Through the sheer power of hatred, Zeke Powers somehow kept up with the rest of his squad until the Union Army set up summer camp on the Rappahannock River to rest and refit. Rumors swirled about camp concerning moves against Lee. Instead, the Bucktails found themselves engaged in endless daily drills, regimental inspections, and dress parades. After one brutally hot day of drilling, Bucky’s squad slipped off to the river for a cool dip.
“Don’t this water feel dandy?” whooped Boone, splashing Bucky playfully.
“Yes, it sure were nice o’ the Rebs ta stay out Culpeper way so we got the river ta ourselves.”
“Speaking of rivers,” chimed Jimmy, “did you boys hear that General Grant just took Vicksburg? With the Union in control of the Mississippi, that cuts the South in half!”
“Hey, we’s here ta re-lax,” blared Zeke Powers, “not ta talk ’bout the dang war! Ain’t that a patch o’ blackberries I sees on the bank? Let’s git dressed an’ have a look see.”
“Ain’t nothin’ like a bunch o’ berries ta fill out a fella’s diet,” said Bucky.
“I love them, too,” agreed Jimmy, “especially when my mother bakes them in a pie.”
“I’m mighty fond o’ blackberry jam,” replied Zeke. “An’ my wife loves ta can berries.”
“Do you have any children?” asked Jimmy.
“Yes, me an’ Mary got hitched real young like an’ got six little gals.”
“No wonder ya run off an’ joined the army with that many squallin’ females in the house,” grunted Hosea, smacking Zeke in the face with a huge wave of water.
“No, I enlisted ta pro-vide fer my loved ones,” sputtered Powers. “I lost my job at the lumberyard an’ had no choice.”
“What kind o’ lumber could you move?” jeered Hosea. “A runt like you’d have a tough time shovelin’ sawdust, let alone heftin’ pine boards an’ such.”
“E-nough o’ this talk,” interrupted Boone. “Let’s go pick us some berries like Zeke said. Did you know that bears got their black coats from gorgin’ themselves on ’em?”
“No, but I know you’re gonna git a black eye if ya don’t keep them whoppers ta yerself,” warned Curtis. “Ya gotta remember, boys, that rattlers favor berries jess as much as bears.”
“Darn it, Hosea!” cried Jimmy in exasperation. “Why do you always have to see the bad side of everything?”
“’Cause that’s the only side left after all the bloodshed we’s been neck-deep in.”
The Bucktails spent the next hour combing through a patch of brambles and returned to camp with their caps overflowing with berries the size of a man’s thumb. Scratched but happy, they gorged themselves on the sweet fruit until the mail was distributed to the squad. Jimmy received a copy of his hometown paper, the M’Kean Miner. When he glanced at the front page, he shouted, “My poem! It’s here! By golly, they printed it!”
“What poem is that?” asked Zeke.
“‘The First PA Rifles’,” jabbered Jewett. “I wrote it just after Gettysburg and sent it to the newspaper editor back in Smethport.”
“You’ll have ta let me read it later,” replied Powers. “I love poems. ’Specially the patriotic ones.”
“Readin’ poultry’s a waste o’ time,” grumbled Curtis. “Is there anything ’bout the Gettysburg battle in the Miner? After the way us Bucktails routed them Rebs, we musta got some notice from the home folks.”
“Well, let me see,” muttered Jimmy, visibly hurt by the sergeant’s gruff remark. “Here we are. Gettysburg’s mentioned on page four.”
“Don’t jess set there with yer teeth in yer mouth! Read us the dang article.”
“‘The Great Victory. Once more we add to the long list of victories of the Union. The Army of the Potomac has shown by winning the great victory at Gettysburg that even its two years’ fearful training in sluggishness, retreat, and defeat has not broken its courage, diminished its endurance, nor rendered it unable to move and maneuver with magnificent swiftness and power.
“‘The following is the official list of killed and wounded of the old Bucktail Regiment in the late fighting at Gettysburg. We regret to find the name of Hiram Woodruff, who formerly resided in this place, in the list killed. He was one of the first to spring to arms for the defense of his country, and with thousands of others, has given his life to save it. Killed: Col. Chas. F. Taylor; 2nd Lieut. R. Hall, D; Samuel Spear, B; H. Woodruff, G; R. J. Gilmore, H; Chas. Penhollow, H. Wounded: Company I Ct. Frank Bell, leg amputated; P. P. Ellithorp, left knee.’”
