William P. Robertson: Buy
AMBUSH IN THE ALLEGHENIES
Infinity Publishing (2008)
$14.73 (postpaid) $16.11 Canada
To order an autographed copy send a check made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729. For online orders go to Infinity Publishing's website at www.buybooksontheweb.com.
BACK COVER SUMMARY:
"A mountain man's first duty ain't to no king," yelped Lightnin' Jack Hawkins. "It's to survive!" That was enough justification for his fellow scouts, Bearbite Bob Winslow and young Will Cutler, when they fled from the massacre of General Edward Braddock's redcoats near Fort Duquesne. Yes, survival was an everyday priority for these hardy men who trapped beaver and hunted for their meat in the primordial forests of the Alleghenies. Dangers lurked everywhere here in the form of ferocious cougars, scalp-stealing savages, and white water rivers of immense fury.
The woodsmen's worst nemesis, though, was Bold Wolf, the vicious Ottawa chief who brutally murdered Cutler's father and wanted to kill all the English like one pigeon. If that failed, the ruthless villain was more than willing to torture his enemies in the gauntlet or burn them at the stake. It was only through Bold Wolf's demise that Cutler could achieve inner peace. But would the resourceful lad be brave enough to meet the challenge when his cruel foe ambushed him in the dense hemlocks of the Alleghenies?
EXCERPT: From Chapter 16: The Gauntlet
Upon spying the trapper, the Indians rapidly formed two lines. Brandishing hatchets, switches, ramrods, rifles, and war clubs, they beckoned him to run through their midst. They spit and howled and worked themselves into such a frenzy that even Jack was a little shaken. After surveying the hissing, snarling faces, Hawkins pinched himself twice to make sure he wasn't dreaming the whole episode.
Suddenly, the trapper was pushed from behind to prod him into running. Wheeling in anger, he saw Bold Wolf leering evilly at him. "So who the fiercest mountain man, now?" taunted the chief. "Can't be he who cower like fawn or frightened kit."
"Let me loose, an' you'll find out quick-like!" snarled Jack, squirming to free himself from the lasso that still bound him. "How kin I run proper like this?"
Hawkins continued to rage and struggle until one of his tormentors stepped forward to cut him free with a flint knife. The instant he was untied, Lightnin' slammed his fist into Bold Wolf's sneering smile, spraying blood and teeth in all directions. Then, he whirled and sprinted for all he was worth between the lines of gasping Indians.
In just two strides Jack was already running full-speed. He flew so fast that he got half-way through the gauntlet before the savages could react. As he streaked along, he juked and dodged and roared like a man possessed. Finally, a powerful Delaware swung a huge war club that just missed Hawkins' ear. The momentum of the swing carried the weapon back into the line of Indians, braining the unlucky brave beside him. Hawkins cackled at the mishap, incensing another warrior to swing so hard that his hatchet slipped from his grasp. When it missed the elusive trapper, the ax sailed into the row of Indians across from him, severely wounding a tall Ottawa.
Lightnin' then began to vary his speed to throw off his attackers. By slowing down or streaking faster, he ruined the aim of another dozen assailants. Outraged by this maneuver, two Shawnees who faced each other swung simultaneously at the woodsman. At the last second Jack ducked, and the Indians knocked each other out. Hawkins had little time to relish this victory, however, when a brawny brave smacked him across the face with his ramrod. This stung so much that he didn't have time to evade a rifle stock that hit him in the stomach. Jack went down in a heap as again the Indians raised a rapid succession of piercing shrieks.
As the Shawnees there closed in for the kill, Jack scooped up a handful of dirt. Leaping to his feet, he flung the debris in the eyes of his nearest enemies. The braves screeched in frustration and sudden pain and groped blindly for Hawkins as he wormed through their midst. Only Deep Waters wasn't affected. With a shrill whoop, he swung his hatchet with all his might. Just before it struck Jack between his shoulder blades, a dazed Shawnee stumbled into its path. The axe sliced through the ill-fated brave's neck, showering his tribesmen with gore. The resulting confusion allowed Hawkins to squeeze into the last stretch of the gauntlet. . .
$14.73 (postpaid) $16.11 Canada
To order an autographed copy send a check made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729. For online orders go to Infinity Publishing's website at www.buybooksontheweb.com.
BACK COVER SUMMARY:
"A mountain man's first duty ain't to no king," yelped Lightnin' Jack Hawkins. "It's to survive!" That was enough justification for his fellow scouts, Bearbite Bob Winslow and young Will Cutler, when they fled from the massacre of General Edward Braddock's redcoats near Fort Duquesne. Yes, survival was an everyday priority for these hardy men who trapped beaver and hunted for their meat in the primordial forests of the Alleghenies. Dangers lurked everywhere here in the form of ferocious cougars, scalp-stealing savages, and white water rivers of immense fury.
The woodsmen's worst nemesis, though, was Bold Wolf, the vicious Ottawa chief who brutally murdered Cutler's father and wanted to kill all the English like one pigeon. If that failed, the ruthless villain was more than willing to torture his enemies in the gauntlet or burn them at the stake. It was only through Bold Wolf's demise that Cutler could achieve inner peace. But would the resourceful lad be brave enough to meet the challenge when his cruel foe ambushed him in the dense hemlocks of the Alleghenies?
EXCERPT: From Chapter 16: The Gauntlet
Upon spying the trapper, the Indians rapidly formed two lines. Brandishing hatchets, switches, ramrods, rifles, and war clubs, they beckoned him to run through their midst. They spit and howled and worked themselves into such a frenzy that even Jack was a little shaken. After surveying the hissing, snarling faces, Hawkins pinched himself twice to make sure he wasn't dreaming the whole episode.
Suddenly, the trapper was pushed from behind to prod him into running. Wheeling in anger, he saw Bold Wolf leering evilly at him. "So who the fiercest mountain man, now?" taunted the chief. "Can't be he who cower like fawn or frightened kit."
"Let me loose, an' you'll find out quick-like!" snarled Jack, squirming to free himself from the lasso that still bound him. "How kin I run proper like this?"
Hawkins continued to rage and struggle until one of his tormentors stepped forward to cut him free with a flint knife. The instant he was untied, Lightnin' slammed his fist into Bold Wolf's sneering smile, spraying blood and teeth in all directions. Then, he whirled and sprinted for all he was worth between the lines of gasping Indians.
In just two strides Jack was already running full-speed. He flew so fast that he got half-way through the gauntlet before the savages could react. As he streaked along, he juked and dodged and roared like a man possessed. Finally, a powerful Delaware swung a huge war club that just missed Hawkins' ear. The momentum of the swing carried the weapon back into the line of Indians, braining the unlucky brave beside him. Hawkins cackled at the mishap, incensing another warrior to swing so hard that his hatchet slipped from his grasp. When it missed the elusive trapper, the ax sailed into the row of Indians across from him, severely wounding a tall Ottawa.
Lightnin' then began to vary his speed to throw off his attackers. By slowing down or streaking faster, he ruined the aim of another dozen assailants. Outraged by this maneuver, two Shawnees who faced each other swung simultaneously at the woodsman. At the last second Jack ducked, and the Indians knocked each other out. Hawkins had little time to relish this victory, however, when a brawny brave smacked him across the face with his ramrod. This stung so much that he didn't have time to evade a rifle stock that hit him in the stomach. Jack went down in a heap as again the Indians raised a rapid succession of piercing shrieks.
As the Shawnees there closed in for the kill, Jack scooped up a handful of dirt. Leaping to his feet, he flung the debris in the eyes of his nearest enemies. The braves screeched in frustration and sudden pain and groped blindly for Hawkins as he wormed through their midst. Only Deep Waters wasn't affected. With a shrill whoop, he swung his hatchet with all his might. Just before it struck Jack between his shoulder blades, a dazed Shawnee stumbled into its path. The axe sliced through the ill-fated brave's neck, showering his tribesmen with gore. The resulting confusion allowed Hawkins to squeeze into the last stretch of the gauntlet. . .
HAYFOOT, STRAWFOOT: THE BUCKTAIL RECRUITS
White Mane Publishing (2002)
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
HAYFOOT, STRAWFOOT: THE BUCKTAIL RECRUITS is the first book in a seven novel series by William P. Robertson and David Rimer. It details the adventures of a preacher's son and a trapper's lad who join the famous Civil War sharpshooters--the Bucktails. Trials they face include a den of timber rattlers, a wild raft ride down a whitewater river, and a fight-to-the-death with a murderous lumberjack all BEFORE they are plunged into battle at Dranesville, Virginia!
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 20: "Training Hayseeds."
The men equally hated the instruction they received in close formation drilling. Whole afternoons were spent saluting sergeants, standing at attention, marching to the left, marching to the right, advancing as a group, or retreating as a group. These maneuvers seldom went smoothly because many of the woodsmen didn't know one foot from the other. Finally, after the ranks ended up in a horrendous snarl, a frustrated drill instructor barked, "You Bucktails are the most pitiful group of recruits I ever seen! You got about as much discipline as bucks in the rut! Looks like the only way you're gonna march in cadence is if we makes a game of it."
"A game?" grumbled Hosea Curtis. "I thought we came here to kill Rebs, not play 'Ring Around the Rosie.'"
The officer told Curtis to shut his "pie hole" and ordered the soldiers to tie hay on their left boots and straw on their right boots. "Okay!" he bellowed. "Now I want you to repeat after me:
March! March! March!
Old soldiers march!
Hayfoot, strawfoot,
Belly full of bean soup--
March, old soldiers, march!"
"This is like being back in nursery school," giggled Jimmy.
"If we do this in a battle, we won't even have to fire a shot," chuckled Boone. "The Rebels'll laugh themselves to death."
"Silence!" barked the drill instructor. "All you idiots gotta do is repeat the words and move your feet to 'em. Just pretend you're at a barn dance. That is if there are barns where you boys come from."
