Southern Chivalry Isn't Dead

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Jason Campbell
Posts: 32
Joined: 18 Sep 2020 14:25

Southern Chivalry Isn't Dead

Post by Jason Campbell » 02 Dec 2020 03:15

This is an AAR...or something like that..from my battle with General Scott Clawson



Those were his guns!

He stood looking at the wrecked remains of a 12 lb Napoleon. Wrecked in the sense that the tube was spiked and the the axle had been carefully broken at the point where the linch pin meets the wheel hub. Carefully broken, indeed. Those god damned Rebs had only destroyed it when they had realized that they couldn't take it with them in their "retreat". He lingered on that word, "retreat". Disgustedly, he took his slouch hat off and ran his hand through his hair. He remembered the young lieutenant from the 5th West Virginia breaking military protocol and excitedly slapping him on the back, his wide eyes brimming with tears, watching the Rebs conducting a rather orderly fall back, firing the whole time. He wasn't sure if the tears were from the horrors the man had just witnessed or from the utter relief he felt that he had lived to fight another day, another hour, another minute.

"THEY'RE BREAKING! THEY'RE BREAKING!", the lieutenant had said, roughly slapping him on the back and only realizing the crap storm he could just have potentially brought down on himself by what he had just done. He had ashamedly apologized, turning a bright red and turning his eyes to the ground.

He had let it slide. There wasn't time for a reminder in military etiquette and besides the lieutenant had only been caught up in the moment.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a cigar, bit the tip off, struck a lucifer, and brought the cigar to life. He inhaled deeply as he scanned the seemingly endless carnage around him. Wounded and dying men lay everywhere. Cries and screams, the occasional high whiney of a horse as it was put out of its poor misery, sounds he was unfortunately becoming too familiar with.

The Rebs had come like a hurricane from the east, across Sitlington Hill and as far to the North as Cedar Nob. They had made use of the Parkersburg Turnpike, only going into battle line after the first report of his guns...those same guns that now, belonged to the Rebs and lay in a useless mass at his feet.

He had deployed his men at the base of Stilington Hill in a small wooded grove and had them in line across the Parkersburg Turnpike all the way to Cedar Nob, running north to south. They had hit with a fury, faces contorted with rage, yelling that hideous Rebel yell. He had watched from his place on a bluff overlooking the action as, for the first time for some of these poor young souls, they had witnessed a full blown Southern attack. Not a skirmish, but an all out attack. They had fought back gallantly, slowly allowing themselves to be pushed across Bullpasture River, coming to within about 300 yards of where he had been watching the fight.

Every man from the 12th Ohio Light Battery had been killed. The thought of this sent another wave of anger and frustration through him. He had ordered the battery to withdraw by prolong. Yes he had. He had found the batteries commander and had angrily asked if he had not received the order. The look on the man's face as he dumbfoundedly said that, yes, he had indeed given the order but the mostly Irish crew had grinned through their powder blackened faces and said they were...but it wasn't their fault if the guns rolled back the other way slightly, sir. Such god damned beautiful insolence. They had kept firing as the Rebs closed and started using sponge staffs, small arms and pretty much anything they could get their hands on as they were being overrun.

The supply wagon had been captured too. They had taken the supplies and somehow, even in the heat of battle, had managed to break every single spoke out of the wheel hubs.

He sighed. The intake of breath brought the smell of sap from splintered trees, smoke from small burning fires. They had been pushed back through McDowell. Fighting had been fierce in and around the town. Rebel cavalry had came out of nowhere and had secured it.

Now, his staff and officers were wanting to call this a victory, a defiant fist in the face of secession. He knew better than that. He had gotten lucky. Might as well say it like it is. He turned and started walking to his horse, still puffing on his cigar. He smiled to himself as he thought of putting his field glasses to his eyes, watching the last of the Rebs falling back over Stilington Hill. A lone Rebel officer had stopped on the crest of the hill, watching the withdrawal. His face had been turned from him and he didn't recognize him at first...until he turned. Still elegantly dressed, in spite of just fighting a pitched battle, a gold hilted sword still in his hand. General Scott Clawson.

He watched as the general put his own field glasses to his eyes and scan the horizon, stopping when he saw him staring back at him. The general lowered his glasses and he noticed a grin on his face, almost as if to say, enjoy it while you can because we'll be back. The general stared his way for a minute then, removed his elegantly plumed hat and bowed in his direction, replacing it as he slowly backed over the top of the hill, following his men to a far off wood line.

He chuckled to himself. Southern chivalry. It for sure wasn't dead. He knew he would see the general again soon on a field similar to this one, or altogether different. Swinging into the saddle, he spurred his mount towards his headquarters near the Ice House Inn. He could already taste the applejack that waited him there.
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Mark Jones
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Joined: 06 May 2019 00:17

Re: Southern Chivalry Isn't Dead

Post by Mark Jones » 02 Dec 2020 05:54

Well done, Lieutenant! {Salute}

Congratulations on your first Major Victory over our misguided brothers in gray.

I must concur that General Clawson is a gentleman officer of the first order.

Now about that applejack that we were discussing....

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Jason Campbell
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Re: Southern Chivalry Isn't Dead

Post by Jason Campbell » 06 Dec 2020 02:59

*opens a earthenware jug*
Sir! <salute>
Allow me to fill your glass. Good quality stuff here. This is what was left of my stash after the cursed Rebs broke the spokes off my supply wagon. Took all of it but this one jug. Procured this applejack near where the battle was fought, near McDowell. Lovely little inn there with the loveliest brunette bar maid you ever saw.
* drains his glass and refills it*
The noble Perciville, my mute banjo player that accompanies me into every battle, and myself, were once stranded there in the blizzard of '60. Just us, her equally beautiful sister, and a fresh barrel of Irish whiskey that had just been delivered the day before that blessed blizzard hit.
* looks distantly into his glass *
Good times. :D
* drains glass again and refills it *
Another glass, sir?
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TWS Member Since 10 September 2020

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