Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
Stand ready, Boys. Don't forget to pull your ramrods . . . The sharp cutts of the Marlin Watkin's paddle call could have been a thousand Rebel Yells! Gobble-obble-obble. Double gobbles . . . triple. Obble-obble-obble! The enemy was affronted, roaring, on the attack. Fast step. Coming, hard. Gobble-obble-obble. Obble-obble-obble. Closer . . . closer. Thundering his dominion, again and again. I could hear now the drum and spit of his bugle corps. Now the actual beat of his double-step through the lush grass. And there he was, before us! Charging, beard swinging, colors flying, the ponderous black-green bellows of his breast flopping to-and-fro like Christmas pudding. A haughty Lieutenant alongside, two steps behind, reckless with colors as well. Into my rank of decoys he rushed, brandishing spurs, overwhelming and thumping grandly my small troop of feigning defenders. Finding too late the peril of his predicament, as my arrow found its mark, and he fell, kicking. Blood to dust, his spurs cutting their last arcs in the sand. While his Lieutenant wisely but quite indecorously withdrew. So that I could breathe once more, so that the sweat on my brow would dry, so that my heart would fall back to parade rest in my chest. In the Commonwealth, you can claim only one general a day, so I fell back against my rest, laid my bow aside. Fifteen minutes later, 60 yards to my left flank, stood three more inflamed commanders of the enemy front. I held my breath again, lest I was discovered. For I am now under orders not to engage. Two tarried, while the fiercest sallied forth, spurs drawn. The last of my brave deflection squad was doomed. Then evolved the strangest battlefield condition I had ever been called to witness. For this officer was no gentleman. S Advancing unerringly toward the center of battle, rather than pour his assault upon the last of my brave men, he fell upon his fallen comrade. Catching him by his great snood and pulling. Arching his neck, sitting back on his haunches and straining with all his might. Time and again, until I thought he would pluck the queer appendage completely from its mortal moorings. Until I wondered deeply of the motive behind such comportment. Revenge? Envy? Defilement? Then, unsatisfied, he did something even more unspeakable . . . panting with the aftermath . . . stood, shook and straightened his uniform, and left. Rejoining his leering comrades and carrying them away. While I wished I could have shot him. Shot him dead. T he next two days calls me to other fronts, each time under heavy fire and harassment from the opposing forces. The hills reverberate with their never-ending challenge. Charge after charge, and on the third morning, Bigfoot Josh Duncan, my Sergeant-at-Arms steps on my bow in the dark. I miss two other generals point blank, because my sights have been disabled. Until I am forced to fix bayonet. Though at the last minute both assailants turn away. Taking turns at deviant behavior with my distraction rank again. I have been brought to it before . . . a strange, strange army, he is, this curious enemy of mine. Uncanny in cunning, but perverse of convention. So often, genius trades rank with insanity. Note: Mathew's Heli-m bow and NAP's new Killzone broadheads were devastating in this engagement. I stand certain, with the renewal of the '13 spring campaign, that the Virginia hills will be bristling with the enemy presence. There's time to enlist. Contact Josh Duncan at www. pottscreekoutfitters.com. P O R T I N G C 25 L A S S I C S