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
HAYFOOT, STRAWFOOT: THE BUCKTAIL RECRUITS is the first book in a seven novel series by William P. Robertson and David Rimer. It details the adventures of a preacher's son and a trapper's lad who join the famous Civil War sharpshooters--the Bucktails. Trials they face include a den of timber rattlers, a wild raft ride down a whitewater river, and a fight-to-the-death with a murderous lumberjack all BEFORE they are plunged into battle at Dranesville, Virginia!
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 20: "Training Hayseeds."
The men equally hated the instruction they received in close formation drilling. Whole afternoons were spent saluting sergeants, standing at attention, marching to the left, marching to the right, advancing as a group, or retreating as a group. These maneuvers seldom went smoothly because many of the woodsmen didn't know one foot from the other. Finally, after the ranks ended up in a horrendous snarl, a frustrated drill instructor barked, "You Bucktails are the most pitiful group of recruits I ever seen! You got about as much discipline as bucks in the rut! Looks like the only way you're gonna march in cadence is if we makes a game of it."
"A game?" grumbled Hosea Curtis. "I thought we came here to kill Rebs, not play 'Ring Around the Rosie.'"
The officer told Curtis to shut his "pie hole" and ordered the soldiers to tie hay on their left boots and straw on their right boots. "Okay!" he bellowed. "Now I want you to repeat after me:
March! March! March!
Old soldiers march!
Hayfoot, strawfoot,
Belly full of bean soup--
March, old soldiers, march!"
"This is like being back in nursery school," giggled Jimmy.
"If we do this in a battle, we won't even have to fire a shot," chuckled Boone. "The Rebels'll laugh themselves to death."
"Silence!" barked the drill instructor. "All you idiots gotta do is repeat the words and move your feet to 'em. Just pretend you're at a barn dance. That is if there are barns where you boys come from."
THE BUCKTAILS' SHENANDOAH MARCH
White Mane Publishing (2002)
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
In the second Bucktail novel Bucky Culp and Jimmy Jewett's company of Pennsylvania Bucktails under Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Kane trek to the Shenandoah Valley in pursuit of the legendary Reb general, Stonewall Jackson. Using Kane's new technique of being "foot cavalry," Bucky and Jimmy are thoroughly tested by grueling forced marches, the loss of a beloved comrade, the imprisonment of their lieutenant colonel, and bitter defeats that decimated the ranks of the proud Bucktails.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 12:
"Battle of Harrisonburg."
Bucky moved even more cautiously as he slipped along toward a glen that opened up directly in front of him. It was a good thing he was vigilant because it was there that a full regiment of Rebel infantry came charging from cover and opened up on the Bucktail skirmish line. The bullets were so thick in the air around Bucky that only the tree he had stopped behind saved him from sure death.
After the thunder of the initial Rebel volley had died away, Bucky and his comrades began firing from behind trees Indian-style. They shot with such murderous precision that within minutes they collapsed the center of the Confederate line.
"That'll fix 'em!" shouted Segeant Curtis when he saw the Rebels fall back. "Is that all the esteemed 58th Virginia's got? They don't de-serve that fancy flag they're flyin'."
Not knowing that most of the Rebel regiment was hidden by the crest of the hill, Lieutenant Colonel Kane rose to signal for an attack. Before he could give the command, Private Martin Kelly of Company G shouted, "Shall I draw their fire?" With that, he stepped from behind a tree and was blown backward by a volley of balls shot by the concealed Confederates.
Kane gasped when he saw the extent of the Rebel forces and said to Captain Taylor, "We would have committed certain suicide if not for that brave fellow. Now, I can see how outnumbered we are. Let's give 'em hell until Fremont sends reinforcements."
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
In the second Bucktail novel Bucky Culp and Jimmy Jewett's company of Pennsylvania Bucktails under Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Kane trek to the Shenandoah Valley in pursuit of the legendary Reb general, Stonewall Jackson. Using Kane's new technique of being "foot cavalry," Bucky and Jimmy are thoroughly tested by grueling forced marches, the loss of a beloved comrade, the imprisonment of their lieutenant colonel, and bitter defeats that decimated the ranks of the proud Bucktails.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 12:
"Battle of Harrisonburg."
Bucky moved even more cautiously as he slipped along toward a glen that opened up directly in front of him. It was a good thing he was vigilant because it was there that a full regiment of Rebel infantry came charging from cover and opened up on the Bucktail skirmish line. The bullets were so thick in the air around Bucky that only the tree he had stopped behind saved him from sure death.
After the thunder of the initial Rebel volley had died away, Bucky and his comrades began firing from behind trees Indian-style. They shot with such murderous precision that within minutes they collapsed the center of the Confederate line.
"That'll fix 'em!" shouted Segeant Curtis when he saw the Rebels fall back. "Is that all the esteemed 58th Virginia's got? They don't de-serve that fancy flag they're flyin'."
Not knowing that most of the Rebel regiment was hidden by the crest of the hill, Lieutenant Colonel Kane rose to signal for an attack. Before he could give the command, Private Martin Kelly of Company G shouted, "Shall I draw their fire?" With that, he stepped from behind a tree and was blown backward by a volley of balls shot by the concealed Confederates.
Kane gasped when he saw the extent of the Rebel forces and said to Captain Taylor, "We would have committed certain suicide if not for that brave fellow. Now, I can see how outnumbered we are. Let's give 'em hell until Fremont sends reinforcements."
THE BUCKTAILS: PERILS ON THE PENINSULA
Infinity Publishing (2006)
$15.00 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
Joe Keener was a carefree private more suited to brawling in taverns than fighting the Rebels. He doesn't learn the true meaning of responsibility and esprit de corps until he befriends the boy soldier, Jack Swift, during the grueling Peninsula Campaign. After Joe and his young pal barely escape capture near Mechanicsville, Virginia, they fight four desperate battles in six days as the Union Army evacuates to the James River. PERILS ON THE PENINSULA celebrates the courage and humanity of these Bucktail skirmishers as they struggle to survive the brutality of the American Civil War. According to the authors, this is the most action-packed book of the Bucktail series.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 16: "Second Bull Run."
The riflemen again spread into a skirmish line and moved purposefully up the pike. Everywhere were signs of the previous day's battle they had heard while on the march back from Bethlehem Church. Dead cavalry mounts littered the road along with shattered caissons. As Keener stepped over a horse that had been blown in half by a cannon shell, he muttered, "Maybe our walkin' in circles weren't that bad after all. I reckon we got outta here yesterday jess in time."
"Yeah," replied Sergeant Blett, "we were lucky the Rebs weren't in a fighting mood when we stumbled across them."
The Bucktails continued up the road until a little village could be seen in the distance. Here, McNeil ordered his men into battle formation, and the six companies moved in force toward a house just visible through the brush to the left of the pike.
"The Rebs can't be far now," grunted Jude, peering warily into the undergrowth.
"They're so close I kin smell 'em," whispered Zack.
The riflemen took only a few more steps when the thunderous report of a hidden Reb battery shook the woods to the right. At the same instant, concealed gray sharpshooters let loose a volley from the thicket south of the road. As Keener dove for cover behind a splintered fence, he watched an exploding cannon shell catch Enos Conklin in its fury and blow his uniform into bloody rags. Conklin tumbled lifeless to the ground with surprise still caught on his face. A second volley of Reb bullets tore through the ranks before Joe remembered the Sharps clutched tightly in his huge paws.
Joe heard the Swift brothers' rifles spit a defiant reply before he, too, took aim at the Reb musket flashes winking from the thicket. Now, he saw that the enemy occupied the distant house, as well. Feeding linen cartridges into his Sharps, Keener soon was shooting three times faster than the musket toting Rebs. A gleam of determination grew stronger in his eyes each time he saw a gray shadow throw up its arms after he had squeezed off an accurate shot.
"Fix bayonets!" Keener heard Captain Irvin bark when the Reb musket fire began to slow. "Charge!"
In an instant Keener leaped to his feet and rushed with Company K headlong up the pike toward the Reb-occupied house. He was oblivious to the whining bullets whizzing past until he saw Zack grab his leg and sprawl headlong on his face. Swift lay writhing in pain, but Joe dared not stop to assist him. Instead, he bent forward at the waist and streaked straight for the Reb infested building. Using his huge shoulder for a battering ram, he smashed in the door, allowing his comrades to swarm in around him. His ears rang with rifle blasts inside the close quarters of the room. He bayoneted the first gray form he encountered and then smashed an officer to the ground with his rifle butt. The battle was over in an instant when the surviving Reb sharpshooters bolted out the back door and streaked for the brush.
$15.00 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
Joe Keener was a carefree private more suited to brawling in taverns than fighting the Rebels. He doesn't learn the true meaning of responsibility and esprit de corps until he befriends the boy soldier, Jack Swift, during the grueling Peninsula Campaign. After Joe and his young pal barely escape capture near Mechanicsville, Virginia, they fight four desperate battles in six days as the Union Army evacuates to the James River. PERILS ON THE PENINSULA celebrates the courage and humanity of these Bucktail skirmishers as they struggle to survive the brutality of the American Civil War. According to the authors, this is the most action-packed book of the Bucktail series.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 16: "Second Bull Run."
The riflemen again spread into a skirmish line and moved purposefully up the pike. Everywhere were signs of the previous day's battle they had heard while on the march back from Bethlehem Church. Dead cavalry mounts littered the road along with shattered caissons. As Keener stepped over a horse that had been blown in half by a cannon shell, he muttered, "Maybe our walkin' in circles weren't that bad after all. I reckon we got outta here yesterday jess in time."
"Yeah," replied Sergeant Blett, "we were lucky the Rebs weren't in a fighting mood when we stumbled across them."
The Bucktails continued up the road until a little village could be seen in the distance. Here, McNeil ordered his men into battle formation, and the six companies moved in force toward a house just visible through the brush to the left of the pike.
"The Rebs can't be far now," grunted Jude, peering warily into the undergrowth.
