as yours.
	"Thank you both. And Dixie," he said while turning his attention to her and raising his voice, "in a decision not made lightly by Congress nor President Lincoln..."
Dixie cringed at hearing that name.
	"...for your brave actions, you will be the first robotic recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor. Congratulations!"
The whole town square exploded in an excited shriek that could probably be heard from South Carolina. At that moment, you were more proud of her than she was of herself. Over the deafening cheer, you could just barely hear her sheepishly reply: "Uh... okay." Her attitude was positive up until a minute later, when Mr. Lincoln himself unexpectedly mounted the stage from behind and took General Grant's position at the front.
	She glared at him the entire duration of his speech and didn't break eye contact as he pinned the medal to her chest. When he extended his hand for her to shake, she hesitated for a second before grabbing it and squeezing as hard as she could.
	"Tyrant!" she muttered to his face. Instead of reciprocating her scowl, he chuckled instead.
"You're very cute when you're angry, Sergeant Major."

	April 1865

	At Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia, Lee surrendered his army to General Grant. The grueling American Civil War was finally over.
Dixie couldn't express how happy she was to finally return home to South Carolina in your arms, and while she wasn't satisfied that she didn't bring Lincoln to his knees, she laughed hysterically at news of his assassination. The medal meant very little to her, and she most likely would have discarded it if you didn't insist it would look great on the "war relic shelf". It would sit among Colonel Angel's red sash, the navy blue kepi and the folded up Union flag you both acquired from the Manassas depot years ago.
	General Sherman fortunately neglected to destroy your hometown, but that didn't make civilian life any easier. Confederate money was now worthless, there was a great shortage of food, and most of your oldest and closest friends were dead, but that last point hardly mattered. Not only was Dixie a spectacular war-buddy, but in the privacy of your own cottage, she was even better company at night. It was a terrible shame that she could never bear you children. She would have made an excellent wife.
	Though she was disappointed when you told her one night you couldn't take your relationship any further, she said she understood.
	"I'd happily push out fifty kids for you, Anon, if only I had a hole to push them out of!" she joked on the sofa, but you could see in her face that she badly wanted you as a husband. You felt horrible walling yourself off, but if she wanted to care for your children some day, you would have to find a real girl to marry.
	The following year, you made multiple attempts to reconnect with the women you knew growing up. Unsurprisingly, your high rank that surpassed Sam's colonelcy made you the talk of the rotting town, but every single girl that came your way lacked any emotional substance. Of course they'd throw themselves at a single young general! He must have tons of money, right?
	Distance began to grow between you and Dixie as your search for human love failed. She still made small talk with you at the dinner table, but you could sense her becoming depressed.

	One May afternoon, a carriage pulled up and stopped in front of your house. From the window, you could see it was your father, struggling to lift a large crate off the back. You swung open the door and rushed to help him, but he insisted on doing it himself. "Don't move an inch, General! I got it!" he announced, practically pushing it up the walkway. Almost halfway to the entrance, he gave up and set it down on the dirt.
	"What's in here, Pa?" you asked. He turned around and briskly walked back to the carriage to grab a prybar while still panting.
	"It's a... care package from... me and your mother..." he managed to reply as he forcefully removed the lid. Upon looking inside, you were astonished at what you saw. The crate was full of packaged fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, bread, and liquor. A lot of food for one man to eat before it starts to grow mold or rot, and hard to get ahold of during the famine.
	"Good Lord," you whispered, "where the Hell did you get all this?" He smirked at your question while his breathing stabilized.
"Your father has money and plenty of connections, General! Now I must be going, I have to deliver an even bigger one to Sam!"
	Sam. Hearing that name gave you an idea.
	"Hey Dixie," you announced with an exaggerated smile as you strolled into the kitchen, "I just thought of something!"
"Oh really?" she responded without turning away from the stove, "What is it, Anon?"
	"I know how you're feeling a bit down lately and want to look after a family, right?"
"Yeah, if only I-" Her response was cut off by the sound of a falling tree striking the ground outside, causing the room to shake.
	For nearly a month now, many woodsmen had been removing the tall trees surrounding your house without your permission. You had complained to them many times, but they only repeated minor variations of the same statement: that the properties around had already been bought and that they're just clearing them to build homes. The lone house directly opposite yours was fully constructed, and while it was pleasant to look at, you preferred the exclusivity of having the area to yourself.
	"Damned carpetbaggers," you mumbled. They were the only ones that seemed to have money at this time.
"If only I could make a family with you, Anon," she said, finishing her depressing sentence.
	"I promise we will have a family to take care of someday, Dixie, but until then," you leaned in and put your hand on her shoulder, "I know a family that lost their house slave and could use your help! Actually, we both know the one-legged man of the home very well..."