“Ya mean they don’t even tell how we de-fended Little Round Top?” howled the outraged Curtis.
“How could they fergit our brav’ry?” wondered Boone in disbelief.
“Well, they do give a nice tribute to Colonel Taylor,” replied Jewett.
“Please read it, will ya, Jimmy?” urged Bucky. “He was the best officer ever led our outfit. I still miss ’im.”
“‘The late Col. C. F. Taylor of the Pennsylvania Bucktails. Correspondence of the N.Y. Tribune, Kennett Square, Pa, July 7, 1863: The remains of this noble and accomplished young officer, who fell at the Battle of Gettysburg on Thursday last while gallantly leading a charge over Broadtop Summit, were brought to this place on Monday, and will be buried from the residence of his brother, Mr. Bayard Taylor, on Wednesday afternoon. The untimely death of this young hero created the most profound sorrow in this entire community. His patriotic devotion to his country, not less than his manly qualities of heart, had endeared him to all who knew him, and no other officer in the army was more tenderly beloved by his men than he.’”
“Them newspaper boys never git nothin’ right,” snarled Sergeant Curtis. “Taylor was killed up Devil’s Den way, not on ‘Broadtop Summit,’ wherever that is. His ‘patriotic de-votion’ didn’t help ’im a lick when he stopped that Reb bullet.”
The squad contemplated Hosea’s harsh words, munching in silence on their berries. They had just about finished lunch when a sutler’s wagon pulled into camp, and a gray-haired merchant in a rumpled suit clambered from the driver’s seat to address the men. He was accompanied by a muscular brute with a shaved head.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the sutler with a broad smile. “I was wondering if I might interest you in some Bibles I picked up awhile back in Washington? They are of fine quality and are sure to provide balm and solace to fighting men such as you.”
“No, thanks,” said Bucky curtly, eyeing the visitors with distrust.
“Then, maybe you’d like to see what’s inside this holy book.”
The sutler cracked open the hardbound Bible to reveal a secret compartment containing a small bottle of whiskey. Jimmy rose angrily when he saw what the word of God was being used to hide, but before he could voice his outrage, the merchant barked, “This here ain’t no forty-rod or popskull but the finest liquor straight from the senators’ own tables. Who’d like a sample? Sergeant?”
“Sure, I’ll take a swig,” sang Curtis. “I ain’t never turned down free liquor in all my born days.”
“And how would such a strapping fellow as yourself like to pick up some extra greenbacks?” asked the smooth gent as Hosea slugged down half the bottle.
“What’s I gotta do?”
“Fight my friend here, is all. And win. It’s all bare-knuckle fighting by the London Prize Ring rules. All on the up and up. We’ll be in the woods over by the river after I’ve visited more of your regiment. Betting, of course, will be encouraged. And keep the liquor, my friend, while you make up your mind.”
“Boy, Hosea, I don’t think you should get tangled up with that fellow,” cautioned Jimmy after the sutler had moved off to peddle his whiskey to another squad.
“Ah, shut yer yap, Jewett. Fightin’s what I know best.”
“That’s what ya said ’bout poker be-fore we got jumped by them double-dealin’ gamblers back in Washington,” reminded Bucky ruefully.
“Hey, I can’t even count the number o’ fellas I thrashed,” bragged Curtis. “I used ta git a tavern brawl goin’ jess fer fun. The sutler’s man looks washed up ta me.”
“You mean experienced, don’t you?” countered Jimmy.
“Yes, did you see the scars on that rascal’s face?” whistled Boone. “An’ his squished nose an’ missin’ teeth?”
“Ah, don’t worry none, boys. Jess bet on ol’ Hosea an’ win some easy money. Ain’t yer mama’s birthday comin’ up, Jewett? An’, Bucky, don’t ya want ta buy somethin’ special fer Sarah? I’m fightin’, an’ that’s that!”
The sutler parked his wagon in a grove of trees and began barking out invitations for the gathering crowd to step up and challenge his boxer. Before anyone else could answer the call, Curtis pushed through the throng, flexing his biceps and pumping his huge fists in the air. When the Bucktails saw who was going to fight the stranger, they rushed to place their bets with the slick gent, who offered even odds that his man would win. The sutler returned to the center of the grove with the pockets of his suit bulging with greenbacks bet on Hosea.