"They're so close I kin smell 'em," whispered Zack.
The riflemen took only a few more steps when the thunderous report of a hidden Reb battery shook the woods to the right. At the same instant, concealed gray sharpshooters let loose a volley from the thicket south of the road. As Keener dove for cover behind a splintered fence, he watched an exploding cannon shell catch Enos Conklin in its fury and blow his uniform into bloody rags. Conklin tumbled lifeless to the ground with surprise still caught on his face. A second volley of Reb bullets tore through the ranks before Joe remembered the Sharps clutched tightly in his huge paws.
Joe heard the Swift brothers' rifles spit a defiant reply before he, too, took aim at the Reb musket flashes winking from the thicket. Now, he saw that the enemy occupied the distant house, as well. Feeding linen cartridges into his Sharps, Keener soon was shooting three times faster than the musket toting Rebs. A gleam of determination grew stronger in his eyes each time he saw a gray shadow throw up its arms after he had squeezed off an accurate shot.
"Fix bayonets!" Keener heard Captain Irvin bark when the Reb musket fire began to slow. "Charge!"
In an instant Keener leaped to his feet and rushed with Company K headlong up the pike toward the Reb-occupied house. He was oblivious to the whining bullets whizzing past until he saw Zack grab his leg and sprawl headlong on his face. Swift lay writhing in pain, but Joe dared not stop to assist him. Instead, he bent forward at the waist and streaked straight for the Reb infested building. Using his huge shoulder for a battering ram, he smashed in the door, allowing his comrades to swarm in around him. His ears rang with rifle blasts inside the close quarters of the room. He bayoneted the first gray form he encountered and then smashed an officer to the ground with his rifle butt. The battle was over in an instant when the surviving Reb sharpshooters bolted out the back door and streaked for the brush.
THE BUCKTAILS' ANTIETAM TRIALS
White Mane Publishing (2006)
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
Corporal Bucky Culp wasn't exaggerating when he called the deserter Whalen "the worst sort of varmint." Whalen's cowardice caused Bucky's best friend to be wounded at Antietam, and now the rascal brought shame on the whole regiment by attacking the farm girl, Sarah Pfaff. Little did Bucky know when he rescued Sarah that soon she would fill a major void in his life. He was just glad to have survived the bloodiest battle of the Civil War.
EXCERPT:
Chapter Nine: "A Very Cold Place."
Jimmy floated in a very cold place where darkeness reigned. He was alone there with a terrifying numbness that paralyzed every movement and strangled every recollection. To struggle against the cold was useless. There was no way out of the frozen maze where time stood suspended.
Sometimes the darkness was invaded by random flashes of light that triggered images of horror. A colonel toppled bloody to his death. A chorus of cries wailed in anguish. A chaplain swirled in a musket-smoke cloud. A chorus of cries sobbed for release. A chaplin vanished before his prayer was completed. A chorus of cries denounced their creator.
Jimmy drifted...drifted...drifted to a field of light. There, air rushed into his lungs. He sputtered and choked and opened his eyes. Stretched out above him was a cloudless sky that shook with thunder. Brain impules moved his hand, but his legs would not respond. He inspected his blue jacket caked with gore, and glimmers of a dim battle played in his head. When he breathed again, the stench of death violated his nostrils, and he registered a dull ache in his chest. He raised his voice to cry for help, but the sound that emitted from his thirst-wasted throat was like the croak of an old crow.
Panic seized Jimmy, but no matter how he struggled, he could not rise. The pain in his chest grew sharper, too, and fever burned on his forehead. Gradually, he became aware that others like him littered the field. Voices moaned for their mothers. Voices cried out for their God. Everywhere the anguished voices pleaded for mercy or death.
Mingled with the human cries came eager calls of scavenger birds. The terrible caws circled, circled--ever closer. Then Jimmy spotted a raven that hopped upon a slain neighbor's chest and used its beak to pluck out a putrefied eye. Jimmy gagged, but nothing remained in his stomach to vomit. Instead, he squawked and gibbered and waved his numb, heavy hands until coal black wings erupted in flight.
This exertion so drained Jimmy that he lapsed back into unconsciousness where shrieks of battle racked his dreams and cannon barrels belched body parts instead of shot and shell. Rebs charged from a dark wood squealing like pigs, and each soldier's head sprouted the tusks of a boar. Their squealing intensified, terrible and real, when they overran the Yankee ranks.
A sniffing snout explored Jimmy's leg, and he jerked and convulsed until his eyes popped open. All around him huge Berkshire boars were feasting on the flesh of dead men, and six hundred pounds of hunger had chosen him for its next meal. Jimmy snarled when the black beast sidled forward to taste his skin. Fear did the work of an accomplished surgeon, for the boy's right leg resumed its function, lashing out to kick the brute back. The boar circled to consider its options, its floppy ears signaling a semaphore of menace. Its hooves looked sharp and deadly, and it opened its mouth to reveal man-sized cheek teeth.
The boar lowered its head and rushed forward to trample the cringing youth when four soldiers strode boldly toward it and began clubbing the beast with their rifles. The boar dodged through the maze made by the men's legs, slashing with its tusks and squealing with anger. It gored a lanky private in the thigh and spun around to attack a surprised corporal. The boar would have nailed him, too, if a burly sergeant hadn't planted his rifle butt between the brute's eyes with all the force he could muster.
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
Corporal Bucky Culp wasn't exaggerating when he called the deserter Whalen "the worst sort of varmint." Whalen's cowardice caused Bucky's best friend to be wounded at Antietam, and now the rascal brought shame on the whole regiment by attacking the farm girl, Sarah Pfaff. Little did Bucky know when he rescued Sarah that soon she would fill a major void in his life. He was just glad to have survived the bloodiest battle of the Civil War.
EXCERPT:
Chapter Nine: "A Very Cold Place."
Jimmy floated in a very cold place where darkeness reigned. He was alone there with a terrifying numbness that paralyzed every movement and strangled every recollection. To struggle against the cold was useless. There was no way out of the frozen maze where time stood suspended.
Sometimes the darkness was invaded by random flashes of light that triggered images of horror. A colonel toppled bloody to his death. A chorus of cries wailed in anguish. A chaplain swirled in a musket-smoke cloud. A chorus of cries sobbed for release. A chaplin vanished before his prayer was completed. A chorus of cries denounced their creator.
Jimmy drifted...drifted...drifted to a field of light. There, air rushed into his lungs. He sputtered and choked and opened his eyes. Stretched out above him was a cloudless sky that shook with thunder. Brain impules moved his hand, but his legs would not respond. He inspected his blue jacket caked with gore, and glimmers of a dim battle played in his head. When he breathed again, the stench of death violated his nostrils, and he registered a dull ache in his chest. He raised his voice to cry for help, but the sound that emitted from his thirst-wasted throat was like the croak of an old crow.
Panic seized Jimmy, but no matter how he struggled, he could not rise. The pain in his chest grew sharper, too, and fever burned on his forehead. Gradually, he became aware that others like him littered the field. Voices moaned for their mothers. Voices cried out for their God. Everywhere the anguished voices pleaded for mercy or death.
Mingled with the human cries came eager calls of scavenger birds. The terrible caws circled, circled--ever closer. Then Jimmy spotted a raven that hopped upon a slain neighbor's chest and used its beak to pluck out a putrefied eye. Jimmy gagged, but nothing remained in his stomach to vomit. Instead, he squawked and gibbered and waved his numb, heavy hands until coal black wings erupted in flight.
This exertion so drained Jimmy that he lapsed back into unconsciousness where shrieks of battle racked his dreams and cannon barrels belched body parts instead of shot and shell. Rebs charged from a dark wood squealing like pigs, and each soldier's head sprouted the tusks of a boar. Their squealing intensified, terrible and real, when they overran the Yankee ranks.
A sniffing snout explored Jimmy's leg, and he jerked and convulsed until his eyes popped open. All around him huge Berkshire boars were feasting on the flesh of dead men, and six hundred pounds of hunger had chosen him for its next meal. Jimmy snarled when the black beast sidled forward to taste his skin. Fear did the work of an accomplished surgeon, for the boy's right leg resumed its function, lashing out to kick the brute back. The boar circled to consider its options, its floppy ears signaling a semaphore of menace. Its hooves looked sharp and deadly, and it opened its mouth to reveal man-sized cheek teeth.
The boar lowered its head and rushed forward to trample the cringing youth when four soldiers strode boldly toward it and began clubbing the beast with their rifles. The boar dodged through the maze made by the men's legs, slashing with its tusks and squealing with anger. It gored a lanky private in the thigh and spun around to attack a surprised corporal. The boar would have nailed him, too, if a burly sergeant hadn't planted his rifle butt between the brute's eyes with all the force he could muster.
THE BATTLING BUCKTAILS AT FREDERICKSBURG
White Mane Publishing (2006)
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
Still reeling from the terrible Battle of Antietam, the Bucktails hardly dream they would face even greater trials at Fredericksburg. Besides the Rebel menace, the famed rifle regiment is forced to overcome grueling mud marches, the lack of warm clothing, and a steady diet of embalmed beef and sheet-iron crackers during this brutal winter campaign. Add dissension within their ranks, the harsh leadership of Old Snappin' Turtle, General George G. Meade, and the jealousy of the other Pennsylvania Reserves, and the Bucktails' survival is a true testament to their battling spirit.
From Chapter 19: "The Bucktails' Revenge."
Hosea, Bucky, Boone, and Jimmy crept stealthily through the fuzzy predawn light toward the First Pennsylvania Reserves' row of barracks. Four inches of overnight snow deadened their footsteps as they snuck along. A sleepy sentry slumped near the door of the reserves' headquarters, and Hosea rushed to silence him before he could cry out. Curtis dragged the guard's unconscious body around a corner.
