Fred Benteen's Big Game, Chapter One

Captain Fred Benteen is very proud of his baseball team, but will pride come before a fall?

 

“Run damn you Bishop!” Fred Benteen yelled. “Run, you damned slacker.”

 

 He tore the battered hat from his snowy head and threw it on the ground. He reached down, snatched it up, crammed it back on his head with a dusty shove then immediately threw it back in the dirt when he saw slow running Bishop tagged out at second base. “D****t!” he spat, kicking dust. 

 

“You’re up Bishop Senior.” He patted the young trooper on the shoulder as he stepped up and selected a bat from the rack. He was a whole seven months older than the slower Bishop who was only now trudging back to the bench. The old Captain eyed him menacingly as he sat down “What the hell were you waiting for Bishop” he growled “were you waiting for your enlistment to run out? My Lord but you’re slow man.”

 

“Sorry sir, but we can’t all be racin’ hounds.” the soldier muttered apologetically as he dropped heavily on to the rickety wooden bench.

 

Benteen ignored him and focused his impatience on the other Bishop, now standing nervously swinging the bat at home plate. “One good hit man. One good hit. Get your man home” he called.

 

The catcalls and coaching fell quiet as the Yankton pitcher took the mound. He smoothed his scrubby moustache and tried to block out the image of Alonzo Plumb at first base. The tiny Italian skipped and slid away from the dirty piece of canvas that had ceased being a tarpaulin and was now serving its country in a more important manner. He knew the pitcher could just see him in the corner of his eye and, well any audience is better than none.

 

“What the hell is that man doing Benteen? Does he have lice or rabies or what?” Lieutenant William “Queens Own” Cooke enquired, gazing at the little trooper shimmying at first base like a drunken harem girl with a twisted ankle. “I’ve seen whiskey-addled 300-pound w****s with more grace.”

 

“Lice? Certainly” Benteen answered. “Rabies? I am not so sure Lieutenant. No animal will go near enough to bite him. No, he calls this one the Curse of the Pharaoh’s daughter. He is very proud of himself.”

 

The old Captain kept his eyes on the game. “Think of maggoty corpses if you want a more pleasant daydream” He was wearing his trademark evil grin.

 

Queen’s Own absently plucked a piece of dried prairie grass from his billowing dundreary whiskers “I will admit though, it is quite educational. I am glad however that none of the regiment’s ladies are present to be educated today.” He said blushing faintly beneath his beard. Shaking his head, he said “Well, must be off, I have another mile to do before supper” and trotted off at a slow jog, each step raising tiny half hearted puffs of dust.

 

The Yankton pitcher blinked his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the gyrating Italian and in one quick motion, swung his arm. Bishop Senior in his usual style closed his eyes and swung the bat as hard as he could at the approaching leather missile.

 

The ear splitting crack caught the attention of everyone at the game, not by its volume, but by the fact that it was made by the fast flying ball hitting Bishop Senior’s bat rather than his head as was the usual practice. He couldn’t have hit the ball any more sweetly and every player stood and gaped, in slack jawed amazement as it rocketed across the watercolour blue sky.

 

“Run, you dullards” screamed a suddenly awake Benteen, “Don’t just stand there like stunned mullets. Run!” He was waving his arms frantically and jumping on the spot.

 

 Bishop Senior didn’t move, he was still standing gawking at the rapidly disappearing ball. A well aimed dirt sod didn’t get his attention and it took a well aimed ball from Benteen to wake him up. He frowned and turned to Benteen rubbing his head, then realising what he’d just done, bolted wildly toward first base, just as First Sergeant McCurry crossed home base, at a perfect military double time. Private Plumb, the fleet footed Italian crossed home plate as Bishop Senior only just managed second.

 

The Yankton Right fielder was walking dejectedly back to the diamond with the ball when Bishop senior was greeted with pats on the back at home plate by the rest of the “Benteen Nine” making the score nine to eight in favour of the white haired captain’s men. “Aww gee fellers” was all he could manage after his first ever run. He was more used to being walked by pitchers and woken up with a very sore head by his team mates.

