Chapter 144: Winter Preparations

The rich, heavy aroma of Otis’s beef stew and freshly baked corn biscuit loaves filled the wide wooden interior of the main barn. Lanterns hung from the overhead crossbeams, casting a warm yellow glow across two long pine tables where sixty hungry men sat shoulder-to-shoulder, eagerly digging into their iron bowls.

​Ricky sat near the middle of the table beside John Caldwell, Arthur, and old Henry, the farm’s longtime caretaker. Outside, the night wind rattled the loose wooden side doors, carrying a sharp, freezing bite.

​Henry set his tin spoon down, wiping his mouth with the back of his calloused hand before looking out toward the dark windows. "November thirteenth," Henry observed in his slow, raspy northern drawl. "Snow’s coming down early this year. Last winter was mild, but when the flurries hit Westchester this early in November, it means a long, brutal freeze is riding right behind it. Up here in Pound Ridge, the cold don’t bite like it does in the city—it cuts right through timber if you ain’t ready for it."

​Ricky took the old man’s words to heart. Henry knew the local weather better than anyone on the property, and ignoring a veteran farmer’s instinct was a quick way to end up with sick men.

​Standing up from the bench, Ricky tapped his tin cup with a fork to draw the room’s attention. The noisy clatter of spoons against iron bowls immediately quieted as sixty pairs of eyes turned toward him.

​"Listen up, boys," Ricky announced, his voice carrying easily through the barn. "Starting tomorrow morning, all rifle and combat training is officially suspended."

​A soft murmur went through the room as the tenement boys exchanged confused glances.

​"Henry tells me we’re in for a hard winter," Ricky continued calmly. "Canvas tents won’t survive a northern freeze, and I won’t have all of you, sleeping in frost. Starting at dawn, our sole focus is construction. We are building three permanent wooden structures before the heavy snow hits: first, a proper sleeping barracks; second, a central storage house for our arms and supplies; and third, a kitchen and mess hall."

​The men nodded in immediate agreement. The thought of spending freezing December nights inside thin canvas tents was a miserable prospect, and they were glad to see Ricky moving fast to fix it before the real freeze set in.

​"Finish your suppers and get your rest," Ricky added with a brief smile. "We break ground at sunrise."

​Later that evening, after the men had finished eating, Ricky quietly stepped out into the dark cargo shed behind the main house. Accessing his System interface in the shadow of the woodpile, he opened the shop menu and purchased a full shipment of heavy wool winter coats, thick thermal socks, and insulated gloves. He stacked the wooden crates onto a handcart and rolled them up to the barn doorway.

​"John, Arthur," Ricky called out, gesturing to the crates. "Get these distributed to the men before they turn in."

​John walked over, prying open the lid of the top crate with a crowbar. He reached inside, pulling out a heavy, dark blue wool coat lined with thick fleece. He looked over at Arthur in quiet surprise.

​"Did we haul these up from the docks this morning, boss?" John asked, turning the quality garment in his hands. "I don’t recall seeing outerwear among the hardware crates."

​Arthur scratched the back of his neck, equally baffled. "I sure don’t remember loading ’em onto the wagons, Ricky. Must’ve loaded ’em when we weren’t looking."

​John chuckled, shaking his head. "Boss thinks of everything before the rest of us even realize there’s a problem."

​Under John and Arthur’s direction, the coats were handed out to every man in the camp. Recognizing the drop in temperature, the men who had been staying in the outside tents gathered their blankets and moved into the barn, packing tightly together to share body heat. Using hand tools, they nailed their heavy canvas tent covers over the gaps in the barn’s outer wallboards, sealing out the whistling night draft. Steel drums were turned into wood-burning stoves, crackling with hot timber to warm the space.

​Ricky stood near the barn entrance, watching the men settle comfortably into their improvised quarters. Thanks to his upgraded Vitality stat, his own body easily adjusted to the dropping temperature, barely registering the freeze. Still, he pulled a wool coat over his shoulders so he wouldn’t draw unnecessary suspicions.

​Looking out at the quiet snowfall, Ricky couldn’t help but reflect on his past. Back in his modern life in Georgia, winter meant mild days and rare flurries that melted by noon. He hadn’t realized how punishing a 1910 rural New York winter could be, but buying the gear from the shop had saved his crew from a freezing night.

​By five o’clock the following morning, the sun had not yet risen, leaving the farm blanketed in a cold, dim twilight. Small patches of white snow dusted the hard-packed dirt around the yard.

​Inside the barn kitchen, John and Arthur selected the five-man kitchen detail for the day. Otis and his crew were rotated out, replaced by a fresh squad to handle breakfast duties—a solid gig that kept them inside near the warm cookstoves while the rest faced the freezing outdoors.

​Outside, the men emerged from the barn wrapped tightly in their new wool coats, stamping their boots against the frozen ground to stay warm.

​To their absolute surprise, Ricky was already out in the yard. Wearing his heavy winter coat, he was moving along the perimeter track at a steady morning jog, kicking up small clouds of frost with every step.

​Floyd rubbed his eyes, blowing a cloud of steam into the air. "Look at the boss... it’s five in the morning, colder than a brass door handle, and he’s already running laps!"

​"Gets the blood moving, don’t it?" Raymond said, bouncing on his toes and slapping his gloved hands together. "Better than standing out here freezing our tails off!"

​"Hey! Wait up, boss!" sixteen-year-old Rico Johnson called out.

​Rico trotted out onto the dirt track, falling into step behind Ricky. Seeing Rico join, Floyd, Elmer, and half a dozen other young guys trotted out to follow, using the run to burn off the morning chill.

​Noticing the growing parade of runners behind him, Ricky glanced over his shoulder with a sharp grin. Without a word, he lengthened his stride, picking up his speed along the straightaway.

​"Hey! The boss is speeding up!" Floyd laughed, picking up his knees. "Don’t let him leave us behind, boys! Chase him down!"

​The young men shouted and laughed, their hot breath steaming in the crisp morning air as they sprinted through the snow patches, trying in vain to keep up with Ricky’s effortless stride.

​Up on the farmhouse porch, John Caldwell and Arthur stood side-by-side, holding steaming tin mugs of hot black coffee. They watched the pack of boys chasing Ricky around the pasture track, their chuckles echoing over the quiet farm.

​"Look at ’em go," Arthur laughed, taking a slow sip from his mug. "Half of ’em were groaning about their sore legs yesterday, and now they’re chasing Ricky through the snow."

​"Boss has a way of getting people moving, Arthur," John replied with a warm smirk, watching Ricky glide effortlessly ahead of the shouting runners. "Come on. Let me get the saw trucks ready. We’ve got a lot to to haul today."