The Barn

Source

Walker was dead, there could be no doubt about that. A large part of the top of the young man's head was gone. A puddle of thick blood pooled under him. It had stopped spreading moments ago. Johnson assumed that there was none left to spill out upon the floor of the dusty old barn. It was a large puddle, he observed, almost as if it had nothing to do with him.

He sat with his back against one wall, the wall furthest from where the fighting was, the wall with the fewest holes in it. His legs were splayed upon the floor, his hands resting by his side, the right one still holding the heavy pistol he had used to end Walker's life.

He looked at the sunlight streaming through the holes in the far wall, he could see the dust motes dancing in the air. It struck him that the clouds had broken, during the fighting it had been overcast. The entire morning the sky had threatened to begin raining again. At least it had temporarily cooled the air.

The day had dawned hot and humid, it was hard to breathe, harder still to get the men down the slope and drive towards the ruined farm in the shallow valley between the two ridgelines. The men had been resting in the shade of the trees and didn't want to move.

The last few days had been hard, marching first in one direction, then in another as the scouts reported the enemy first here, then there. In truth, Johnson doubted anyone knew where the enemy really was. Perhaps they were everywhere?

A drop of sweat slid down from his hairline and into his left eye. Idly he began to bring his left hand up to brush the sweat away, he grimaced at the pain.

He looked at his arm, there, the sleeve was torn. His wife was going to be furious, she had had the coat tailor-made before he'd left home with his regiment. He raised his right hand, was surprised at the weight, he had forgotten that he was still holding his pistol.

His fingers seemed reluctant to loose their grip on the weapon, they clung to it as if his life depended on it. He grinned, well, it did, didn't it? He let the pistol slide free from his hand and noticed that his hand was shaking badly.

Fatigue, lack of sleep, anger, fear, he'd gone through so many emotions that day. It was no wonder that his hand was shaking as if he had the palsy. He shook his hand, flexed the fingers, forcing them open and closed.

Once that was done he ran his hand over his left arm, the sleeve was indeed torn, but the shirt underneath was untouched. Puzzled he used his right hand to lift the left, after a few moments he realized that his left arm had been asleep. He must have lain on it when he had passed out.

The memories came rushing back.

"Damn it, Adams, take your section up to the stone wall. Keep those bastards pinned."

After ordering that action he turned to the young lieutenant of artillery with a questioning look.

"We're almost there Major, I just need to get this last limber hooked up and we'll be on our way."

As he said that, one of his gunners spun around and collapsed against the far wheel of the limber. Blood sprayed everywhere. Johnson looked with concern at the lieutenant. He was bloody.

"Are you hit?"

The lieutenant sobbed, turning to his men he bellowed, "Get the battery up to the ridge, now."

"Not my blood, Sir." The lieutenant said as he knelt next to the fallen gunner.

He brushed the man's face with tenderness, Johnson could see that the young officer was crying, the tears streaming down his face as he closed the man's eyes. Nearby, a sergeant was waiting impatiently, holding the lieutenant's horse from his own saddle.

"Sir, we need to move!" The sergeant yelled out.

Johnson shot the man a look, the sergeant nodded in understanding but Johnson could see that the man was ready to leave, his lieutenant be damned.

Placing a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder, Johnson leaned in, "A good man, I'm sure, but you need to be off young fellow. Your sergeant's right."

The lieutenant stood up, brushing the tears from his grime-streaked face. "He was more than a good man, Sir. He was my brother."

Without another word, the lieutenant went to his horse, mounted and the two artillerymen rode off in the wake of their battery.

After that, all Hell had broken loose. A surge of men in gray and butternut came howling from the nearby orchard. A volley from his men along the wall put many of them down, but he saw one man, his man, a corporal break for the barn and run inside.

"Adams! Keep it up! I'll be right back."

Sergeant Adams didn't even glance in his direction, Johnson went into the barn, half expecting to see the corporal rousting out shirkers who had taken refuge inside. But no, there was just the corporal, a wild, hunted look on his face as he cast his gaze around the interior.

"Corporal Walker, get back to your men."

"Nah, Sir, think I'll just stay right here. I'm all done in, Sir, had enough."

Johnson waved his pistol at the man. "Damn it, Walker, get your ass outside."

Johnson blinked in amazement as the corporal pointed his rifle at him. His eyes went wide as the man pulled the trigger, the lock snapping loudly in the relative stillness of the barn.

