Post by Jet Somers on Sept 30, 2011 2:33:05 GMT -5
I want to tell you a story.
When it was brought to my attention that I would need to bring a selection
of weapons to this event, I decided to follow the thread of my past back to
a time when I had to choose between the toss up of seldom used weapons
in my time. It seemed, however, that the ringbell, the paint cans, even the
various cages I've incorporated into my arsenal, weren't going to be
enough. A search for something new actually led me farther back, into
nostalgia, and eventually into the home I shared for a brief period in my
life with my biological father. What I found there was strangely
appropriate, since it came from the bloodiest battleground in American
history.
My four or five time great grandfather kept a journal that has been passed
down through our family along with a few keepsakes from that time.
Scavenging in our attic, I found this journal, and curiosity got the best of
me. I cracked the dusty old leather bound tome, and began to read.
My ancestor had been a member of one of the worst ragtag regiments in
the entire Confederate army. He wrote almost fondly of them, probably
once the War of Northern Aggression had been over a decade in the books.
To have served alongside these men would have led to court martial for
me, if he wasn't embellishing.
One of the most well thought of seemed to be a man who had worked
artillery. James Kinder had been a good kid, full of a bright future.
Unfortunately, the rest of the artillery crew had been a mischievous bunch
of layabouts. Delusions of grandeur dominated their talk, but the majority
of them sought their military glory by playing pranks and bullying the
weaker soldiers. When it came to actual duty, they were all around lazy.
One fateful day, one of them failed to clean the muzzle properly, and too
much gunpowder was ignited. The cannon exploded, felling Kinder when
the shot landed on his chest.
Not every death my ancestor witnessed during that conflict was so
innocent. In that time, some of the less shameful citizens not involved in
the war would follow around any regiment they felt they could make a
profit from. There was a harlot that offered her services up several times a
week no matter where they were encamped. Ginny Maker, they called her,
and most of the soldiers found her services to be a welcome relief from the
horrors of war. But one particularly crude officer thought it would be a kick
to pay her to seduce the twelve year old drummer, Charlie Geist. The boy,
who had pounded out their cadences and had been a good source of charm
and laughter for the rest of the men, had died of some venereal disease
near Stones River, Tennessee. His fifer shot Ginny dead the day after.
Then there was the Native. Mundoo. Why an Algonquin had signed up to
fight for any nation that subverted his homeland, they never understood,
but my grandfather had suspicions about his lineage. Fierce in battle,
Mundoo would balk at opportunities to fight directly on the front line.
Ironically, he died of exposure.
The most quiet of the regiment was Patrick Rower. When you could get him
to speak, he would decry the cause of the Confederacy, swearing he had
no interest in Mr. Davis' platform, nor the most noble land of South
Carolina, nor the future of the enterprise of free slave labor, or even which
side was the victor. His reasons for carrying a rifle into the war were his
own. The scariest thing was that he had started to gain a following. No one
seemed to care much when he went AWOL. My ancestor was sure he
started a religious sect in Kentucky, changing his goals seamlessly when
the tide turned against the South.
The most notable commanding officer that my grandfather and his
compatriots answered to was a Major Albert Fredricks. Former cavalry
general, he had gotten demoted when his love of gambling had caused him
not to report for parade one morning. He still rode his dull headed horse
around, him shouting orders, and the beast starting fearfully at any threat.
A fated charge turned foul when the horse, called Piper Downs, reared at a
stray mutt, dumping Fredricks onto his own sword.
The image of the sword reminded me the reason I was in this dusty, stuffy
attic, and I began poking around. Sure enough, I found the tarnished 1833
Dragoon Saber propped against a support beam. Testing the blade against
my thumb, I doubted if Peterson, Burke, or Green would deny me the right
to bring the blade into the match. I had found my first weapon.
I continued poking, finding the props of the cast my grandfather's journal
had laid out for me. Here was Mundoo's shoddy tomahawk, and the
eighteen pound shot, with cast iron handles welded to the sides, Rower's
aluminum canteen encased in leather. I scratched my chin, agonizing over
what to select. My eyes fell on the sixteen by sixteen inch drum that had
belonged to the boy who never got to grow up. Heavy wooden slats make
up the barrel, and the leather is fastened with heavy steel tighteners. The
entire thing is mounted on an iron harness. The potential for damage was
incredible. I dragged it over near the saber.
I couldn't settle on the final weapon. I knew Travis's plan for bringing the
most effective weapon one could obtain, and I didn't want to mimic his
idea and steal his thunder. Hoping for inspiration, I settled back in to read
the last few page of my great great great great great grandfather's journal.
The last bit told about how he had met two Union officers a few years after
the war in Richmond. As different as night and day, Thomas Parker and
Joseph Sheridan had stopped in to have a couple of pints at a tavern
downtown. Parker was the life of the small tavern, entertaining the
southern gents and blue collars alike. No one but my grandfather had
seemed to realize that this New Yorker was veiling scathing insults toward
the failure of the Confederacy and backward antebellum life. All eyes were
drawn to this confident and deadly soldier. Sheridan was quiet, but not
silent. Mostly reserved, quiet, and grim, he nonetheless had a commanding
presence. What he lacked in drawing attention to himself, he made up for
by leaving a lasting impression. To my grandfather, he had seemed a
coiled spring, full of lethal energy.
One thing about these two men was obvious. They were dangerous. The
stain of blood was on their hands. They had not known defeat at any point
in the long war, and every victory was a crushing one.
Crushing. It was definitive of what the Human Resource Department would
be doing at Battleground, not only to the rest of the people in that match,
but to the laughable sellout Black Knights. That convinced me. It took me
some heaving, but finally I rocked the huge cast iron shot over to place it
with the sword and drum.