Boone shinnied up the bare flagpole with a powder horn slung over his shoulder. Noiseless as a mountain cat, he swung to the peak of the roof and crept across to the smoking chimney running up the back of the building. Chuckling softly, he poured the contents of his horn down the flue and hastily plugged his ears.
A rattling explosion echoed from inside the headquarters, followed by cries of anxious confusion. A moment later the door burst open and out scrambled a mob of choking Pennsylvania Reserves. Some hopped on one leg, struggling to pull on their trousers. Other brandished hastily grabbed weapons or ran for the brush in blind terror. The din became fearful as the rudely awakened soldiers shrieked, cursed, and bellowed.
In the ensuing chaos, Jimmy Jewett slipped inside the smoky barracks and groped blindly along the walls until he found the First's banner hanging in the corner behind the door. Aong with it were his squad's stolen buck tails, and he scooped them up and stashed them in his haversack. With the flag draped over his shoulder, he scurried outside and ran for all he was worth for the brush huts of his regiment.
As Jimmy scrambled for safety, the other members of his squad were busy enjoying the mischief they had caused. "Look at them fellas dance," laughed Boone, sliding down the flagpole to rejoin his grinning friends.
"I ain't seen such a swarm since I knocked a gol-dang wasps' nest from the rafters of my pa's barn," chortled Hosea.
"The way their eyes is bugged," howled Bucky, "you'd think Jeb Stuart hisself was at their doorstep."
At the sound of the Bucktails' laughter, the First Reserves stopped their hopping, milling, and manic shouting. They stood looking at one another dumbfounded and then turned in unison to glare at Bucky, Boone, and Hosea. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and its revealing light added to the reserves' anger and embarrassment.
"You!" growled an angry captain, shaking his fist at the still chortling Bucktails. "I should have known."
From the sullen growls of the mob, Bucky and his friends knew it was time to skedaddle. Before they could get their legs in motion, they found themselves boxed in by an impenetrable blue line that rushed to back them against the headquarters' wall.
"These fellas deserve a firing squad for what they done," snarled a frothing sergeant, picking up a handful of snow and mashing it into an icy ball.
"Yeah," growled another infantryman, similarly arming himself.
"Hey, wait a minute there, boys," joshed Boone. "Don't we at least git a ci-gar to smoke be-fore ya kills us? If we git a last meal, I'll even settle fer some crow."
"Don't listen to that jabbering fool," screamed another voice from the mob. "Let's pummel them."
"Hold on now," ordered a raw-boned lieutenant. "Wait for my signal. All together now. Ready! Aim! Fire!"
To escape the barrage of icy missiles, the Bucktails dove to the ground just in time. As snowballs splattered on the log wall behind them, Bucky and his mates snatched up ammunition of their own and returned fire. Hosea threw his projectile with such force that its impact bowled the mouthy lieutenant off his feet. Bucky's snowball smashed another reserve square in the face, while Boone's knee shot knocked a third man down.
The Bucktails' retaliatory strike only seemed to incense the mob further and was answered by volley after volley of hurled slush. Bucky suffered a deep cut on his cheek, and Hosea was bleeding from the forehead after a couple more rounds. When it looked like the three huddled soldiers were about to receive a serious pummeling, a bugle sounded from the brush huts that bordered the First Reserves' camp. Turning in surprise, the infantrymen found themselves under attack from a bristling company of bucktailed riflemen led by none other than Captain Taylor. The fight renewed, became fast and furious, and turned into a wild melee that involved fists as well as snowballls.
$11.00 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
Still reeling from the terrible Battle of Antietam, the Bucktails hardly dream they would face even greater trials at Fredericksburg. Besides the Rebel menace, the famed rifle regiment is forced to overcome grueling mud marches, the lack of warm clothing, and a steady diet of embalmed beef and sheet-iron crackers during this brutal winter campaign. Add dissension within their ranks, the harsh leadership of Old Snappin' Turtle, General George G. Meade, and the jealousy of the other Pennsylvania Reserves, and the Bucktails' survival is a true testament to their battling spirit.
From Chapter 19: "The Bucktails' Revenge."
Hosea, Bucky, Boone, and Jimmy crept stealthily through the fuzzy predawn light toward the First Pennsylvania Reserves' row of barracks. Four inches of overnight snow deadened their footsteps as they snuck along. A sleepy sentry slumped near the door of the reserves' headquarters, and Hosea rushed to silence him before he could cry out. Curtis dragged the guard's unconscious body around a corner.
Boone shinnied up the bare flagpole with a powder horn slung over his shoulder. Noiseless as a mountain cat, he swung to the peak of the roof and crept across to the smoking chimney running up the back of the building. Chuckling softly, he poured the contents of his horn down the flue and hastily plugged his ears.
A rattling explosion echoed from inside the headquarters, followed by cries of anxious confusion. A moment later the door burst open and out scrambled a mob of choking Pennsylvania Reserves. Some hopped on one leg, struggling to pull on their trousers. Other brandished hastily grabbed weapons or ran for the brush in blind terror. The din became fearful as the rudely awakened soldiers shrieked, cursed, and bellowed.
In the ensuing chaos, Jimmy Jewett slipped inside the smoky barracks and groped blindly along the walls until he found the First's banner hanging in the corner behind the door. Aong with it were his squad's stolen buck tails, and he scooped them up and stashed them in his haversack. With the flag draped over his shoulder, he scurried outside and ran for all he was worth for the brush huts of his regiment.
As Jimmy scrambled for safety, the other members of his squad were busy enjoying the mischief they had caused. "Look at them fellas dance," laughed Boone, sliding down the flagpole to rejoin his grinning friends.
"I ain't seen such a swarm since I knocked a gol-dang wasps' nest from the rafters of my pa's barn," chortled Hosea.
"The way their eyes is bugged," howled Bucky, "you'd think Jeb Stuart hisself was at their doorstep."
At the sound of the Bucktails' laughter, the First Reserves stopped their hopping, milling, and manic shouting. They stood looking at one another dumbfounded and then turned in unison to glare at Bucky, Boone, and Hosea. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and its revealing light added to the reserves' anger and embarrassment.
"You!" growled an angry captain, shaking his fist at the still chortling Bucktails. "I should have known."
From the sullen growls of the mob, Bucky and his friends knew it was time to skedaddle. Before they could get their legs in motion, they found themselves boxed in by an impenetrable blue line that rushed to back them against the headquarters' wall.
"These fellas deserve a firing squad for what they done," snarled a frothing sergeant, picking up a handful of snow and mashing it into an icy ball.
"Yeah," growled another infantryman, similarly arming himself.
"Hey, wait a minute there, boys," joshed Boone. "Don't we at least git a ci-gar to smoke be-fore ya kills us? If we git a last meal, I'll even settle fer some crow."
"Don't listen to that jabbering fool," screamed another voice from the mob. "Let's pummel them."
"Hold on now," ordered a raw-boned lieutenant. "Wait for my signal. All together now. Ready! Aim! Fire!"
To escape the barrage of icy missiles, the Bucktails dove to the ground just in time. As snowballs splattered on the log wall behind them, Bucky and his mates snatched up ammunition of their own and returned fire. Hosea threw his projectile with such force that its impact bowled the mouthy lieutenant off his feet. Bucky's snowball smashed another reserve square in the face, while Boone's knee shot knocked a third man down.
The Bucktails' retaliatory strike only seemed to incense the mob further and was answered by volley after volley of hurled slush. Bucky suffered a deep cut on his cheek, and Hosea was bleeding from the forehead after a couple more rounds. When it looked like the three huddled soldiers were about to receive a serious pummeling, a bugle sounded from the brush huts that bordered the First Reserves' camp. Turning in surprise, the infantrymen found themselves under attack from a bristling company of bucktailed riflemen led by none other than Captain Taylor. The fight renewed, became fast and furious, and turned into a wild melee that involved fists as well as snowballls.
THE BUCKTAILS AT THE DEVIL'S DEN
Infinity Publishing (2007)
$15.00 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
THE BUCKTAILS AT THE DEVIL'S DEN returns the battered regiment to the defenses of Washington. Instead of the soft duty they envisioned there, the riflemen are harassed constantly by Rebel guerrillas and the Gray Ghost, John Mosby. The action intensifies when the First Rifles are ordered on a double-quick march to catch Lee's invading Rebel Army at Gettysburg. The Bucktails' brutal counterattack from Little Round Top and their deadly skirmish at the Devil's Den add another heroic chapter to the illustrious history of the 42nd PA Volunteers.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 16: "Day Three."
Bucky had no sooner reported to Hartshorne when the feisty major growled, "I see you stirred those Rebels up pretty good, Culp. Being you're familiar with the terrain up there, I want you to guide Lieutenant Kratzer's company and make another attack. The enemy won't expect you again so soon. You're sure to take the fight out of them this time. The rest of your men can fall out."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant answered grimly.
Sergeant Culp directed Kratzer's party back up the ridge, through the thick forest, and right to the doorstep of the Devil's Den. No Rebs opposed them as they sneaked silently along and then dispersed into a battle line. At the lieutenant's signal, the Bucktails dashed forward and got within a few feet of the enemy before the waiting Rebs leaped up and poured a murderous fire into the Pennsylvania ranks.
The Bucktail next to Bucky fell with a fatal head wound as another screaming bullet creased the sergeant's ear. The sting of his wound so infuriated Culp that he tackled the nearest Reb and brutally bashed his head against the rocks until he quit moving.
Kratzer, meanwhile, was engaged in a hot pistol duel with a lean Confederate officer who had a saber scar on his stubbly cheek. Both men fired twice at point-blank range before the Confederate collapsed with blood oozing from a neat bullet hole in his forehead. Kratzer's left arm, pierced through the elbow, hung uselessly at his side. Clutching his wound, the lieutenant screamed frantically for the men to retreat.