"God damn it!" Walker swore as he fumbled at his belt for a cap, he'd loaded his rifle but had forgotten the percussion cap needed to set off the main charge.

Johnson didn't hesitate, he aimed his pistol at the man and pulled the trigger. The heavy weapon bucked in his hand and Walker went down in a heap, all his muscles loose, nothing controlling his body as the heavy pistol round hit him high on the forehead.

Johnson was shaking, he'd just killed one of his own men. A man he had known in civilian life, a farm hand from the next town over in his home county. Dear Jesus, how could he ever explain this to the man's family?

Without a word, the major stumbled towards the back wall of the barn, he vomited as he did so. Then he collapsed, unconscious, his back to the wall.

Johnson returned to the present, he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. He felt the need to vomit, but controlled it. He realized that he was shirking his duty just as Walker had been, perhaps one of his sergeants would come in and shoot him?

He stood up, picking up his pistol and holstering it as he did so. He was still shaking, but not as badly. He listened, there seemed to be a lull outside. Looking about, he saw his hat, couldn't go out with his uniform not correct, could he?

Stepping to the door he saw Sergeant Adams coming towards him.

"Sir, we're about out of ammunition. I sent one of the boys back to try and get some more, but ..."

Johnson looked around, a number of his men were on the ground, some of them not moving.

"How bad are we hurt, Tommy?"

The sergeant started at the major calling him by his first name. Things must be serious, he thought.

"Lieutenant Smith is down, shot through the heart. Captain Jefferson went to the rear, his left arm hanging, useless. I'm sure he's going to lose it. The rest of the boys, well what's left of 'em, are still game. We're short-handed but if we get more ammunition, I think we can hold."

Adams looked into the barn and saw the lifeless body of Corporal Walker, he spat.

"Sumbitch was always useless in a fight. I'd of done the same, Sir."

Johnson looked at the man, "Get the men ready, we can't stay, look over yonder."

Adams turned and saw the battle flags emerging from the far tree line.

"Guess the bastards are serious this time."

Turning Adams began getting the surviving men up and moving, some were detailed to carry the wounded, those who had a chance.

A man on horseback came up behind him, shouting his name, he turned. It was his brigade commander, hatless and streaming blood from a cut above one eye.

"Get your boys back up the hill, Billy. I can't spare any help for you. Let the Johnnies have the damned farm for now. Git, go on now!"

The colonel rode off, leaving Johnson and his men alone again.

"Let's go boys, back up the hill!" 

Johnson shook his head, his boys had died for nothing.

Dakota Viking Sends: Death on the Shore

Source¹

The smell of peat smoke on the sea breeze was a familiar comfort. He was shearing sheep, flipping the struggling 7-14 stone ewes with practiced ease and strength. His hands, for all the hard work, were buttery smooth from the lanolin on the sheep wool. His wife liked that.

As he snipped away the fleece from one side of the ewe he grabbed her leg and flipped her to the other side, and started shearing. A shout, cry of alarm …

Daividh looked down the hill, sails, two longboats, pulling in fast.

“Damn them!"

Bad grain crop, the root vegetables were sodden by too much rain, the sheep weren’t lambing, and the Highlanders kept stealing their cattle. Only thing to get them through the winter was the sea, winter in the North Sea was not what you wanted to bet your life against. They had plenty of drying fish, trouble was, the Norsemen always took it all, meaning they’d have a very rough winter when the sun didn’t rise for days.

He dropped the ewe, stabbed the shears into the ground and trotted down the hill, calling over his shoulder at his young boy, “Keep the flock together, if the Danes get up this far run! For your Grampas!”

By God they couldn’t let the Norsemen take their winter food!

He burst into his hut and barks at his wife and daughter “Get up the hill now! Connor is with the flock, GO! NOW!” To their credit they see he’s serious and quickly run.

His weapons aren’t much, a bronze headed spear, a pitted sword the Danes left on shore years ago, a small leather wrapped oak target shield, a couple of knives, his wits and his desperation.

Down to the shore, the longships were still a ways off. Some men (and boys) were lined up at the water's edge with bows and slings. Daividh and some of his close acquaintances; other shearers, fishermen, the town blacksmith (and his apprentice) gathered back among the buildings, they want to separate small groups, not fight the whole force. He could see other small groups waiting among the huts, storage bins, and fishing boats.