“Okay, boys, step back and give the boxers room!” shouted the sutler. “This bout will be run by London Prize Ring rules that I modified so any hayseed could understand them. There will be no kicking, gouging, or hair pulling. You got that, soldier boy? There will be as many rounds as necessary until one man claims victory. A round will end when a fighter gets knocked down. The fallen boxer will have thirty seconds to take his feet. If he can’t, the referee will declare the standing boxer the winner.”
“Who’s gonna be the referee of this here match?” asked Boone suspiciously.
“Why, me, of course,” insisted the sutler.
“But you’s the one holdin’ the money,” growled Zeke Powers.
“I’m the only one with enough pockets!”
A wave of laughter ran through the throng of Bucktails, most of whom were well-oiled with the sutler’s whiskey. When all became quiet again, the self-appointed umpire commanded, “The contestants will now go to scratch.”
“What does that mean?” asked Jimmy.
“The boxers will face one another and wait for my signal to begin.”
Hosea stepped boldly forward to within striking distance of the bruiser he was challenging. The other fighter was a good head taller than Curtis with even bigger hands. He had thick shoulders, a bull neck, and a face mauled by many hard fists. Drool spilled from his split bottom lip when he slurred to the sergeant, “I’s gonna git ya. I’s gonna git ya. Watch out. I’s gonna git ya. That’s right. That’s right.”
Hosea snarled and spit and glared at the hulking giant until the sutler yelled, “Begin!” Before Curtis could even throw a punch, he found himself on his back from a lightning jab that just about knocked out his left eye.
“Round One goes to Mr. Flint,” barked the referee. “Sergeant, you have thirty seconds to get up.”
Hosea leaped to his feet and charged his opponent like an outraged bull. Using his head as a battering ram, he drove the other fighter to the ground. Both men wailed away at each other, rolling and tumbling into the scattering crowd. Flint used every dirty trick in his repertoire, punching and gouging at any sensitive area he could reach. Nothing fazed Curtis, who kept hammering with his fists until his arms felt like taffy. Finally, he was forced to leap away, allowing Flint to wobble to his feet. Sensing victory, Hosea resumed his attack and hit Flint with a roundhouse right that nearly snapped his opponent’s head off his neck. Flint went down in a heap, while the sergeant danced and cursed with glee.
“Round Two,” gasped the sutler, “goes to the sergeant. Thirty second, Flint. Get up, Flint!”
Flint staggered to his feet when twenty-nine seconds had passed. Instantly, Curtis closed in for the kill. He would have achieved it, too, had not the other man spit a stinging spray of tobacco juice in his eyes. Hosea swung blindly at his opponent, who sidestepped the blow and planted a giant fist in the sergeant’s ear. Curtis was knocked sideways as a terrible ringing further numbed his senses. Before he could regain his bearings, Flint smacked him with an uppercut to the jaw that sent the Bucktail crashing to the ground.
A disappointed groan rose from the crowd as Bucky, Jimmy, and Boone rushed to help their defeated pal. At first, they thought Curtis was dead by the way he lay in a broken heap. Blood oozed from the sergeant’s ear. One eye was swollen completely shut, while the other was leaking ichor. When Jimmy saw how Hosea’s breathing came in short spasms, the lad stammered, “H-h-he must have b-b-broken ribs!”
“An’ look at that face!” gulped Crossmire.
“We best hope summer camp don’t break soon,” said Bucky with a low whistle, “’cause Hosea ain’t gonna fight Rebs fer some time.”
“It was just a lucky punch that felled the sergeant,” shouted the sutler, hovering over Curtis in feigned concern. “Would anyone else like to box Mr. Flint? Although he’s worn down from his bout, I will double my payout to anyone who can take him. Who’s manly enough to accept the challenge?”
“I am!” shouted Zeke Powers, pushing through the crowd with fire in his eyes.
“You?” squeaked the sutler. “Why, I’ve seen bigger rat terriers.”
“Then, ya know how hard they bites!” responded Zeke.
“But one of Mr. Flint’s fists is bigger than your head.”
“Fergit that. David weren’t scared o’ Goliath. It’s time to go ta scratch.”
“Better check his pocket fer a slingshot,” chortled one bemused bystander.
