Chapter 147: Winter Is Here

Two days after returning from White Plains, the farm at Pound Ridge was a hive of non-stop construction. The screech of hand saws biting into raw pine and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of framing hammers echoed across the snowy valley from sunrise to dusk.

​The division of labor was sharp and relentless. Fifty men worked on-site under old Henry’s watchful eye, while Arthur, John Caldwell, and August led a ten-man team running three heavy motor trucks back and forth to White Plains to haul lumber, hardware, and roofing supplies as well as supply rations for the incoming winter.

​In just forty-eight hours, the wooden skeleton of a massive one-hundred-and-twenty-foot sleeping barracks stood complete, its angled roof joists already covered in heavy pine decking.

​Ricky didn’t just watch from the sidelines. Stripping off his overcoat, he stepped right into the dirt alongside the men, grabbing two-by-fours and hauling heavy timber trusses straight off the back of August’s truck.

​Floyd stared in open wonder as Ricky casually shouldered a pair of solid six-by-six foundation posts that usually took three men to carry. "Sweet Lord," Floyd muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the freezing air. "The boss works like a steam engine."

​As the days blended into weeks, the camp transformed. Once the floorboards of the long barracks were nailed down, the framing crew immediately shifted to erect the skeleton of the mess hall, while another squad broke ground on a sixty-by-sixty-foot central storage house.

​Three weeks passed in a blur of hard manual labor. Just as the sky turned a heavy gray and a thick, blinding snowstorm settled over Westchester County, the final shingles were nailed into place. All three major structures—the barracks, the mess hall, and the storage house—were fully built and sealed against the weather. The framers had even managed to build all of the double wooden bunk beds inside the barracks and construct proper, enclosed outdoor latrines downwind from the main camp.

​On a freezing late afternoon, heavy white flakes blanketed the farm. Down by the new barracks, several men were using hammers and tin tacks to secure heavy canvas sheets over the exterior wooden siding to block the biting wind from seeping through the board gaps.

​Ricky stood on the front porch of the main farmhouse, wearing his heavy wool winter coat and holding a steaming tin cup of black coffee. He took a slow sip, watching the smoke rise from the tin chimneys of the new buildings.

​Footsteps crunched against the snow-covered porch boards behind him. John Caldwell stepped out, wrapping his coat tight around his neck.

​"Shall we continue training the men through the winter, boss?" John asked, leaning his arm against the wooden porch railing.

​"We have to, John," Ricky replied, keeping his eyes on the camp. "We start our city operations come spring, and I need every man sharp. Did you finish checking off the latest supply lists?"

​"Every last item," John said, checking a small ledger from his pocket. "Though I did have one concern regarding the salted beef and fresh pork crates we hauled up three days ago, before the roads are blocked by the heavy snow. If we keep all those meat crates inside the storage house, won’t the heat from the wood stoves spoil ’em?"

​"We don’t keep them inside," Ricky said smoothly, taking another sip of coffee. "Stack the crates outside against the northern back wall of the storage house. This winter freeze will act as a natural icebox for us—it’ll keep the meat frozen solid until we’re ready to cook it."

​John smiled faintly, nodding in agreement. "Simple enough. I’ll have the men move the crates out back before dark. Training resumes tomorrow morning, then?"

​"That’s right," Ricky said, turning to look at John. "And tell the men I’ll be taking over the advanced classes personally every Friday and Saturday inside the mess hall. We’re also introducing a new close-quarters combat drill to the curriculum."

​John raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "A new combat drill? What sort, boss?"

​Ricky offered a quiet, knowing smile. "Something new. Continuous blade work and open-hand counter-strikes."

​"Sounds like something the boys haven’t seen before," John noted.

​"They haven’t," Ricky said. "And now that the carpenters have finished the CQC training house down near the timber line, our advanced drills are going to a whole new level. I’ll be announcing a new pistol leaderboard category tomorrow, complete with fresh cash prizes."

​John chuckled, stepping back toward the warm farmhouse door. "Tomorrow’s Friday, boss. The boys have been hammering pine for three straight weeks— hearing about fresh cash prizes for pistol shooting is going to raise their spirits higher than a kite."

-----------------------

Inside the newly finished barracks, the howling winter wind outside felt a world away.

​Two heavy cast-iron stoves roared at opposite ends of the one-hundred-and-twenty-foot room, radiating a deep, penetrating heat that dried the pine timber smell from the freshly laid walls. Lanterns hung from the center beams, casting a warm yellow light down the wide center aisle.

​Floyd sat on the edge of his bottom bunk, running his gloved hands over the thick wool blanket spread across his mattress. He squeezed the feather pillow in disbelief.

​"I’m telling you, Elmer, my old man lived in New York sixty years and never slept on a bed this soft," Floyd said, shaking his head. "Look at this chest! Solid oak!"

​Elmer kicked open the wooden storage chest at the foot of his bed, peering inside at the neatly stacked gear. "Three pairs of long-sleeve flannel shirts, two pairs of heavy wool trousers, brand new leather boots, and real lye soap. Hell, there’s even a brass-framed comb in here."

​"Told ya the boss looks after us," Rico Johnson said from the upper bunk across the aisle, swinging his legs over the frame. "Back on Mulberry, six of us slept crammed on one straw pallet with old coats for blankets. Out here, I got my own bed and a stove five feet away."

​A few bunks down, Joey—a skinny eighteen-year-old from the Greenwich tenements—leaned against his wooden post with a dreamlike grin, staring up at the roof rafters.