Shouts up from shore as arrows are exchanged, slingshot out, smaller boys chucking rocks, shouts, jabbering, the missile men retreating up the gravel shore, as the longboats grind to a stop. Archers turn and fire, slingers start twirling then loose, a clatter of shot hits like hail, the men are surprised at seeing the handful of Danes go down so quickly.

Archers and slingers pull back into the cluster of huts and start taking potshots of opportunity. The Norsemen form two lines and lock shields, not many of them went down on the march up the beach. Once the Danes reached the buildings and had to split the shield wall into smaller groups, the Scots hit …

Screaming their best war-cries … ones, twos, and fives, all charged into the exposed flanks of that broken shield wall.

One of those Dane bastards stepped around the corner shield up, Daividh stabbed up with his spear trying to get under the shield, which the red bearded Dane used to drive the spear down and away. Exposed, a spear thrust at him, bat away the point and step close, too close to spear, slip the hand up the shaft and thrust like a knife, red goes down. Spear pulled from his hand. Next one in sight wearing a nasal helm, thrusting a sword … deflect the sword with the target shield, grab the helmet off his head and proceed to get a few satisfying crunches beating the helm into a hairy skull.

Daividh pulled his old, pitted sword and strode past the blacksmith who was hammering on a Dane’s shield with vengeance. The smith’s apprentice (born nine months after a Viking raid, and with hatred for the Norse) was holding his own with an axe.

The other shearers were in hand-to hand combat, brawling, wrestling and throwing Danes like sheep. A blade was utilized now and again to stop a fight. The fishermen were fighting like the scrappers they were.

Concerned about his blacksmith buddy wearing himself out, Daividh thrusts the old Viking blade into the neck of the Dane fighting the blacksmith …

“Hey! You! I had him he was mine!!”

“I know Dale, but we canna' wait that long, now move.”

They plow into the other fights from the sides and back, ending fights two or three to one, quickly they gain momentum storming into the scattering shield wall and sending the Danes running back to their boats.

Not many Norse left, too few to sail away? They should have all manned the same boat, they might have made it, but they manned the boats they came in, and split their force to be slaughtered.

Daividh broke that old Viking sword at some point during the butchery … Not one was spared, he was using a seal skinning knife at the end. Nasty work.

There were two Dane ships on their beach, both had loot and wealth this village had never seen. All theirs.

They also had a fine selection of “new” Norse forged blades lying on the beach. Fresh bait for the crab pots, and food for the sheepdogs ...

More important, they kept their winter cod.

¹ Forgive me the guy in the helmet and mail, someone like him would probably not have been present in this tale. But the painting was too good to pass up. (It's hard to find pictures of Vikings losing!)

Editor's Note: DV is on a roll, who am I to stand in his way?

Dakota Viking Sends: What Price Glory?

A Frigate
Dominic Serres
Source

HMS Dunoon was plunging on a following sea, trying to haul closer to the prize, a French merchant alone, rounding the “Rock.”

Orders called, men scrambling in the rigging, loosing a couple reefs out of the sails, canvas snapping taught in the breeze. Surging forward, trying to gain an advantage by angling ahead.

Bow chasers barely in range, their gunners already at their posts Royal Marines crewed the bow guns while the sailors worked to close the distance. Gunners ready, glance at the Captain … he nods … “FIRE” lanyards pulled sending two 9 pound balls from the long barreled bow guns, smoke blows to the side enough to see splashes well astern of the target. Need to get closer. An hour, more?

Time to change the watch, everyone stays on station, action is close at hand. The marines are constantly adjusting their aim on the bow chasers, finally another nod from the Captain. Rounds out … one splash … one hit? Range still closing slowly, they beat to quarters, marines readying muskets and climbing to the fighting tops.

Sailors taking over a majority of the guns, most were 12 pounders but they did have 4- 18 pounders positioned center on the second deck. 2, 9-pound bow and 2, 9-pound stern chasers rounded the main armament.

The bow chasers were now on a fire at will order, random shots, as fast as they can reload. It became somewhat of a speed competition between the two crews. The splashes, while disappointingly common were becoming less frequent.

“Run out the starboard battery!” the captain ordered the helmsman to change course 60 degrees to port, wait for the volley then resume pursuit course.

A deck down, orders barked out, gunports opened, powder monkeys (barely more than little children) ran up with powder charges in bags, these were rammed into the withdrawn barrels, a wad and solid shot was rammed into place, lines through blocks ran the barrel out.