Bucky shot a charging Reb square in the face. Then he caved in the throat of a second attacker with his rifle butt before fleeing with the other Bucktails. He had just reentered the woods when there was a wild volley of musket fire behind him. As leaves showered from the surrounding trees, Bucky lowered his head and sprinted down the hill with amazing agility. He dodged oaks, hurdled rocks, and didn't stop running until he had vaulted the stone wall sheltering his squad.
As Culp collapsed in a panting heap beside his mates, Jimmy cried, "Look! You're bleeding! Where are you hit, Bucky?"
"Probably in the backside," replied the acerbic voice of Major Hartshorne. "That was the only target the sergeant presented."
"That ain't true," gasped Lieutenant Kratzer, staggering around the end of the wall holding his shattered arm. "The Rebs was layin' fer us, Major. They waited 'til we was ten feet away be-fore blastin' us. An' Culp was right there in the thick o' it. I seen him kill at least three Rebs myself. It's a miracle any o' us sur-vived."
$15.00 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
THE BUCKTAILS AT THE DEVIL'S DEN returns the battered regiment to the defenses of Washington. Instead of the soft duty they envisioned there, the riflemen are harassed constantly by Rebel guerrillas and the Gray Ghost, John Mosby. The action intensifies when the First Rifles are ordered on a double-quick march to catch Lee's invading Rebel Army at Gettysburg. The Bucktails' brutal counterattack from Little Round Top and their deadly skirmish at the Devil's Den add another heroic chapter to the illustrious history of the 42nd PA Volunteers.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 16: "Day Three."
Bucky had no sooner reported to Hartshorne when the feisty major growled, "I see you stirred those Rebels up pretty good, Culp. Being you're familiar with the terrain up there, I want you to guide Lieutenant Kratzer's company and make another attack. The enemy won't expect you again so soon. You're sure to take the fight out of them this time. The rest of your men can fall out."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant answered grimly.
Sergeant Culp directed Kratzer's party back up the ridge, through the thick forest, and right to the doorstep of the Devil's Den. No Rebs opposed them as they sneaked silently along and then dispersed into a battle line. At the lieutenant's signal, the Bucktails dashed forward and got within a few feet of the enemy before the waiting Rebs leaped up and poured a murderous fire into the Pennsylvania ranks.
The Bucktail next to Bucky fell with a fatal head wound as another screaming bullet creased the sergeant's ear. The sting of his wound so infuriated Culp that he tackled the nearest Reb and brutally bashed his head against the rocks until he quit moving.
Kratzer, meanwhile, was engaged in a hot pistol duel with a lean Confederate officer who had a saber scar on his stubbly cheek. Both men fired twice at point-blank range before the Confederate collapsed with blood oozing from a neat bullet hole in his forehead. Kratzer's left arm, pierced through the elbow, hung uselessly at his side. Clutching his wound, the lieutenant screamed frantically for the men to retreat.
Bucky shot a charging Reb square in the face. Then he caved in the throat of a second attacker with his rifle butt before fleeing with the other Bucktails. He had just reentered the woods when there was a wild volley of musket fire behind him. As leaves showered from the surrounding trees, Bucky lowered his head and sprinted down the hill with amazing agility. He dodged oaks, hurdled rocks, and didn't stop running until he had vaulted the stone wall sheltering his squad.
As Culp collapsed in a panting heap beside his mates, Jimmy cried, "Look! You're bleeding! Where are you hit, Bucky?"
"Probably in the backside," replied the acerbic voice of Major Hartshorne. "That was the only target the sergeant presented."
"That ain't true," gasped Lieutenant Kratzer, staggering around the end of the wall holding his shattered arm. "The Rebs was layin' fer us, Major. They waited 'til we was ten feet away be-fore blastin' us. An' Culp was right there in the thick o' it. I seen him kill at least three Rebs myself. It's a miracle any o' us sur-vived."
THE BUCKTAILS' LAST CALL
Infinity Publishing (2007)
$15.00 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
The last year of Sergeant Bucky Culp's enlistment was his hardest yet. After deserting the army to marry his darling Sarah, Culp barely misses being shot by a firing squad. Embroiled in the Wilderness and Spottsylvania Court House Campaigns keeps him in harm's way until the day he's mustered out of service. But the greatest test of Bucky's character awaits him at Sarah's place in Sharpsburg, Maryland. THE BUCKTAILS' LAST CALL ends with Sergeant Culp's greatest display of bravery as he handles this personal crisis in the fine fighting spirit instilled in him by the 42nd PA Volunteers.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 15: "Sharpshooters and Dead Men."
By late afternoon a thin line of haggard Bucktails crouched in the Union trenches. "We better pray that the Rebs don't charge us,"murmured Jimmy, staring off across no-man's-land at the opposing fortifications.
"They seem mighty quiet up there," said Boone. "They must be plannin' some devilment."
As if to confirm Crossmire's suspicions, a Reb voice shouted from above, "Hey, ain't you them stinking Bucktails that bushwhacked our boys down by the Po?"
"Yeah, an' if you stand up," quipped Boone, "we'll shows ya firsthand how we done it."
"Which one of yous done made them lucky shots on Jeb and Joe?" growled another Rebel.
"What do ya mean, lucky?" yelled Zeke, flushing crimson.
"If you's actually the killer, I want a crack at revenging my bothers."
"Yeah, I'm the MARKSMAN that drilled yer kin."
"Then, I challenges you to a duel, right here and now!"
"An' I ac-cept!"
"Hold yer horses," bellowed Hosea. "How do we know that you fellas will fight fair? Be-fore Zeke here stands up, we needs ya ta promise there'll be no hidden backup shooters snipin' 'im when he wins."
"We promise," agreed a Reb colonel, standing up to wave a white flag. "But it's our man who'll be victorious, sir. Back home in Carolina, Smith pleasured himself shooting flies off a barn wall."
"Alright, then," grunted Curtis. "We need each shooter ta stand up an' turn their backs ta each other. On the count of three, they'll turn an' fire."
"I doubt if any of you Yankees can count that high," drawled an anonymous Reb, "so you better let our colonel do that."
"Okay," answered Sergeant Curtis. "With his big mouth, neither fella's gonna have any trouble hearin' 'im. Send yer boy out."
A chunky Confederate dressed in butternut crawled boldly from his trench and strode ten paces closer to the Union lines. Before Zeke could do likewise, Boone grabbed his friend's arm and said, "Wouldn't it be best if I ac-cept their challenge?"
"Why's that? Didn't I prove I was the best dang sharpshooter in this outfit?"
"But think o' them little gals o' yers."
"Git yer hands off me, Boone. Ain't no way I'm gonna lose."
Zeke pushed Crossmire away and clambered from his rifle pit to face the big Reb. When Zeke stood up, a mouthy corporal taunted, "Hey, this here fight ain't fair."
"What do ya mean?" shouted Curtis.
"'Cause I seen circus midgets bigger than your boy. How's Smith gonna hit him?"
"Yer colonel musta fibbed then when he said yer fella kin pick flies off a wall."
"Alright, that's enough!" barked the Confederate officer. "Turn around, Bucktail. Smith, you, too. On the count of three you will spin and fire. One. Two. Three!"
Incensed by the memory of his brother's death, the Reb spun on his heels, leveled his rifle, and fired before Zeke could get halfway around. His bullet sang unheeded past Powers' nose, and the Bucktail squeezed off a shot that struck his opponent between the eyes. Before the dead Rebel even hit the ground, four more Southern voices screamed out to challenge Zeke.
"I'll take on all comes," answered Powers coolly, "one at a time."
$15.00 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
The last year of Sergeant Bucky Culp's enlistment was his hardest yet. After deserting the army to marry his darling Sarah, Culp barely misses being shot by a firing squad. Embroiled in the Wilderness and Spottsylvania Court House Campaigns keeps him in harm's way until the day he's mustered out of service. But the greatest test of Bucky's character awaits him at Sarah's place in Sharpsburg, Maryland. THE BUCKTAILS' LAST CALL ends with Sergeant Culp's greatest display of bravery as he handles this personal crisis in the fine fighting spirit instilled in him by the 42nd PA Volunteers.
EXCERPT:
From Chapter 15: "Sharpshooters and Dead Men."
By late afternoon a thin line of haggard Bucktails crouched in the Union trenches. "We better pray that the Rebs don't charge us,"murmured Jimmy, staring off across no-man's-land at the opposing fortifications.
"They seem mighty quiet up there," said Boone. "They must be plannin' some devilment."
As if to confirm Crossmire's suspicions, a Reb voice shouted from above, "Hey, ain't you them stinking Bucktails that bushwhacked our boys down by the Po?"
"Yeah, an' if you stand up," quipped Boone, "we'll shows ya firsthand how we done it."
"Which one of yous done made them lucky shots on Jeb and Joe?" growled another Rebel.
"What do ya mean, lucky?" yelled Zeke, flushing crimson.
"If you's actually the killer, I want a crack at revenging my bothers."
"Yeah, I'm the MARKSMAN that drilled yer kin."
"Then, I challenges you to a duel, right here and now!"
"An' I ac-cept!"
"Hold yer horses," bellowed Hosea. "How do we know that you fellas will fight fair? Be-fore Zeke here stands up, we needs ya ta promise there'll be no hidden backup shooters snipin' 'im when he wins."
"We promise," agreed a Reb colonel, standing up to wave a white flag. "But it's our man who'll be victorious, sir. Back home in Carolina, Smith pleasured himself shooting flies off a barn wall."
"Alright, then," grunted Curtis. "We need each shooter ta stand up an' turn their backs ta each other. On the count of three, they'll turn an' fire."
"I doubt if any of you Yankees can count that high," drawled an anonymous Reb, "so you better let our colonel do that."
"Okay," answered Sergeant Curtis. "With his big mouth, neither fella's gonna have any trouble hearin' 'im. Send yer boy out."
A chunky Confederate dressed in butternut crawled boldly from his trench and strode ten paces closer to the Union lines. Before Zeke could do likewise, Boone grabbed his friend's arm and said, "Wouldn't it be best if I ac-cept their challenge?"