“An’ start diggin’ a short grave,” bawled another drunken Bucktail.
The giant boxer was a good two feet taller than Powers and cast an ominous shadow over him. When the referee barked “Begin,” Flint lashed out with a deadly left hook. Zeke juked out of the way at the last second, and the momentum of the missed punch caused the bigger boxer to stumble. Powers darted forward and landed a flurry of punches on Flint’s exposed ribs. Before the giant could answer with a blow of his own, the lithe flyweight dodged out of reach.
Just by the way Powers handled himself, Flint knew he was battling no novice. The smaller man danced and feinted and aimed his punches like many other professionals he had faced on the upside of his career. Those fighters had done so much damage to him that he now was reduced to fighting hayseeds and drunken soldiers to make his living. The fierce determination blazing in Powers’ eyes sent a shiver of fear through Flint that caused him to fight more defensively.
Zeke dug his toes into the ground and landed another flurry of punches on the bigger man’s gut. He felt the wind of another missed punch go past his swaying head. Darting behind Flint, he struck a blow at the giant’s kidneys. Flint groaned, clutched at his back, and then felt his knees buckle as he crashed to the turf.
“The private wins Round One,” muttered the referee. “Back off and give the downed man some air.”
Flint stood up at the twelve count with his arms dangling at his side. Zeke immediately rushed in to pummel him in the ribs and gut. He’d have hit him in the face if he could have reached it.
Flint roared with pain and surprise. Swinging wildly, he again exposed his ribs to Powers’ repeated blows. Finally, the big man landed a left-right combination on his pesky antagonist. Zeke flew through the air and smacked into the crowd as though hit by a cannonball. He lay in a pile of other dazed bystanders as the sutler yelped, “My man takes Round Two.”
Zeke shook his head to clear it of cobwebs, not rising to his feet until the referee’s eighteen count. His legs felt rubbery, and his jaw cracked when he worked it. He had just enough spring left to avoid the giant’s blows that came with more regularity now. He continued to dodge and dance until Flint’s punches began to lose their precision and power. When he saw Flint was all but winded, he charged forward, leaped in the air, and planted both feet in the middle of the big man’s chest. The ferocity of the kick toppled the other boxer over backward. He fell with such force that the remaining air gushed from his lungs, leaving him stunned and helpless.
“This fight’s over,” declared the sutler when his man did not rise after thirty seconds. “There is no winner. I will not pay off any bets.”
“What do ya mean no winner?” yelled Boone, stepping forward to raise the exhausted Zeke’s hand in the air. “Powers is still standin’, ain’t he?”
“He used an illegal kick not allowed by the London Prize Ring rules,” maintained the sutler with a grim smile.
“But nothing was said when your brawler punched Curtis below the belt,” rumbled Major Hartshorne, emerging from the crowd leading a contingent of armed guards. “Arrest this man and make sure he returns the money he bilked from our regiment. Drag off his fighter. And arrest any drunk Bucktail.”
As the guards hurried to carry out his commands, the major strode to where Bucky and Jimmy were tending the half-conscious Hosea. “I’d arrest you, too, Sergeant,” he promised, “but there’s no army regulation against stupidity. Curtis, you’re now on sick call. I know you’re too stubborn to see the surgeon, so Culp, Jewett, you’re responsible for nursing the sergeant back into fighting shape. I shouldn’t say this, Powers, but you did a bully job against that brawler. You were a real wildcat!”
“How did ya learn ta fight like that?” asked Boone in an awed whisper.
“I was always the runt o’ the litter,” panted Zeke, “so my pappy learned me young how ta de-fend myself. I got my stature from him. He knew all ’bout bullies an’ how ta knock ’em ta their knees.”
“Carry on, men,” said Hartshorne. “I just hope we can punish the Rebs like Powers did his opponent. Take care of Curtis. He’s one of our best fighters, even if he doesn’t always display the best judgment.”
“We will, sir,” replied the squad, rising to salute their major.
When Hartshorne was out of earshot, Boone mumbled, “I can’t believe we didn’t git no punishment. Is the major goin’ soft, er what?”
“We weren’t drinking,” reminded Jimmy. “He had no reason to trouble us.”
“I reckon Hartshorne admires courage over anything else,” added Bucky. “An’ he saw it here in the battlin’ spirit o’ Hosea an’ Zeke!”