The gunner gave the order for the slight adjustment to the elevation wedges, waited for the order…

“Fire”… the ship was in a slow low roll, wait … others fired immediately rewarded with huge columns of water.  “Wait” ship catching a lower “ditch.” Other crews starting to reload, slight rocking upswing with a roll to port. Yank that lanyard! Deafening blast and whine in the ears. Hearing just became a low thrum. Shouting to be heard … "Reload!"

No splash, hit? or long overshoot? Reload, a practiced dance of deadly intent, everyone has their part. Sponge and worm the barrel, powder charge rammed home, wad and shot added, spike the powder bag, prime … and wait the order.

Bow chasers fire and they can feel the ship rolling to port again, guns run out waiting for the right target picture … there she is, a little more ragged than the last view. “FIRE” the gun captain saw this was nicely timed with the ship’s roll, and the rippling broadside in those tight confines shook your body to the core.

They started to reload, then stopped. The merchant was slowing, rudder damage? Unable to keep the wind. Sails luffing in the breeze. The Frenchman turned full broadside and fired a ripple of cannon fire as she was able. Not a Man of war but she had a punch. Her Master knew she was done, he just wanted to spit his final vengeance out at the Brits.

Raked across the bow, as she was, the wounded among the sailors mounting rigging to drop sails as they prepared to come alongside, was devastating. Splinters, broken woodwork, blood and broken men fell to the deck. The gun crews gave up some of their numbers to the boarding parties, the object was to take her as a prize, not sink her. This should be an easy merchant capture. Not a naval engagement.

Orders barked, experienced men did whatever they did to prepare for a fight, the inexperienced … did what they could to “courage” themselves and not wet their breeches.

Cutlass, boarding axe, pike, and flintlock, bow and stern they formed, Marines still in the rigging were pouring fire onto the French deck, others climbed down to the boarding parties.

Grappling hooks out, French trying to cut the lines, Marines shooting them.  A cannon will fire from time to time, from both sides, more to harass, wound, and kill, than ship damage at this point. The quarterdeck swivel gun barks out, filled with a couple handfuls of musket balls, it causes a sudden change in the mood of the battle, their Captain went down, and a couple dozen French sailors swarmed onto OUR deck.

They were met hand to hand, steel to steel, they came midship our stern party swarmed over the carnage caused by the swivel gun and boarded them. Our bow party and some of the lower gun crews met their boarding party head on. Hack, stab, slash, punch, bite, why were they fighting so hard, what was their cargo?

Over the rail, a slip here will get you crushed between the hulls, a belaying pin in his left and a boarding axe in his right, onto their deck slippery with blood. Clusters of melee fighting, seeing a large French sailor using a pike on his messmates, John charged. Target on the right, left hand cross body the belaying pin thuds into the pikeman’s skull throwing the head back chin up, perfect for an axe strike to the throat. Done.

Look for the next target, a cutlass slashes past him, drive the axe into his armpit and backhand a pin blow to the head. Down, with his axe. Stuck, leave the axe, pick up the cutlass. Not really trained for the sword, he wields it just like an axe, hacking and chopping, with no style but to good effect. He added to the butchers bill. Men fighting their way below, topside the fight was near done and it appeared they might being striking their Colors. Shouts from below, down into the darkness, blind, shadows, grunts, screams, blackpowder blood and bowels assaulted the nose. Why did they defend this so hard?

A cry from his left, oncoming sailor with a pike, smack the shaft aside with the belaying pin and thrust with the cutlass, the pike wielder’s eyes go wide as the steel buries itself in his guts. John smells the sailor’s last breath in his face, and what he had just opened up lower down. Deck more slippery. A halfhearted cheer comes down from above, they’ve struck their colors. Thud, the sailor with the pike hits the deck for the last time.

Just what the Devil did they have as cargo that they put up such a fight?

National treasure? Royalty? Hatred?

Editor's Note: As DV is on a roll as of late, I'm letting him run free. As for me? Je n'ai rien.

Progress

 Busy, Busy, Busy.  Getting the House(s) ready for putting on the market.  Our current house is 5 years old,  our previous house (on the property) is 25 years old and the two guest cottages are 8 years old.  I'm sure there's an old Chinese proverb that describes this situation quite well.

"Stuff expands to fill available space and given enough time (see above) this will continue until every cubic inch of space is filled."

I believe this quote was stolen and adapted from Sun Tzu.  That having been said, evidence shows it to be it to be astonishingly true.