"Why's that? Didn't I prove I was the best dang sharpshooter in this outfit?"
"But think o' them little gals o' yers."
"Git yer hands off me, Boone. Ain't no way I'm gonna lose."
Zeke pushed Crossmire away and clambered from his rifle pit to face the big Reb. When Zeke stood up, a mouthy corporal taunted, "Hey, this here fight ain't fair."
"What do ya mean?" shouted Curtis.
"'Cause I seen circus midgets bigger than your boy. How's Smith gonna hit him?"
"Yer colonel musta fibbed then when he said yer fella kin pick flies off a wall."
"Alright, that's enough!" barked the Confederate officer. "Turn around, Bucktail. Smith, you, too. On the count of three you will spin and fire. One. Two. Three!"
Incensed by the memory of his brother's death, the Reb spun on his heels, leveled his rifle, and fired before Zeke could get halfway around. His bullet sang unheeded past Powers' nose, and the Bucktail squeezed off a shot that struck his opponent between the eyes. Before the dead Rebel even hit the ground, four more Southern voices screamed out to challenge Zeke.
"I'll take on all comes," answered Powers coolly, "one at a time."
LURKING IN PENNSYLVANIA
Infinity Publishing (2004)
$14.53 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
LURKING IN PENNSYLVANIA collects three decades of William P. Robertson's best horror stories and poems, many of which appeared in magazines worldwide. Bill specializes in understated Gothic terror in the tradition of Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. He draws his material from Pennsylvania legends and folklore and traumatic personal experiences. He also delves into dark humor and lends a fresh perspective to the werewolf and troll. Bill's best work, like "Luke the Spook" and "The Catherine Swamp," chills rather than sickens. Sometimes what is left unsaid is the most terrifying of all. In the "Author's Note" Robertson gives a detailed explanation of what inspired his individual stories.
EXCERPT:
"The Spirit of Catherine"
Excitement had me by the throat as I slipped and skidded along the mossy rocks bordering the headwaters of Five Mile Brook. Although I had left my car well before noon, I was now just nearing my destination. I had been so immersed in fishing for scrappy little native brookies, that my exploration had taken far longer than I had anticipated. When I took apart my fly rod and hightailed it upstream, the evening shadows had already begun to creep out from beneath the hemlocks.
The scabby cherry trees seemed blacker than I had ever before seen them. The wind also began to act like the plaything of some perverse magician. Although I was an experienced woodsman, I had difficulty pinpointing from which direction it came. Its howling seemed almost cyclonic in nature and was rising fast. In the fading light only my stubbornness pushed me onward. Finally, without warning, I stumbled through an orange screen of beech leaves and skidded to a halt on the shore of the blighted swamp I had been seeking.
Having no brothers or sisters to accompany me, I had hiked alone in the woods since I was twelve. Yet, even I couldn't help but shrink from the vile sea of muck and stagnant water that stretched before me in the twilight. Great bleached tree trunks reached finger-like from the fringes of this mire, while ghostly beaver huts glowed in the mist now forming over the deeper pools. The distant chant of the whippoorwill made my face grow cold beneath my beard. If only I had asked a friend to come along. . .If only I had a friend to ask!
So this is where Catherine perished. No wonder the old Swedes wouldn't venture out here at night. According to legend, the girl had wandered off to pick Christmas ground pine and got caught in a driving blizzard. It wasn't until the following spring that her corpse was discovered by trappers near this very spot. Neighboring farmers swear that her cries for help can be heard echoing from these dark swamps even today. My grandmother said she was a winsome lass--wild as a colt and always out walking alone.
How strong the wind has grown. Yet, the mist, if anything, is thicker, swirling. . .I must leave this blighted place before my imagination gets the better of me. I must turn and take one. . .step. . .at. . .a. . .time. Just one step. Oh, God! I'm sinking. Sinking!
"Catherine? Is that you? My, your skin is so cold and smooth. You are a winsome lass. Now, we shall never again have to walk through this swamp alone. . ."
$14.53 (Postpaid) $16.16 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
LURKING IN PENNSYLVANIA collects three decades of William P. Robertson's best horror stories and poems, many of which appeared in magazines worldwide. Bill specializes in understated Gothic terror in the tradition of Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. He draws his material from Pennsylvania legends and folklore and traumatic personal experiences. He also delves into dark humor and lends a fresh perspective to the werewolf and troll. Bill's best work, like "Luke the Spook" and "The Catherine Swamp," chills rather than sickens. Sometimes what is left unsaid is the most terrifying of all. In the "Author's Note" Robertson gives a detailed explanation of what inspired his individual stories.
EXCERPT:
"The Spirit of Catherine"
Excitement had me by the throat as I slipped and skidded along the mossy rocks bordering the headwaters of Five Mile Brook. Although I had left my car well before noon, I was now just nearing my destination. I had been so immersed in fishing for scrappy little native brookies, that my exploration had taken far longer than I had anticipated. When I took apart my fly rod and hightailed it upstream, the evening shadows had already begun to creep out from beneath the hemlocks.
The scabby cherry trees seemed blacker than I had ever before seen them. The wind also began to act like the plaything of some perverse magician. Although I was an experienced woodsman, I had difficulty pinpointing from which direction it came. Its howling seemed almost cyclonic in nature and was rising fast. In the fading light only my stubbornness pushed me onward. Finally, without warning, I stumbled through an orange screen of beech leaves and skidded to a halt on the shore of the blighted swamp I had been seeking.
Having no brothers or sisters to accompany me, I had hiked alone in the woods since I was twelve. Yet, even I couldn't help but shrink from the vile sea of muck and stagnant water that stretched before me in the twilight. Great bleached tree trunks reached finger-like from the fringes of this mire, while ghostly beaver huts glowed in the mist now forming over the deeper pools. The distant chant of the whippoorwill made my face grow cold beneath my beard. If only I had asked a friend to come along. . .If only I had a friend to ask!
So this is where Catherine perished. No wonder the old Swedes wouldn't venture out here at night. According to legend, the girl had wandered off to pick Christmas ground pine and got caught in a driving blizzard. It wasn't until the following spring that her corpse was discovered by trappers near this very spot. Neighboring farmers swear that her cries for help can be heard echoing from these dark swamps even today. My grandmother said she was a winsome lass--wild as a colt and always out walking alone.
How strong the wind has grown. Yet, the mist, if anything, is thicker, swirling. . .I must leave this blighted place before my imagination gets the better of me. I must turn and take one. . .step. . .at. . .a. . .time. Just one step. Oh, God! I'm sinking. Sinking!
"Catherine? Is that you? My, your skin is so cold and smooth. You are a winsome lass. Now, we shall never again have to walk through this swamp alone. . ."
DARK HAUNTED DAY
Infinity Publishing (2006)
$14.39 (Postpaid) $15.26 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
DARK HAUNTED DAY is William P. Robertson's second collection of macabre tales. As the title indicates, ghost stories are the focus here. A gallant battlefield ghost, a malicious dorm phantom, and two spectral husbands are just a few of the hobgoblins haunting this anthology. The author again selects for his action such Pennsylvania settings as Gettysburg, Mansfield, and the ever-spooky McKean County. To add variety, a hunting horror story, a psychological thriller, and a Kinzua Viaduct death tale are included. Characters range from kids to the elderly, and all get their share of scares.
EXCERPT:
From "North Hall Is Haunted."
"It figures that I'd be the one the ghost appears to," ranted the coed. "Scary old Susan, spirit's friend. Too spooky for this world. Too weird to fit in. Thank God for the time I spent with Aunt Celia. She's the only loving person in my whole damn family. She wouldn't have sent me to this creepy old college."
Bursting into tears, Susan threw herself on her bed and buried her head in her pillow. After she had cried herself out, she sat up and blew her nose.
"M-M-Maybe I should see what the ghost wanted," mumbled the girl. "Didn't prissy Barbara say a Ouija board lets you communicate with the spirit world? Duh! I should know that. I just wrote a paper for psych class on Ouija boards. I even examined the one Sherry has in her closet while I was doing my research. There. I see it."
Susan crossed the floor and snatched the Ouija board from the top shelf of her roommate's meticulously organized wardrobe. With trembling hands she pulled it out of the box. The board had a smiling sun painted in the top left corner with the word "Yes" next to it. In the top right corner was a frowning moon with "No" beside it.
Susan picked up the wooden planchette and laid it on the board. The planchette was heart-shaped and had three felt-tipped legs that facilitated its movement. In the center was a plastic window to peer through.
Susan placed her right hand on the planchette. As she deliberately began circling the board with it, she asked politely, "Did I see the North Hall ghost?"
Susan pressed a little harder on the Message Indicator. She moved it faster. Suddenly, the lights began to flicker. A hair brush floated from the girl's dresser and hovered in the air. The girl screamed and let go of the planchette. Her hand no sooner sprang from the heart-shaped object when it moved on its own and spelled out the letters YES.
"W-W-Why did you visit ME?" stuttered the girl as the brush flew into her hand.
I FELT YOUR PAIN, answered the planchette.
As Susan read the message, the bulb in her roommate's study lamp flashed wickedly and blew out. Then, her psychology text lifted from the desk and began circling her head. Its movement had a hypnotic effect on her, and she asked numbly, "What should I do?"
The textbook dropped into Susan's lap and flew open to the chapter dealing with suicide. Afterward, the planchette moved slowly and deliberately to spell JUMP.
A smile played across Susan's lips. She rose from the bed. After walking rotely to the door, she turned the lock. The door creaked open of its own accord. She stepped into the hall. There, a sudden gust of cold wind mussed her hair and numbed her paling cheeks. She strode transfixed toward a wispy figure standing atop the stairwell railing. The figure smiled invitingly and held out her arms in a gesture of love.
