Shortly after the debacle of Blackburn’s Ford, when so many of our men fell back in disarray from the Secesh counterattack, I took up a position in a copse of trees and waited for an opportunity to regroup with my unit. I had little in the way of supplies, my haversack having been blown off me by some rather disagreeable Secesh artillery.
What I did have were my Colts and my knife, and my Spencer rifle, with exactly seven rounds left to it. I was reasonably comfortable with the accommodations and my supplies, so I hid myself away as best I could and settled in for a nap.
I was awakened shortly before evening, not by the marching of Secesh troops or any such martial display, but by the ungodly screams of dying horses. There was a scattering of small arms fire, and then silence.
I crept out from my hideaway, fully aware that something other than men had caused the horses to scream out their last.
With my Spencer primed, I made my way forward, following a battered road in the direction the sounds of death had originated from.
In a short time, I found carnage not wrought by human hands.
Several horses lay dead in their traces, the caissons they’d been hauling broken and scattered. There were weapons here and there, and the road was muddy with the blood of man and beast. I could find no trace of the men who had been with the horses, however, despite having heard their attempts to defend themselves.
As I examined the road, I found large tracks, footprints roughly ten times the size of my own, and I knew what had caused the carnage.
I set out after the author of the carnage, avoiding Secesh patrols as I went. It was almost an hour after dark before I found him, a gnarled old giant crouched behind rocks and eating the last of some Secesh artilleryman.
It took all seven shots from the Spencer, and all twelve from the Colts to put the damned thing down, but down he went.
I scalped him with the Bowie knife, and when the skin’s cured it’ll do as a replacement for my haversack.
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