Mostly!

As I've discussed earlier, we're getting ready to move to College Station, to be closer to our Daughter and Family.  Lot's of good reasons, Grand Kids and Family support as we get older are two key ones.  Aggie Football might also be on the list somewhere.

No Beans, I did not go to that School.  My money did and I'd like to get some return on the investment.

So back to the situation at hand,  the guest cottages are in pretty good shape as they're cleaned every time a guest checks out.  So, pretty much just replacing anything that's a bit worn/shabby.  

 

Our old house had been mostly resuscitated at this point,  Mrs J has done a really good job at doing the interior redesigning the inside.  Looks very eye catching, but simple also.  So, easy to maintain.  A lot of Stuff has been resigned to the dump or Good Will.  A lot of Stuff.

 

This dumpster was totally full when it was hauled off to the dump!  As I said...

In any case, my big mission was redoing the front porch. 

 

That's the original porch fencing.  The decking required a few replacements, but other than some weather fading, the wood's in pretty good shape.

 

 

Got the inside framing done and things were starting to come together. 

 

A couple of days later, AKA last Saturday, it was pretty much finished.  Still need to reface the upper supports between the porch fence and the overhang, but that shouldn't be too hard.

 

Famous last words. 

Our current house, 5 years old, is in pretty good shape, just a bit of deep cleaning and decluttering.  Easier said than done, I know!

 

 

 

 

And finally, the Horse Barn.  Doing my best to keep it clean, but between you know what and the hay in the barn, it's a full time job.  As I said, doing the best I can. 

 

Problem for this week is the water source to the horse's water tank, stopped working.  Hard water, finally froze the float valve, so water was watering the grass instead of the tank.  The horses still had water, just a bit more of it around the barn.  

 

I've already disconnected it so it wouldn't leak any more

So, gonna let you go and make a trip to Tractor Supply to pick up the requisite parts and go and fix that issue.  I'm replacing all you see except the hose.  We're having a contractor come in in the next week or so to install pipe from the water source to the barn.  That should take failed PVC links our of the picture.

 

Progress, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes unexpected, but....Progress!

 

Peace out y'all!

 

 

What's Doing?

OAFS Photo

So there's another bit of historical fiction in the books, so to speak. I've been wanting to do some ACW-related stuff for a while, the fictionalized tale of my great grandfather's regiment was one way to do that without rattling any cages. Some folks are still pretty riled up about that time period.

No, I'm not one of them. It's history, water under the bridge, you learn from history or you don't. As "they" say, "ain't no thang."

But now I'm on a Civil War kick. The opening photo is the book I'm currently reading, been wanting that trilogy for a long time.

Our next door neighbor was having a yard sale last year and The Missus Herself and I wandered over to say hello near the end of it. And there, sitting atop a cabinet of some sort or another was Shelby Foote's trilogy for the lordly sum of two American dollars.

"Sue, do you have change?" (All I had was a twenty.)

"Just take it, no charge."

The Missus Herself started to spool up as 1) she doesn't like to take advantage of folks, and 2) she claims I have "too many books."

We convinced her that it was a worthy addition to the library (yes, she rolled her eyes) and I got the set, gratis, my favorite price.

I'd rather forgotten that I had it until I finished up the book I had been reading about Gettysburg, so I resolved that it would be next, and so it is.

I remembered Shelby Foote from the Ken Burns Civil War series and had been impressed by his knowledge and demeanor. Now I'm impressed, to say the least, with his writing. I read where a number of "professional" historians don't care for his work. I do hereby note that one can replace the word "professional" with "boring" and it would be more accurate. Too many "professionals" have made the study of history painful in the extreme. So I care naught for their opinions.

I like the guy, may he rest in peace.

Another thing I've got on my plate is this:

OAFS Photo

Yup, Civil War miniatures. I've always been a big fan of toy soldiers and when they (Warlord Games) came out with their Epic scale figures (each figure is roughly 13mm tall, a lot smaller than most figures) I was keen to purchase them.

I was going to start with the ACW, some years back, but then they came out with the Waterloo series, so I had to get them first. Now the progeny gifted me more 'Amazon Bucks" so I was able to grab the ACW set as well. I even sprang for some extra buildings, primarily because one of these was included ...

Source

Which are all over the place near Gettysburg, sometimes referred to as a "bank barn" or a "Pennsylvania barn." I've also seen the term "Schweizer" or "Swisser" barn used as this type of barn possibly originated in Switzerland.