Just before Susan reached the beckoning spirit, a second blast of wind blew her hair across her eyes. When she reached to clear her face, her hand brushed against the crucifix in her breast pocket. The holy cross felt warm to her touch, and she could feel her heartbeat pulsing through it. Images of her dear Aunt Celia popped into her brain with sun-filled afternoons and tall glasses of delicious lemonade.
With a shake of her head, Susan cleared the strands of hair blocking her vision. Clutching the crucifix, she saw the ghost's sweet smile twist into a malicious leer. An expression of self-loathing and total despair revealed the fate that doomed her soul in 1917.
"The damned aren't happy!" cried Susan. "In the name of Jesus Christ, get away from me!"
With a fearful gasp, the ghost recoiled at the holy name. Before Susan could again say "Jesus Christ," the figure lunged forward to snare the coed in its lethal arms. Susan dodged and bolted for the stairwell. In the next instant she was sprinting for all she was worth toward the fifth floor. No lights came on there in response to her cries for help, so she scrambled down and down into the bowels of North Hall. Blindly she ran with a cold wind shrieking at her heels, trying to capsize her. Only her instincts and awakened will allowed her to keep her balance as the wind buffeted her from behind.
Susan descended to the cafeteria just as her churning legs were turning to rubber. She no sooner stumbled into the murky room than a hellish, disappointed wail filled the stairwell behind her. The cold, pursuing wind came to a sudden halt and then sucked upward floor by floor until it vanished in the direction of the attic.
With the last of her strength, Susan crossed the cafeteria, pushed through the hallway doors, and staggered past the vacant TV lounge to Mrs. Phillip's suite. Fighting back the blackness closing around her, she rapped desperately on the smiley face taped to the housemother's door.
The terrified girl tottered at the threshold until a very sleepy Mrs. Phillips answered her flurry of knocks. "I couldn't jump! Couldn't jump!" babbled the coed, collapsing into the housemother's arms. "Help me. Please! Help me live. I want so much to. . .live. To thank Aunt Celia for her love. . ."
$14.39 (Postpaid) $15.26 in Canada.
For autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
DARK HAUNTED DAY is William P. Robertson's second collection of macabre tales. As the title indicates, ghost stories are the focus here. A gallant battlefield ghost, a malicious dorm phantom, and two spectral husbands are just a few of the hobgoblins haunting this anthology. The author again selects for his action such Pennsylvania settings as Gettysburg, Mansfield, and the ever-spooky McKean County. To add variety, a hunting horror story, a psychological thriller, and a Kinzua Viaduct death tale are included. Characters range from kids to the elderly, and all get their share of scares.
EXCERPT:
From "North Hall Is Haunted."
"It figures that I'd be the one the ghost appears to," ranted the coed. "Scary old Susan, spirit's friend. Too spooky for this world. Too weird to fit in. Thank God for the time I spent with Aunt Celia. She's the only loving person in my whole damn family. She wouldn't have sent me to this creepy old college."
Bursting into tears, Susan threw herself on her bed and buried her head in her pillow. After she had cried herself out, she sat up and blew her nose.
"M-M-Maybe I should see what the ghost wanted," mumbled the girl. "Didn't prissy Barbara say a Ouija board lets you communicate with the spirit world? Duh! I should know that. I just wrote a paper for psych class on Ouija boards. I even examined the one Sherry has in her closet while I was doing my research. There. I see it."
Susan crossed the floor and snatched the Ouija board from the top shelf of her roommate's meticulously organized wardrobe. With trembling hands she pulled it out of the box. The board had a smiling sun painted in the top left corner with the word "Yes" next to it. In the top right corner was a frowning moon with "No" beside it.
Susan picked up the wooden planchette and laid it on the board. The planchette was heart-shaped and had three felt-tipped legs that facilitated its movement. In the center was a plastic window to peer through.
Susan placed her right hand on the planchette. As she deliberately began circling the board with it, she asked politely, "Did I see the North Hall ghost?"
Susan pressed a little harder on the Message Indicator. She moved it faster. Suddenly, the lights began to flicker. A hair brush floated from the girl's dresser and hovered in the air. The girl screamed and let go of the planchette. Her hand no sooner sprang from the heart-shaped object when it moved on its own and spelled out the letters YES.
"W-W-Why did you visit ME?" stuttered the girl as the brush flew into her hand.
I FELT YOUR PAIN, answered the planchette.
As Susan read the message, the bulb in her roommate's study lamp flashed wickedly and blew out. Then, her psychology text lifted from the desk and began circling her head. Its movement had a hypnotic effect on her, and she asked numbly, "What should I do?"
The textbook dropped into Susan's lap and flew open to the chapter dealing with suicide. Afterward, the planchette moved slowly and deliberately to spell JUMP.
A smile played across Susan's lips. She rose from the bed. After walking rotely to the door, she turned the lock. The door creaked open of its own accord. She stepped into the hall. There, a sudden gust of cold wind mussed her hair and numbed her paling cheeks. She strode transfixed toward a wispy figure standing atop the stairwell railing. The figure smiled invitingly and held out her arms in a gesture of love.
Just before Susan reached the beckoning spirit, a second blast of wind blew her hair across her eyes. When she reached to clear her face, her hand brushed against the crucifix in her breast pocket. The holy cross felt warm to her touch, and she could feel her heartbeat pulsing through it. Images of her dear Aunt Celia popped into her brain with sun-filled afternoons and tall glasses of delicious lemonade.
With a shake of her head, Susan cleared the strands of hair blocking her vision. Clutching the crucifix, she saw the ghost's sweet smile twist into a malicious leer. An expression of self-loathing and total despair revealed the fate that doomed her soul in 1917.
"The damned aren't happy!" cried Susan. "In the name of Jesus Christ, get away from me!"
With a fearful gasp, the ghost recoiled at the holy name. Before Susan could again say "Jesus Christ," the figure lunged forward to snare the coed in its lethal arms. Susan dodged and bolted for the stairwell. In the next instant she was sprinting for all she was worth toward the fifth floor. No lights came on there in response to her cries for help, so she scrambled down and down into the bowels of North Hall. Blindly she ran with a cold wind shrieking at her heels, trying to capsize her. Only her instincts and awakened will allowed her to keep her balance as the wind buffeted her from behind.
Susan descended to the cafeteria just as her churning legs were turning to rubber. She no sooner stumbled into the murky room than a hellish, disappointed wail filled the stairwell behind her. The cold, pursuing wind came to a sudden halt and then sucked upward floor by floor until it vanished in the direction of the attic.
With the last of her strength, Susan crossed the cafeteria, pushed through the hallway doors, and staggered past the vacant TV lounge to Mrs. Phillip's suite. Fighting back the blackness closing around her, she rapped desperately on the smiley face taped to the housemother's door.
The terrified girl tottered at the threshold until a very sleepy Mrs. Phillips answered her flurry of knocks. "I couldn't jump! Couldn't jump!" babbled the coed, collapsing into the housemother's arms. "Help me. Please! Help me live. I want so much to. . .live. To thank Aunt Celia for her love. . ."
GHOSTS OF A BROKEN HEART
Infinity Publishing (2005)
$9.90 (Postpaid) $10.35 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
GHOSTS OF A BROKEN HEART collects the author's early poetry written primarily during his college years at Mansfield University and during a dark period following graduation. The work is gritty, emotion-charged, and irreverent as a young man's soul. There's plenty of experimentation, too, as Robertson purges his demons by plunging boldly into free verse, shaped verse, and traditional rhymed styles. All is expressed in a voice that rose often in anger and disillusionment but never broke. His image-packed poems of lost love are classics of the genre. Surviving heartbreak is what this book is all about.
Excerpts:
YOU MADE THE WORLD A NEGATIVE
you made the world a negative, a blur of blackonwhite, a sea of dark hair washing back-and-forth across the white beaches of kissable neck, the p-u-f-f of fragrant trade winds leaking from part-ed lips, the dull ache of t-h-r-o-b-b-i-n-g pulse in the darkness /behind/ closed eyes, the tingle of skin at the passing of electric (=-) fingers (??why did you ever insist that we get the film developed??)
JOY
Ripe in her teens,
Joy had a figure
men would kill for.
Bikini clad, she'd
sunbathe on the roof,
causing gawking geeks
to drive into her farm pond.
Later, she'd brag
about the fiances
she buried on Oak Hill.
They found her
groper stepdad
gutted in the barn
the day after
she left for L.A.
POET LAUREATE
i can only write when i'm tortured/
so, baby, be mean to me/
who can work with the brain waves calm/
i need them tossing and turning/
caught in the throes
of an emotional storm/
i need you to make me half crazy/
so the ghost gods dance
in my brain/
conjuring shadows of yesterday/
animating cartoons of pain/
i need to FEEL your laughter/
to raise the hackles of hate/
i need your whispers
behind my back/
to prolong this inner debate/
so, baby, crank up the chin music/
make me dance to the
tune of your tongue/
twist the nerve ends in my neck/
and you'll find it's not me
who gets hung/
tingle my wits with your titter/
roast me until i can't sweat/
then after your snickers
have died from my mind/
i'll be the new poet laureate
$9.90 (Postpaid) $10.35 in Canada.
For an autographed copy send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
GHOSTS OF A BROKEN HEART collects the author's early poetry written primarily during his college years at Mansfield University and during a dark period following graduation. The work is gritty, emotion-charged, and irreverent as a young man's soul. There's plenty of experimentation, too, as Robertson purges his demons by plunging boldly into free verse, shaped verse, and traditional rhymed styles. All is expressed in a voice that rose often in anger and disillusionment but never broke. His image-packed poems of lost love are classics of the genre. Surviving heartbreak is what this book is all about.
Excerpts:
YOU MADE THE WORLD A NEGATIVE
you made the world a negative, a blur of blackonwhite, a sea of dark hair washing back-and-forth across the white beaches of kissable neck, the p-u-f-f of fragrant trade winds leaking from part-ed lips, the dull ache of t-h-r-o-b-b-i-n-g pulse in the darkness /behind/ closed eyes, the tingle of skin at the passing of electric (=-) fingers (??why did you ever insist that we get the film developed??)
