Outnumbered

OAFS Photo

Our sojourn here in Maryland is winding down, The Nuke and Tuttle have returned and life will return to whatever it is that passes for normal. Here and back home.

The Missus Herself says she has to get back to Little Rhody ASAP, I do not. I don't have to be anywhere ASAP. And I like that.

As much as I'll miss being attacked (or "betacked" as Roberto likes to say) by the dynamic duo above, it will give the bruises time to heal.

Heh.

Not sure when we're going to hit the road, probably soon.

I have the time.

Be seeing you.

The Stone Wall

Source

"Hold up here boys!" Captain Rafael Ducheine held his left hand up as he watched the last few Yankees scramble away up the hill behind the farm.

His men halted at the stone wall running beside the farm track. They were leery of the buildings as up until moments ago, they had bristled with Yankee muskets. The effectiveness of those weapons could be seen in the field on their side of the wall, gray and butternut-clad bodies were strewn liberally throughout the farmer's field.

"Hey Rafe, can I get a detail together to take the wounded back to our lines?"

Ducheine had despaired of getting Sergeant Louis Gaumont to follow military protocol when they were away from the men.

"No Sergeant, we must hold this position. You may send a man back to have stretcher bearers come forward, but we can't spare a man other than that. The bluebellies will be back, you can count on that."

Gaumont nodded, then grabbed a nearby man to send back to their lines.

"Hey Capitaine, the bluebellies left behind a lot of perfectly good rifles, can we swap ours for theirs?" A private had addressed his company commander as if he was a neighbor, not his commander.

Ducheine had his glasses on the ridge to their front, due to the terrain he couldn't see much. Too many dips and hollows in the area around the farm. He half-heard the man's shout, then it registered.

Many of his men were equipped with smoothbore flintlock muskets. Effective at close range, but you had to get to that range alive first. He turned.

"Sergeant Gaumont, Corporal Pelletier, have the men with flintlocks search the dead Yanks for ammunition and caps. Gather up their rifles and collect them here. Good idea, Pierre, merci." With a nod to the man who had addressed him.

He didn't want his men to swap a perfectly good firearm for a better one if there was no ammunition to be had for the rifle.

It turned out that one of the reasons for the northerners pulling back was a shortage of cartridges. The men had gathered twenty or so perfectly good Springfields but only enough ammunition to maybe equip five men with those rifles.

As he turned to his sergeant the man was ready with his own answer. "Sir, I gave the Springfields to five of our best shots. They have thirty cartridges each, it ain't much but most of the fellows have only thirty or so rounds for their flintlocks, so the Springfielders should have enough."

Ducheine nodded as he scanned the ground to his rear, the trees they'd attacked from were on a slight rise. He started to speak when Gaumont interrupted him ...

"I figure we could put the Springfielders up in that tree line, they can fire over our heads, take advantage of their longer range and greater accuracy. Meanwhile, the rest of the fellows have pretty good cover along this wall. Wish'n it were higher, but it's better'n standing in the open."

"Get it done, Sergeant."

A party of ten stretcher bearers arrived on the field shortly after the men equipped with the Yankee rifles had taken up position in the tree line. Ducheine was walking the line, making sure the men had some cover, the stone walls in the area were very low. Built by farmers stacking up rocks they found while plowing, they had never been intended to be aesthetically pleasing or uniform.

Some of the men were using rails taken from a nearby fence to pile atop the walls, this gave them some cover in addition to the stones themselves. Better than nothing, Ducheine said to himself.

"Hey Capitaine! We got a live one 'ere!"

Ducheine walked over to where a few of his men were clustered around a man on the ground. A man in a blue uniform.

Ducheine saw the man's shoulder straps, a lieutenant, badly wounded from the looks of it. He knelt down next to the man.

"How bad are you hit, son?"

The boy grimaced, he'd been in the army long enough to recognize the three bars on Captain Ducheine's collar.

"Purty bad, Cap'n. I'm a goner for sure."

"Let me see." Ducheine reached for the young officer's jacket, it was bloody and torn and the young man had ripped open his buttons to see his wound.

It was bad, the Yankee's shirt and trousers were blood-soaked, Ducheine was surprised that the boy was still alive.

"Where ya from, son?"

"Minnesota, Cap'n. Hey, could you do something for me?"

"That depends on what the something is."

The young officer winced as he reached into his jacket, pulling forth a blood-stained notebook.

"There's a letter in there, for my Ma, another for my girl. Could you see they get sent?"

Ducheine took the notebook, sure enough, there were two envelopes tucked inside, not too bloody. "Certainly, son, I can do that. Anything else?"

Ducheine's eyes got misty as he saw the young man smile, as if he'd just won a prize. Then his eyes glazed over and the young lieutenant from Minnesota saw no more.

Ducheine was barely holding himself together, the death of the young Yankee had affected him greatly. He hadn't felt this bad since Sharpsburg, where his uncle had been killed standing next to him. He'd had to write a letter to his father and another to his aunt to tell her that she was now a widow.

"I wonder if those folks up north know they've lost their young lad?" he muttered as he sat behind the wall, sweating as the heat of the day grew.

"Sir?"

Ducheine turned, it was Sergeant Gaumont, why hadn't he used Ducheine's first name? There was no one else nearby, Gaumont sounded muted, reserved.

"What is it, Louis?" he asked in a soft tone.

"Why not catch a few winks, Cap'n? The Yanks are quiet, I'll keep an eye on things, wake you quick if needed."

Ducheine thought for a second, "Alright, mon cher sergent, I think I will. Have the boys got rations?"

"Yessir, I'll get 'em to eat. Might be a long afternoon if the bluebellies decide to get frisky again."

"Sir?"

It was then that Gaumont realized that his captain was already asleep.

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.