Anyhoo, I also bought the Union and Confederate commanders (Lee, Grant, Jackson, Meade, etc.) and bought the Iron Brigade as well. (I mean how do you fight an ACW battle in the East without the Iron Brigade?)

So there's a project I need to get to work on.

And now they're coming out with an American Revolution line in Epic scale. So I need to save up my pennies for that when it comes out. (Bastards! Er, I mean, wonderful, glad they're doing that ...)

I'm also spending time (probably too much time) playing Scourge of War: Gettysburg. Which looks something like this -

Law's Brigade seizing Little Round Top
Screen shot from the game

The game's victory conditions are completely out of whack, it has something to do with timing and seizing certain terrain features. I say "out of whack" because I captured Little Round Top and had turned the Federal left when the game ended and it said, "Sorry, you lose."

Harrumph. I did better than Longstreet and I "lose"? Harrumph again, silly software people.

Still and all, the game is a lot of fun.

Anyhoo, that's what I'm up to. Blogging is going to be light as I have a lot of irons in the fire right now, so ...

Be seeing you.

1863: Chancellorsville, then Home

Source

Chère maman,

How I long for home and hearth now, I am heartily sick of the army. Our boys have once again been led to defeat and ruin by the generals.

Near the end of April we were encamped with Reynolds' I Corps to the south of Fredericksburg. Then on May the 1st, Joe Hooker got himself into a mess in a place the locals call "The Wilderness." And pretty wild it is, lots of underbrush, hilly and heavily forested. Rather like back home up in the mountains.

He ran into Stonewall himself in that tangled mess and rather than fight it out, he pulled back, leaving the place to Jackson, thinking to stand on the defensive rather than attack.

So on the 2nd, Reynolds' Corps (with us in it) was ordered north, around Fredericksburg and to a place where we could ford the Rappahannock and get stuck in to the secesh. Of course, we got flung across the river and then waited.

In the meantime Howard's Germans got themselves run out of the wilderness, leaving a big mess behind.

We guarded the ford whilst everyone else was fighting. Until it was time for everyone to re-cross the Rappahannock, we were the rear guard and lost ten men keeping the Johnnies at bay.

I swear, all this army does is stumble from one mess to another.

Votre fils, Joseph

"Frenchie!"

Joseph heard his name called and he turned to see his friend Thomas, he had found hot coffee and had somehow managed to come away with the whole pot.

"Where'd you get that, Thomas?"

"Officers were having a brew but they got called away for an orders group. I suspect we'll be moving one way or t'other and soon."

All day the men had listened to the thunder of cannon and the rattle of musketry in the near distance.

Thomas Dignan poured them both a cup, took a sip, then spoke.

"I heard tell that Sickles and his boys are damned near surrounded at a crossroads called Chancellorsville, while the rest of the army sits in The Wilderness waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Cap'n just came through while you were on picket duty, said that Sickles and Couch managed to pull back into The Wilderness but that the damned Germans ran away again. Also heard that old Thomas Jackson is dead.¹ Shot by his own pickets!"

Thomas just sat there for a moment, "Stonewall? Dead?"

"That's what they're saying."

"Well, I'll be damned." Thomas shook his head as he said that. Oddly enough, he felt bad for the man himself, though not the cause he served.

"Steady lads, steady."

The 22nd New York stood in line, waiting while the bulk of the army crossed back to the Union-held side of the Rappahannock. Marse Lee had managed to drive the Yankees again. Joseph wondered if the Rebs fought better on their own turf. Lord knows, they fought hard in Maryland, near Sharpsburg, last year, but to no avail.

In Virginia they fought like wildcats.

The regiment had received a number of replacements over the winter and was now at a strength of near three hundred. Many of the new recruits had proven unsuited for army life and had been sent home. What remained was solid.

"Hear they come boys! Hold until I give the command!" Colonel Phelps sat his horse and watched as the Confederate skirmishers broke out of the far tree line.

Joseph saw the puffs of smoke long before he heard the familiar "zip" of Minié balls whipping overhead. The first shots were always too high.

"Steady! Steady!"

A man beside him grunted, clutched his belly then fell to the ground. Joseph waited for the command. He could see the secesh forming up across the way, but not making any move to advance.

"Looks like they're content to see us back across the river, eh Frenchie?"