 

“Marvellous shot Bishop Senior. It’s good to see you finally use your head and bat in a run than using your head and getting carried to first like always.” Benteen jammed his old ivory pipe in his jaws and shook the shocked trooper by the hand.

 

“Shucks sir, I just try to make you less ashamed of me than usual” Bishop Senior grinned self-consciously.

 

“Ashamed? Nonsense! You’re an H Company man Bishop, and the shining star of the best nine to ever wield the hickory” said the old captain beaming. He turned to the assembled troopers “You are the very best nine in the history of the game. First Sergeant McCurry.”

 

“Yes Sir!”, barked First Sergeant McCurry in response, snapping a sharp salute, somehow he had managed to avoid getting even a speck of dirt on his well pressed fatigues.

 

“After packing up the club’s equipment, you will take these men to the sutler’s store and stand them a lemonade or a ginger ale if they are feeling adventurous” The old captain gave a mischievous wink and thrust a wrinkled five dollar bill into the blouse pocket of the saluting sergeant, who responded with a sly wink of his own.

 

The men quickly packed their half dozen bats, a few well used balls that they used for practice before each game and the canvas bases that were once an officer’s tent into the old wheel barrow borrowed from the regimental stables and headed for the sutler’s store. Benteen watched them go, satisfied and as the squeaking of its rusty iron wheel grew more distant, he pulled a silver flask from his tunic pocket. He fiddled the cap off and took a long sip. “Aahhh” he sighed gratefully. “Nectar of the gods, lift me on double malted wings.”

 

He watched the cart carrying the Yankton players trundle off toward Bismark, the defeated players sitting in the back dipping tin cups into the barrel behind the seat. A few of the defeated enemy waved to Benteen as they became mirages in the afternoon sun. He saluted them with an upraised flask. When they were gone from view he took another draw on the silver flask and sauntered back toward the fort.

 

“Good Evening Sir would you like the usual?” asked Corporal Evans asked with a smile as Benteen strolled into the officer’s mess. At least he thought it was a smile. It was always a little hard to tell with Corporal Evans. He had been in cavalry since the days when they were called “Dragooons” and carried yellow pom poms on their hats. As a result of so many days in the sun, Evans had a face that looked like a well travelled prune glued to a piece of badly finished leather.  

 

Benteen found it particularly difficult tonight, having visited the Chaplain’s quarters and spent a good hour debating theology over a decanter of the padre’s fine brandy. The fact that the Chaplain was visiting his sister in Bismark did nothing to dampen the snowy haired soldier’s enthusiasm for the robust discussion.

 

Now he was in the officer’s mess and trying to focus his bleary eyes through the swirling cigar smoke. The usual suspects lounged in leather chairs long past their usefulness back east or gathered around an old card table with worn green baize over its threadbare surface.

 

“Jimi” Calhoun was there in his usual spot, his head was in his hands and no chips decorated his portion of the table. The ladies of the regiment swooned over his golden haired good looks and the other officers dubbed him “Adonis”. “Yup” mused Benteen “he’s good looking alright, but as dumb as a post.” He was as good as money in the bank when it came time for poker.

 

Across from him sat the small dark Captain Myles Keogh. As was his usual practice, he was even drunker than Benteen himself was. He was a fighter though, the little Irishman, though he didn’t really need an enemy present to do his best fighting.

 

In the last chair sat Tom Custer, the General’s brother. He was much happier with the way things were going than his golden haired opponent. He scratched his scarred jaw and smoothed his fair moustache absently before dealing another round to the despondent Calhoun and dour Keogh “Don’t worry my fair Adonis, I’ll loan you” he cooed as he flicked the dog eared cards across the table. He winked cheekily at Benteen as the older man passed the table. 

 

Fred Benteen detested the General and was no great admirer of his younger brother but today’s win had made him more magnanimous than usual and he returned the wink with a raised glass and strolled casually over to the fireplace.