​"I just can’t wait till spring," Joey sighed, clasping his hands behind his head. "First weekend off we get back in the city, I’m heading straight down to Bleecker Street to see Maria. I promised her I’d come back with money in my pocket."

​Down the aisle, a broad-shouldered thirty-year-old named Robert, a former dock laborer who had joined the company with the older crowd, let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

​"Maria?" Sullivan snorted, tossing a brass button he was polishing into his palm. "Listen to the little romantic! You think a pretty dime-novel girl is sitting on her thumb waiting for a dock rat like you, Joey? By the time we get back in April, she’ll be married to a butcher’s apprentice with four kids!"

​A few older veterans chuckled, but Joey’s face flushed red instantly. He swung his feet off the bunk, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the frame.

​"Shut your mouth, Robert!" Joey snapped. "She ain’t like that!"

​"Oh, pardon me!" Robert sneered, stepping out into the center aisle and winking at the men around him. "Did I hurt the little boy’s feelings? I forgot, a Greenwich tenement girl stays faithful forever—as long as nobody offers her a nickel for a sandwich!"

​"Take it back!" Joey barked, his voice cracking with rage as he lunged off his bed.

Robert mocked him even further and said. "Face the reality, kid. Not everything ends with a happy ending. I bet she’s already fucking another lad."

​Before anyone could intervene, Joey threw a wild, flying right hook. It landed with a heavy thack square against Robert’s cheekbone.

​Robert stumbled back two steps, his eyes wide in absolute shock. The room went dead silent for half a second before forty men vaulted off their bunks, swarming into a tight circle around the center aisle.

​"Fight! We got a fight!" Elmer yelled, stomping his boots against the floorboards.

​Robert wiped his cheek, a mean grin spreading across his face. "Alright, kid. You asked for it."

​Robert charged, swinging a heavy, experienced left jab. But Joey ducked underneath it, driving two tight, sharp body shots into Robert’s ribs. The crowd erupted into loud cheers, surprised to see the skinny kid moving with such nimble street speed.

​"Look at Joey go!" Floyd roared, slapping the wall. "Keep your guard up, kid!"

​Near the heavy double doors at the front of the barracks, the latch clicked. Ricky stepped inside, shaking the snow off his collar. Hearing the wall-to-wall roaring, he paused, leaning casually against the doorframe. Instead of breaking it up, he folded his arms and watched the brawl play out through the circle of shouting men, a faint, amused smirk touching the corner of his lips.

​Moments later, the heavy rear doors burst open with a slam.

​"What the hell is going on in here?!" Arthur’s booming voice thundered through the room, cutting through the noise like an artillery shell.

​The cheering died instantly. The men froze mid-shout, scrambling to step back from the aisle. Joey and Robert separated, both panting heavily, fists still raised.

​Arthur marched down the aisle, his brows furrowed in fury. "You bums are supposed to be turning in! If I catch one more—"

​Arthur caught sight of Ricky standing near the front door, leaning against the timber wall with a quiet, knowing grin.

​Arthur stopped mid-sentence. He looked at Ricky, then looked back at the two bruised fighters in the aisle. The furious scowl on Arthur’s face dissolved into a wide, mischievous grin.

​"Well... don’t stop on my account!" Arthur shouted, waving his arms at the crowd. "Clear the floor, you animals! Make room!"

​The barracks exploded into a deafening cheer. The men slammed their fists against the wooden bunk posts, forming a wide, rowdy ring as Arthur stepped in between the two fighters as referee.

​"Clean fight! No gouging, no biting!" Arthur barked, slapping both men on the shoulders. "Box!"

​Robert immediately took control, using his heavy reach to press Joey backward against a bunk post. He landed two stiff jabs to Joey’s chin, forcing the younger man into a tight shell. Joey was trapped, taking heavy blows against his arms, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

​Feeling victory in his hands, Robert dropped his left guard, turning toward the cheering crowd with a arrogant, cocky grin. "See that, boys? Experience always wins!"

​It was the only mistake Joey needed.

​Exploding off the bunk post, Joey ducked under Robert’s lowered shoulder and launched a brutal, rising counter-hook straight up the middle.

​CRACK.

​The punch landed square on the point of Robert’s nose.

​Robert’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling up for a split second as his legs completely gave out. He crashed flat onto his back against the pine floorboards with a heavy, timber-shaking thud, blood spurting from his nostrils.

​For a beat, the barracks was dead silent.

​Then, the roof almost caved in from the roar.

​"HOLY HELL! HE DROPPED HIM!" Floyd screamed.

​Elmer, Rico, and six other young tenement boys rushed into the ring, grabbing Joey by his shoulders and lifting him high onto their shoulders. Joey raised his bloodied knuckles into the air, yelling out in pure adrenaline-fueled triumph as the young guys paraded him down the center aisle.

​On the floor, Robert groaned, sitting up slowly while clutching his bleeding nose. Arthur stepped over, tossing him a clean rag.

​"Told you experience don’t mean a damn thing if you get cocky, Robert." Arthur chuckled, clapping the big man on the back.

​Robert wiped the blood from his lip, looked up at the young guys tossing Joey into the air, and let out a hearty, booming laugh despite the pain. "Kid’s got a left hook like a mule," Robert admitted with a grin, shaking his head.

​From the doorway, Ricky watched the wall-to-wall laughter and brotherhood filling the warm, sturdy barracks, took a final glance at the falling snow outside, and closed the door against the winter night.