Joseph smiled as Thomas said that, he sure hoped there wasn't going to be a general fight here by the ford.

And there wasn't, the Johnnies were content to take long range shots at the departing columns of Union troops. The regiment suffered ten wounded, one or two serious, but no one was killed outright and they were able to take the injured men across when it was their turn.

As the last cavalry pickets forded back to the northern side of the Rappahannock, Joseph prayed that he'd seen his last action. In a month the regiment would return to Albany to be mustered out. He'd done his time, he had had enough.

More than enough.

Newspaper clipping from 1863 -

Sunday night, before starting for their homes, the Regiment was highly complimented in an address by Gen. WADSWORTH, for their bravery and discipline. In every action they have been in, they have indeed covered themselves with glory.

The sanitary condition of the Regiment has been remarkably good, having lost but twenty by natural causes. In officers, they have lost eleven killed and one died a natural death; men, fifty-seven killed and nineteen a natural death; missing and never heard from, eight; wounded, about one hundred and sixty-five.

They left this city about 825 strong, and have received in the neighborhood of 300 recruits, many of whom, however, were discharged as unfit for service. Their aggregate now is 505 men, 419 with the regiment, and the rest in the hospital and elsewhere.

 

After dinner at the Delavan, the Regiment proceeded to the Capitol, where they were welcomed by Gov. SEYMOUR, Col. PHELPS responding in a few brief and appropriate remarks. The Regiment then proceeded to the Barracks. Source

The 22nd New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment's war was over.

¹ In reality, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson was accidentally shot by one of his own men. He was evacuated and had his left arm amputated. However, he caught pneumonia and died after the battle, on the 10th of May, 1863.

Dakota Viking Sends: Second Raid

Source

They’d harpooned a seal and were readying the sand box fire as the hunters butchered the carcass. Fresh was always better than dried, they had a couple deep cod lines out just in case. They continued south, searching the shoreline, for anything.

Blubber, crisping and frying, a quick dip into seawater to cool and salt, pop into mouth … so good.

Lura pulled out his recently acquired sword, inspecting it as he rubbed it down with fat, not what he was used to seeing, shorter, single handed made for stabbing. Old. The elders said it came from an ancient empire to the south, that was no more. More steel than someone of his position should own. He’d actually seen hewing spears with this long a blade. A true battle prize. He had the man's shield too, not round, more square, but curved to protect better. His was broken, and as old as it was, this would have to do. As to broken, his left wrist still hurt like Hel, but no serious damage. Just rest it a few days.

Rugged coastline south, another seal, good eating. Smoke rising in the distance, a whaling village? Steering toward shore. Small fishing vessels passing to the sides, keeping distance. Just as well. Slash the oars out and head for the smoky shore. Pull! Harbor in sight, pull! Not fast enough, a huge mob of men waited on the beach. They were chanting something, so we gave back a few "Haaarroouuuuus!" and beat on our shields.

They came right down to the waters edge and those with bows started lobbing arrows at us, young boys were slinging rocks at us. The longboat ground to a stop on the rocky shore. Over the side! Fight out of the water! They had us disadvantaged, trying to form a shield wall in the water. Spear out, shield up, axe in belt shortsword in scabbard.

Form up and push forward. Trying to link shields with those around him, the rocks and water, making this difficult. Forward! Thwack … sharp pain from his forehead, slings … Keep that shield up, face is wet … his blood … keep moving.

Spear low under the linking shields, formed and walking. Our side starts chanting a saga of Odin slaying Ice Giants, they gibber and screech like women. We trot forward together as one until within striking range, and then our line explodes into their mass. Lura stabs two with his spear; the third one keeps the spear in his body.

Shield up, grab frantically for the axe. Start chopping down at a shield up, spear thrusting bastard. Push forward past the spear, shield it aside … too close for a good axe hack. Push through and over the spear guy, on his back trying to bring the spear to bear, Lura plunges his axe into his prostrate foe's face, thus ending the confrontation.

Two more steps and he is back in the melee. Lock shields, push forward. He’s not happy with the results of his axe against shields, shoves the shaft back into his belt and pulls the battle prize shortsword (he wanted his spear) Thrusting and stabbing the blade out from behind the shields landed several hits, some he stabbed went away, some came back for more. All were bloodied.