	She ran out the door and up the dirt trail with excitement you hadn't seen from her in quite some time.
"Bye, Anon! I'll tell him all about what he missed in the war!" she shouted.
	"Yeah, but don't forget to remind him I'm coming by for dinner tomorrow night!" you yelled before she left your sight. You were about to close the door when you suddenly saw a dark-haired young woman and a nandroid approach from across the road.
	"Is she your bot, mister?" the girl curiously asked as she and her droid inched closer. The girl's nandroid stopped at the crate blocking the walkway and peered inside, while her owner walked around it and stood not far from you. She was almost your height, and her dark green dress tightly clung to her body, making her strong physique visible in the evening light. It was extremely bizarre to see such a height and sturdy build on a woman. Expecting to be further questioned or possibly insulted by this Yankee, you dropped your smile and folded your arms.
	"Yes she is. Do you need something from me, Miss?"
"Well, um," *ahem* "My father just bought the house opposite yours, mister, and I figured I should greet our only neighbor at the moment," she answered, nervous at your confrontational stance. Realizing that she was just trying to be friendly, you let go of your arms and reformed a grin.
	"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," you apologized while raising your hand for her to grasp, "My name's Anon Ardwick, and my bot's name-"
The girl's nandroid lifted her head out of the crate and peered up at you upon hearing your name.
	"-And Dixie's your bot, right, Captain?" she interrupted, recognizing you. You glanced over the strong girl's shoulder to see her familiar strawberry blond-haired droid smiling at you. Her dress was as blue as the federal uniform you saw her wear during the war.
	"It's General Ardwick now, Private Maggie! Good Lord, how long has it been?"
	"Wait a second, you two know each other?" the dark-haired girl asked, astounded at the great coincidence.
"Yeah, she almost killed my Dixie back in '62, but she saved my life at Sharpsburg!"
	Your terminology confused her. "Sharpsburg?"
"Uh... Antietam, as you Yankees call it."

