[Gunslinger's Eye] - Cort
Cort remembers...
They called it the War of Northern Aggression.
I didn't think to call it that at the time... all I know'd was that the South needed defenders, able bodied boys to stand up for the Conferderacy. The politics of it didn' matter to me none, and so I found myself marchin' in a company of the Fourth Georgia Regulars. The uniform fit like a shitty and worn out glove, too tight in places and sagging like a sack fulla watermelons in others. Had some shitass corporal who bitched more than a cat in heat, an a Cap'n who would've sworn the the Holy Lord that his shit smelled a roses.
Didn' matter to me that I was carryin' the musket I'd brought with me from Valdosta. I was gonna be a soldier-boy and be damn good at it, too. Fella walking next to me must've heard my damned thoughts, cuz he started laughing more'n the devil who done just tricked ya. Startin' talkin' to me 'bout all the things he'd seen in his life, an' how this War was likely ta be the last of them.
Old fella said fate had brought us together. Didn' believe him then... ain't sure I believe him now, but goddamned if he didn't walk my ass through more fire an' brimstone than I'd ever even thought of - all while tryin' to teach me how to use the musket in my hands for more'n propping my sleepy ass up.
Four long years... longest of m'life, I think. If we wern't fighting, or fuckin' one of Hooker's girls, then that old coot'd take me out to the woods and give me one of the pistol pairs he carried with him. I didn' get him at first, figgured he was looney as a shithouse bird, 'specially when he started talkin' bout shootin' with the eye an not the hand. Took me a while afore I started getting the swing of what he was talkin', long palavers into the night where he tried to tell me what he'd spent his life perfecting.
He called it the way of the gun. Said he'd been over to the orient, and taken some of their wuju back with him. I'da called this asshole bugnuts, cept he was the most crack shot I'd seen this side of the Mississippi. Took him a while to get it through the bedrock that's this old skull o'mine, but four years of running rampant through the South in grey uniforms gives ya enough time. Damn fool miracle it was that I didn' catch nothing, get nothing cut off, or get dead. Granted, I didn' come out so smooth, but the four years went decent enough.
It was that last battle or so, can't even remember which one it was now, that fate caught up with me. Old Fella'd been right; it was fated, and the fickle bitch decided I'd had enough a run of good luck to last me a spell. I'd finally started takin' to the old coots learnin, when he and I got separated in one mother of all fights. I didn't have time to see the horse coming my way, I'd was too damned busy ducking the fucking ammo. Sure enough, damn beast knocked me clear a yard and that's when the lights went out on this Georgia boy...
They called it the War of Northern Aggression.
I didn't think to call it that at the time... all I know'd was that the South needed defenders, able bodied boys to stand up for the Conferderacy. The politics of it didn' matter to me none, and so I found myself marchin' in a company of the Fourth Georgia Regulars. The uniform fit like a shitty and worn out glove, too tight in places and sagging like a sack fulla watermelons in others. Had some shitass corporal who bitched more than a cat in heat, an a Cap'n who would've sworn the the Holy Lord that his shit smelled a roses.
Didn' matter to me that I was carryin' the musket I'd brought with me from Valdosta. I was gonna be a soldier-boy and be damn good at it, too. Fella walking next to me must've heard my damned thoughts, cuz he started laughing more'n the devil who done just tricked ya. Startin' talkin' to me 'bout all the things he'd seen in his life, an' how this War was likely ta be the last of them.
Old fella said fate had brought us together. Didn' believe him then... ain't sure I believe him now, but goddamned if he didn't walk my ass through more fire an' brimstone than I'd ever even thought of - all while tryin' to teach me how to use the musket in my hands for more'n propping my sleepy ass up.
Four long years... longest of m'life, I think. If we wern't fighting, or fuckin' one of Hooker's girls, then that old coot'd take me out to the woods and give me one of the pistol pairs he carried with him. I didn' get him at first, figgured he was looney as a shithouse bird, 'specially when he started talkin' bout shootin' with the eye an not the hand. Took me a while afore I started getting the swing of what he was talkin', long palavers into the night where he tried to tell me what he'd spent his life perfecting.
He called it the way of the gun. Said he'd been over to the orient, and taken some of their wuju back with him. I'da called this asshole bugnuts, cept he was the most crack shot I'd seen this side of the Mississippi. Took him a while to get it through the bedrock that's this old skull o'mine, but four years of running rampant through the South in grey uniforms gives ya enough time. Damn fool miracle it was that I didn' catch nothing, get nothing cut off, or get dead. Granted, I didn' come out so smooth, but the four years went decent enough.
It was that last battle or so, can't even remember which one it was now, that fate caught up with me. Old Fella'd been right; it was fated, and the fickle bitch decided I'd had enough a run of good luck to last me a spell. I'd finally started takin' to the old coots learnin, when he and I got separated in one mother of all fights. I didn't have time to see the horse coming my way, I'd was too damned busy ducking the fucking ammo. Sure enough, damn beast knocked me clear a yard and that's when the lights went out on this Georgia boy...