When it was brought to my attention that I would need to bring a selection
of weapons to this event, I decided to follow the thread of my past back to
a time when I had to choose between the toss up of seldom used weapons
in my time. It seemed, however, that the ringbell, the paint cans, even the
various cages I've incorporated into my arsenal, weren't going to be
enough. A search for something new actually led me farther back, into
nostalgia, and eventually into the home I shared for a brief period in my
life with my biological father. What I found there was strangely
appropriate, since it came from the bloodiest battleground in American
history.
My four or five time great grandfather kept a journal that has been passed
down through our family along with a few keepsakes from that time.
Scavenging in our attic, I found this journal, and curiosity got the best of
me. I cracked the dusty old leather bound tome, and began to read.
My ancestor had been a member of one of the worst ragtag regiments in
the entire Confederate army. He wrote almost fondly of them, probably
once the War of Northern Aggression had been over a decade in the books.
To have served alongside these men would have led to court martial for
me, if he wasn't embellishing.
One of the most well thought of seemed to be a man who had worked
artillery. James Kinder had been a good kid, full of a bright future.
Unfortunately, the rest of the artillery crew had been a mischievous bunch
of layabouts. Delusions of grandeur dominated their talk, but the majority
of them sought their military glory by playing pranks and bullying the
weaker soldiers. When it came to actual duty, they were all around lazy.
One fateful day, one of them failed to clean the muzzle properly, and too
much gunpowder was ignited. The cannon exploded, felling Kinder when
the shot landed on his chest.
Not every death my ancestor witnessed during that conflict was so
innocent. In that time, some of the less shameful citizens not involved in
the war would follow around any regiment they felt they could make a
profit from. There was a harlot that offered her services up several times a
week no matter where they were encamped. Ginny Maker, they called her,
and most of the soldiers found her services to be a welcome relief from the
horrors of war. But one particularly crude officer thought it would be a kick
to pay her to seduce the twelve year old drummer, Charlie Geist. The boy,
who had pounded out their cadences and had been a good source of charm
and laughter for the rest of the men, had died of some venereal disease
near Stones River, Tennessee. His fifer shot Ginny dead the day after.
Then there was the Native. Mundoo. Why an Algonquin had signed up to
fight for any nation that subverted his homeland, they never understood,
but my grandfather had suspicions about his lineage. Fierce in battle,
Mundoo would balk at opportunities to fight directly on the front line.
Ironically, he died of exposure.
The most quiet of the regiment was Patrick Rower. When you could get him
to speak, he would decry the cause of the Confederacy, swearing he had
no interest in Mr. Davis' platform, nor the most noble land of South
Carolina, nor the future of the enterprise of free slave labor, or even which
side was the victor. His reasons for carrying a rifle into the war were his
own. The scariest thing was that he had started to gain a following. No one
seemed to care much when he went AWOL. My ancestor was sure he
started a religious sect in Kentucky, changing his goals seamlessly when
the tide turned against the South.
The most notable commanding officer that my grandfather and his
compatriots answered to was a Major Albert Fredricks. Former cavalry
general, he had gotten demoted when his love of gambling had caused him
not to report for parade one morning. He still rode his dull headed horse
around, him shouting orders, and the beast starting fearfully at any threat.
A fated charge turned foul when the horse, called Piper Downs, reared at a
stray mutt, dumping Fredricks onto his own sword.
The image of the sword reminded me the reason I was in this dusty, stuffy
attic, and I began poking around. Sure enough, I found the tarnished 1833
Dragoon Saber propped against a support beam. Testing the blade against
my thumb, I doubted if Peterson, Burke, or Green would deny me the right
to bring the blade into the match. I had found my first weapon.
I continued poking, finding the props of the cast my grandfather's journal
had laid out for me. Here was Mundoo's shoddy tomahawk, and the
eighteen pound shot, with cast iron handles welded to the sides, Rower's
aluminum canteen encased in leather. I scratched my chin, agonizing over
what to select. My eyes fell on the sixteen by sixteen inch drum that had
belonged to the boy who never got to grow up. Heavy wooden slats make
up the barrel, and the leather is fastened with heavy steel tighteners. The
entire thing is mounted on an iron harness. The potential for damage was
incredible. I dragged it over near the saber.
I couldn't settle on the final weapon. I knew Travis's plan for bringing the
most effective weapon one could obtain, and I didn't want to mimic his
idea and steal his thunder. Hoping for inspiration, I settled back in to read
the last few page of my great great great great great grandfather's journal.
The last bit told about how he had met two Union officers a few years after
the war in Richmond. As different as night and day, Thomas Parker and
Joseph Sheridan had stopped in to have a couple of pints at a tavern
downtown. Parker was the life of the small tavern, entertaining the
southern gents and blue collars alike. No one but my grandfather had
seemed to realize that this New Yorker was veiling scathing insults toward
the failure of the Confederacy and backward antebellum life. All eyes were
drawn to this confident and deadly soldier. Sheridan was quiet, but not
silent. Mostly reserved, quiet, and grim, he nonetheless had a commanding
presence. What he lacked in drawing attention to himself, he made up for
by leaving a lasting impression. To my grandfather, he had seemed a
coiled spring, full of lethal energy.
One thing about these two men was obvious. They were dangerous. The
stain of blood was on their hands. They had not known defeat at any point
in the long war, and every victory was a crushing one.
Crushing. It was definitive of what the Human Resource Department would
be doing at Battleground, not only to the rest of the people in that match,
but to the laughable sellout Black Knights. That convinced me. It took me
some heaving, but finally I rocked the huge cast iron shot over to place it
with the sword and drum.