	Sam and his wife took the unexpected extra company at dinner the next night pretty well, but their temporary maid didn't. It was clear she was uncomfortable at seeing her former assassin on such friendly terms, but she gradually lightened up as the evening progressed. For the occasion, Dixie at long last wore the dark red house dress you bought for her years ago, and to say it looked beautiful on her was no exaggeration. While the party went to work on their meal, Maggie entertained them with detailed stories and anecdotes from her time during the war.
	She revealed that after Sharpsburg, the 8th was so low in number that new human recruits were used to fill it back up. Returning to it after a standard prisoner exchange less than a week later, she hardly recognized the regiment. Nevertheless, with a sane colonel now in charge, she continued her service in the infantry. She even remarked how she saw you and Dixie at Gettysburg during Pickett's Charge, but purposefully neglected to shoot either of you. She took part in some of the other major battles, but was captured in November of 1864 and sent to Andersonville Prison in Georgia.
	"Andersonville was one of the few times I was GLAD I wasn't human!" she exclaimed to the busy table, "And while I didn't have to worry about starving or catching a disease, I still felt horrible seeing all those men suffering around me... I thank God I was only in there for half a year."
	"Who would wind you up every day?" Sam asked with a piece of bread in his mouth, almost muffling his speech. She rolled her eyes up to try and force a memory to come back to her, but a small detail couldn't become clear.
	"This other droid from the 8th and I had an agreement where we'd wind each other up at designated hours. Her name is escaping me, but she was an older model than me or Dixie, and she claimed to have been around since the 1600's."
	"The 1600's?" you parroted after swallowing a mouthful of soup, "I didn't know nandroids were around then!"
She let out a light chuckle. "Neither did I, General!"
	"...Y-you can just call me Anon, Maggie."
"No, no, General sounds much better, Anon," Sam interjected while nodding, "it's a very nice rank that I never got."
	The table fell quiet for a moment as the conversation reached its end. Since the war appeared to be the topic of informal discussion, Dixie felt it was time to share an experience that had yet to leave her mouth, not even to you.
	"Everyone," she announced, "I'm gonna tell y'all a story that shouldn't leave this room, okay?"
The whole group looked up from their meals, intrigued.
	"By all means, let's hear it," the brawny girl, Susanna, replied.
"Okay... um... you remember Chancellorsville, right, Anon?" she inquired. It took you a second to swallow your food before you could answer.
	"Sure do, hon."
She nervously fidgeted in her chair as she forced herself to continue her story.
	"Well, on the evenin' of May the 2nd, my company was positioned beside a trail near the woods to keep watch for the Yankees. Once the sun went down, we saw several horses comin' down the path in a hurry... We thought it was the federal cavalry, so my captain gave the order to fire. I hit this one fella in the arm, and he fell off his horse while screamin': "WE'RE CONFEDERATE! YOU'RE FIRIN' ON YOUR OWN MEN!" The others were shoutin' similar phrases, and naturally, we thought they were just lyin' to get us to stop, so I reloaded and shot another horseman. It wasn't until after they ran away that I found out..." she choked on her own sentence before she could finish.
	"...That you shot General Jackson?" Maggie concluded.
	"I didn't know! I swear I didn't know!" Dixie snapped, "I didn't say anythin' because I thought he'd survive!"
"Calm down, sweetheart!" Sam interrupted, "It was pneumonia that killed him and not the bullet. It wasn't your fault."
	"It kinda was," she mumbled.
"In any case, I forgive you."
	"Yeah, I forgive you too," you said, gesturing with your empty glass. Maggie then promptly stood up.
"I know it's late in the dinner and all, but may I propose a toast?" she asked.
	"Of course, sugar!" Sam's wife, Emily, cheerfully responded, "but to what?"
Maggie took no time to think of a subject.
	"To General Stonewall Jackson, may he rest in peace. If he could see us now, I'm sure he'd forgive Dixie as well." She confidently smiled at her, attempting to raise her spirits. After years of waiting for a sign that a friendship between them might work, Maggie was pleased that Dixie finally grinned in return.
	"Thanks," Dixie shyly replied.
Everyone at the table, besides the bots, leaned forward and clinked their near-empty glasses together. With nothing in yours, you set it down on the table following the toast. After she took a large swig that finished off her wine, Susanna turned to you.
	"Dixie is really something, isn't she, Anon?"
You exhaled through your nose at that great understatement.
	"Heh, you have no idea, honey!"

	You pursued Susanna after that dinner and eventually married her in 1868. She was heavier than you anticipated when you carried her out of the chapel, but with all the strength you could muster, you managed to only drop her once. Deep down, you figured Dixie was saddened that she wasn't your bride, but she was still overjoyed that she would become a part of your new family.
	Her confession that she adored caring for young children led to you having a family of four: two sons and two daughters. Your eldest son, William, would become Governor of South Carolina around the turn of the century, while your youngest daughter would marry Daniel McCroskey, grandson of the Confederate major general. He was miraculously still alive when you saw him at the wedding, and the conversation between him, you, Sam, Maggie, and Dixie after the ceremony would last the whole evening.
	Whenever you received praise of your high rank, you would brush it off and insist your brother deserves it more, and whenever someone would point out that you outrank him, you would always say: "There's more to an officer than just his rank."

	As far as public knowledge goes, it's not known what became of Dixie. After Brigadier General Anon Ardwick's death in 1916, it can only be assumed she was passed down from generation to generation within his family. To commemorate the Hero of the South as well as the savior of General Grant, countless statues and plaques were erected all over the country in the coming years. As far north as Maine, there would be a handful of streets that shared her or her owner's name. Even as political correctness would rename schools and remove statues of famous Confederate individuals around the 21st century, every single one of Dixie remains to this very day.
	The original 12th South Carolina Infantry Regiment's flag has since been donated to a small museum in General Ardwick's hometown, along with his revolver.

THE END