Villagers working up the courage to attack, rushing forward, and if they didn’t clumsily fall forward while swinging their weapon at the shields, they would kick at the shields … exposing your groin to angry men with sharp blades is not a good idea. Many fell, we advanced. They screamed, we roared. Stab, slash ,step, repeat. Thud, another shot from a sling, shield up thwack, another! Can’t hardly look around thud, again. Armed men in front are retreating, shot and arrows crescendo, then taper off as ready ammunition depletes.

Battle Cry! Rooooaaar!!! Rush forward as the defenders run. A bunch of kids scramble up a low hill, turn and start slinging rocks at the men pushing forward. He and a handful of men get into the cover of the huts, and start searching.

Dark, cramped huts, smoky and smelling of fish, not much wealth here, again some iron, very little silver, screeching women and kids to be ignored … until … one screechy hag attacks him with a knife. Lura pulls his axe from his belt by the steel and thumps the harpy on the head with the butt of the axe handle. She goes down with a shriek; he gives her another thump for good measure, then picks up the knife and throws it into the outside path to be gathered as loot when they leave. Women can be fierce and deadly, they’re not to be trifled with. Shouts from outside, our archers have persuaded their slingers to leave. Though some would stay, permanently.

Someone found something up the hill, shouts out for more men … Running uphill, lungs burning for breath, ahead, where the commotion is, a stone keep? Longhouse? Not a castle? Whatever it was, the townsmen were defending it.

Arrows and rocks zipped over the wall randomly. A big stone building with a wooden door. Fire and steel eventually burn/break through the wood. Men rush through the still burning doorway smoke thick inside, eyes burning hard to see, floor slippery … blood and spilled guts of the defenders … the smell … groans, whimpers, laughter and roars, echo in the stone hall. 

Many of the men in the hall, all wearing the same dark cloaks walked up to us and kneeled with hands clasped in front of them, muttering a chant. The first couple were killed, the others beaten until they ran away, though that old grey haired one stayed until beheaded.

Some kind of temple, like we have for our Gods, only theirs was a deadman on a crossed pole. Gold trinkets, silver and copper cups and goblets, bowls, ceremonial things and tokens, a couple handfuls of coins; all thrown into bags and baskets to be topped off with whatever we threw into the paths among the huts.

We gather what we can, and raid the fish racks for ready dried cod. Many sea birds were in the butcher process a product of the slings.

A few of his fellow raiders have taken on the task of bringing slaves back, trouble and expense too high for the reward, even if you manage to keep them alive. The village watches us from the higher hillside, elders silent, youngsters yelling, shouting and throwing things.

Barrels of whale fat/oil, and several barrels of ale which were promptly loaded onboard (after they’d tapped one). The slingers were getting annoying about the time we pushed off the beach. We were well out into the harbor and those little bastards were still landing thunks at distance. You’d hear them whizz and thump into the sail and clatter to the deck. Made you keep your head down.

Ale, so much better than that stale brackish water they’d been drinking. It clouded the head nicely, and they were sailing … salt-spray, gulls, plunging deck, open sky, good friends, and …

Ale …

Some of the slavers were selling favors from their captures. Things were getting ugly between some involved in the play. Konrad barged in and put an end to the pettiness. “next one of you that starts a fight on this boat is going over the side.” Everyone knew he meant it.

Quaff a few more gulps of ale, then curl up in his cloak at his bench. Hull plunging, rocking, surging forward, peaceful sleep.

Awake … must piss … where’s the wind from … stumble to the side.

Bright daylight, beautiful sky, choppy sea. Skuas were gliding back and forth riding the wind off the sail. Tear off a chunk of dried cod, dip it in some whale oil … breakfast to start the day.

Lura makes his way back to the steer board, and asks the skipper for a turn for experience the skipper turns the steer board tiller over to him and watches the boat and Lura intently. For awhile, then he goes and relieves himself and grabs some cod.

Surging with the wind, down-wave on a following sea … was exhilarating, keep the course, steer into breakers, don’t get sideways to the waves. Fresh wind, speed, he loved sailing.

More men were waking, communal bowls were passed around for washing hair and faces. A fire started for the fresh fish and birds that needed to be boiled.

The steersman wandered up and observed Lura for awhile, eying the longboat and sail, he nodded. “Good, steady, if you want to learn more, I’ll make sure you are taught.”

“Of course! I want to learn everything”

“Well, I’ll take over in a bit, you steer your course and come up with some questions for me to answer, I’ll be back.”

Later, fresh boiled cod and a fresh tapped barrel of ale …

They continued on a Viking.