 

It was summer and there was no fire burning there, but the older officers whose joints creaked more loudly gathered there by force of habit, to sit, smoke cigar, drink whiskey and tell war stories.

 

“Fresh” Smith, commander of E Company was sitting there adding to the cigar smoke that hung in the air, his maimed arm sitting useless in his lap. Yates of the “Band box” Company was refilling his glass from a crystal decanter. “Queen’s Own” with his bushy whiskers was leaning lightly on the mantelpiece, swirling port in a big glass. Among the three blue jacketed veterans was a small ferret like fellow in civilian clothes who was unknown to Fred.

 

Smith looked up and waved with his good arm. “Fred! Come here you old sot!” he called out hoarsely. “Queen’s Own here was just telling me about your team’s Herculean effort today old son.”

 

Fred Benteen grinned “Well I have told you crowd of drunken reprobates that they are the best nine to ever play the game”

 

“The very best huh Fred, that’s quite a claim” said “Fresh” Smith smiling. He put his cigar down on the ashtray and took a sip of his drink.

 

It was a magnificent home run hit “Fresh”. I saw it myself when I was out for my constitutional. Biggest hit I’ve ever seen one of Fred’s boys hit.”

 

Yates choked on his whiskey “Ha, ha. I’ve seen that bunch in action William. It was most likely the only hit you’ve seen that bunch make.”

 

They all laughed. Fred laughed too. He was in too good a mood right now. “Bishop Senior, my star hitter and match winner. And, dare I say it, the very possibly the next star player in the Chicago leagues.”

 

They all laughed again, then the little ferret faced fellow spoke “Is he really that good?”

 

“Oh I am sorry; this is Roderick Letterman, of the Chicago Messenger. Old friend from the war, staying with Anna and me for a few days.” said “Fresh” Smith. “He was there the day I got this.” He lifted his left arm as high as possible, about three quarters of shoulder level.

 

Letterman rose and shook hands with Fred, “I’d like to hear more about your team Captain, they sound like a fascinating group of fellows.”

 

“Yes, fascinating is one word I suppose” Fred mused, the image of Alonzo Plumb’s “Curse of The Pharaoh’s daughter” gyrating lasciviously into his mind. He downed the entire contents of his glass to drown the vision. “They are the equal of any amateur team in the Chicago leagues Mr Letterman, possibly the entire Union!” All five men laughed and Benteen went further “In fact gentlemen, I don’t think Satan himself could field a team of fiery demons that could face up to my boys”.

 

Letterman was thoughtful for a moment “Well Captain, let us hope that you never wind up in such a spot that you might find out first hand” and they all laughed heartily. 

 

When they finally ran out of breath “Fresh” Smith sighed and said “Well Roddy old pal, Anna will be sending out the guards to look for us if we don’t go home for dinner.” He swallowed the last of his drink and rose, grimacing. “You know Fred; they wanted to “Benzene” me out of the army a few years back. I think I am beginning agree with them” He slowly flexed his wounded arm.

 

Benteen slapped him on the back “Nonsense Algernon you old warhorse, spend a day with my boys, you’ll be a new man, or at least a good second hand.”

 

Roderick Letterman shook Benteen by the hand, “It’s been a pleasure to meet you Captain Benteen, and I do hope that I will hear more about your amazing baseball team one day.”

 

“I have no doubt that you will Mr. Letterman, it’s been a pleasure. Now though, I need to make a cash withdrawal at the poker table.”

 

Benteen winked and stalked over to the card table as Smith and Letterman left the smoky room. “May I join you gentlemen?” he enquired as he pulled out his billfold and sat down in a vacant chair at the table.

 

He glanced at “Jimi” Calhoun, as Tom Custer handed him the well travelled deck of cards “Lieutenant Calhoun, what a pleasure to see you here” He was grinning his trademark evil grin “Ante up old son.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

This man and his team did exist, but I have taken many liberties with history to make what I hope is a light hearted story. Please bear in mind that it really still is a work in progress and will no doubt contain a lot of misspellings and such.