JOY
Ripe in her teens,
Joy had a figure
men would kill for.
Bikini clad, she'd
sunbathe on the roof,
causing gawking geeks
to drive into her farm pond.
Later, she'd brag
about the fiances
she buried on Oak Hill.
They found her
groper stepdad
gutted in the barn
the day after
she left for L.A.
POET LAUREATE
i can only write when i'm tortured/
so, baby, be mean to me/
who can work with the brain waves calm/
i need them tossing and turning/
caught in the throes
of an emotional storm/
i need you to make me half crazy/
so the ghost gods dance
in my brain/
conjuring shadows of yesterday/
animating cartoons of pain/
i need to FEEL your laughter/
to raise the hackles of hate/
i need your whispers
behind my back/
to prolong this inner debate/
so, baby, crank up the chin music/
make me dance to the
tune of your tongue/
twist the nerve ends in my neck/
and you'll find it's not me
who gets hung/
tingle my wits with your titter/
roast me until i can't sweat/
then after your snickers
have died from my mind/
i'll be the new poet laureate
GASP! THE HAUNTED RECITATIONS OF WILLIAM P. ROBERTSON
Robyl Press (1999)
$10.90 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
Audio Cassette or CD available from author. Send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
On his first audio book, Robertson got to recite, rap, and rhyme his way through some of his best-known horror verse. The cassette contains 48 poems, many of which were culled from the author's chapbooks, WATERS BOIL BLOODY, DESOLATE LANDSCAPES, and BONE MARROW DRIVE. The majority of the recitations are laced with sound effects or backed by spooky keyboards. The audio book received rave reviews from critics in Canada and the U.S. Jim Lee of "Scavenger's Newsletter" called GASP! "an uproarious, standalone success." Cathy Buburuz of Saskatchewan's "Midnight Selections" webzine said, "Every single poem on the cassette conjures eerie images." Reviewer T.M. Gray even went so far as to declare, "There aren't enough superlatives in the English language to express how awesome GASP! is!"
EXCERPTS:
ALIEN ABDUCTION
My heart is numbed
by alien abduction.
I float in a glittery void
alive with whispers
& slippery skin.
The earth is strangled
blue sunshine.
My favorite options
are death or insanity.
TOURIST TRAP
Fire-haired hounds lope
along the pueblo wall
where misty squaws squat
hacking the Hawaiian shirt
from a fresh carcass.
Ghostly fingers pry
Injun artifacts
from a stiff white grip
and return them to
the roadside stand.
THE ELEMENTARY LIBRARIAN
The elementary librarian
lurked in a maze
of Gothic book racks.
Her step was a whisper,
her presence dour
as a tombstone.
Sweat seeped from her
greasy, gray locks
and down a neck
waxy with witch's tallow.
We feared her worse
than a paddle's crack.
Her talons were the envy
of the Grim Reaper.
A NEW SET OF MONSTERS
A new set of monsters/
Has moved in upstairs/
By the sound of their footsteps/
They should rent a lair//
I've not seen them enter/
They don't have a car/
I'll bet that their parents/
Don't care where they are//
They don't speak a language/
That I've ever heard/
Between grunts and whistles/
There's never a word//
They growl all morning/
They howl all night/
I wish to complain/
But I fear they would bite//
They just got a package/
In a bloody sack/
The postman delivered/
But did not come back//
Now I hear gnawing/
And go into shock/
When they leave for groceries/
My door will be locked!
THE WEREWOLF SPORTSCASTER
The commentary of the werewolf sportscaster
bristled with all the latest jargon.
Hoops hotshots "passed the orange," "went to the hole," and "slammed the jam" while diamond dandies flung "slurves" and "chalked up k's."
But it wasn't until the gridiron glistened with a "jacked" Halloween moon that his listeners learned first-hand why he favored the phrase "crunch time."
WATERS BOIL BLOODY
Waters boil bloody when the full moon finally rises,/
And fishermen not safe ashore are in for cold surprises./
For then the loon cries out of tune/
With hair-raising reprises,/
And harbor help can't hear the yelp/
A drowning man devises.//
Waters boil bloody when the moonlight probes the deep,/
And fishes snuggled in their beds dare not give in to sleep./
For then a net's not a safe bet/
While fear is on the creep./
And death is spread from bed to bed,/
And sunfish don't come cheap.//
Waters boil bloody when the silver shadows stir/
Within the watery dungeons where our drowning dreams occur./
For every cast could be the last,/
And nothing can deter/
If what is caught must now be fought/
And eats more than the lure!
$10.90 (Postpaid) $12.16 in Canada.
Audio Cassette or CD available from author. Send check or money order made out to William P. Robertson to P.O. Box 293, Duke Center, PA 16729.
On his first audio book, Robertson got to recite, rap, and rhyme his way through some of his best-known horror verse. The cassette contains 48 poems, many of which were culled from the author's chapbooks, WATERS BOIL BLOODY, DESOLATE LANDSCAPES, and BONE MARROW DRIVE. The majority of the recitations are laced with sound effects or backed by spooky keyboards. The audio book received rave reviews from critics in Canada and the U.S. Jim Lee of "Scavenger's Newsletter" called GASP! "an uproarious, standalone success." Cathy Buburuz of Saskatchewan's "Midnight Selections" webzine said, "Every single poem on the cassette conjures eerie images." Reviewer T.M. Gray even went so far as to declare, "There aren't enough superlatives in the English language to express how awesome GASP! is!"
EXCERPTS:
ALIEN ABDUCTION
My heart is numbed
by alien abduction.
I float in a glittery void
alive with whispers
& slippery skin.
The earth is strangled
blue sunshine.
My favorite options
are death or insanity.
TOURIST TRAP
Fire-haired hounds lope
along the pueblo wall
where misty squaws squat
hacking the Hawaiian shirt
from a fresh carcass.
Ghostly fingers pry
Injun artifacts
from a stiff white grip
and return them to
the roadside stand.
THE ELEMENTARY LIBRARIAN
The elementary librarian
lurked in a maze
of Gothic book racks.
Her step was a whisper,
her presence dour
as a tombstone.
Sweat seeped from her
greasy, gray locks
and down a neck
waxy with witch's tallow.
We feared her worse
than a paddle's crack.
Her talons were the envy
of the Grim Reaper.
A NEW SET OF MONSTERS
A new set of monsters/
Has moved in upstairs/
By the sound of their footsteps/
They should rent a lair//
I've not seen them enter/
They don't have a car/
I'll bet that their parents/
Don't care where they are//
They don't speak a language/
That I've ever heard/
Between grunts and whistles/
There's never a word//
They growl all morning/
They howl all night/
I wish to complain/
But I fear they would bite//
They just got a package/
In a bloody sack/
The postman delivered/
But did not come back//
Now I hear gnawing/
And go into shock/
When they leave for groceries/
My door will be locked!
THE WEREWOLF SPORTSCASTER
The commentary of the werewolf sportscaster
bristled with all the latest jargon.
Hoops hotshots "passed the orange," "went to the hole," and "slammed the jam" while diamond dandies flung "slurves" and "chalked up k's."
But it wasn't until the gridiron glistened with a "jacked" Halloween moon that his listeners learned first-hand why he favored the phrase "crunch time."
WATERS BOIL BLOODY
Waters boil bloody when the full moon finally rises,/
And fishermen not safe ashore are in for cold surprises./
For then the loon cries out of tune/
With hair-raising reprises,/
And harbor help can't hear the yelp/
A drowning man devises.//
Waters boil bloody when the moonlight probes the deep,/
And fishes snuggled in their beds dare not give in to sleep./
For then a net's not a safe bet/
While fear is on the creep./
And death is spread from bed to bed,/
And sunfish don't come cheap.//
Waters boil bloody when the silver shadows stir/
Within the watery dungeons where our drowning dreams occur./
For every cast could be the last,/
And nothing can deter/
If what is caught must now be fought/
And eats more than the lure!
UNTIL DEATH DO IMPART
Robyl Press (2002).
Robertson assembled this 40 minute audio book CD much like an old-time radio program which allowed him to expand his poetic vision. Besides his usual brand of horror, he explores the realms of sci-fi, Medieval fantasy, and the mythology of rock 'n' roll. With the help of his sound effects gang, the Crypt Kicker Five, Robertson simulates the fury of alien battles, the terror of deep space, and the strangest of marriages, complete with a warped Wedding March. The title of the CD, a play on words from the traditional Wedding Vows, has death as the pervading theme. Death as revenge, death as sport, and death as a release are just a few aspects of the subject covered in the 24 poems. Death is viewed from a variety of perspectives, as well, when a burnt-out executioner, a hardened soldier, and a crazed serial killer vent their feelings. The death of love and its effect on the human psyche provides a chill in "husband (ghost)." Adding punch and variety to UNTIL DEATH DO IMPART, are four songs by the rock group ShadowFox. Co-written by Robertson and guitarist A.J. Curtis, these tunes range from the haunting blues of "Shelly" to the wry humor of "Devil on MTV" to the swamp rock of "Shadows Part Slowly" and "You Are a Witch in Pretty Skin." Robertson immortalizes the band in "ShadowFox (A Mythology)," which documents the mid-Seventies genesis of the legendary Pennsylvania rockers. Robertson begins UNTIL DEATH DO IMPART by asking the poetic question "What do you do/When your whole family's strange?" and ends with "The Moor" where "wasted trees writhe with rigor mortis." In between you'll catch a train with a homicidal maniac and meet a host of modern monsters and futuristic fiends. Step up to the ticket window. For the economical fare of $10.00, you'll take a 40 minute ride guaranteed to freak Rod Serling! For song lyrics check out the "Music" segment of this website.
Robertson assembled this 40 minute audio book CD much like an old-time radio program which allowed him to expand his poetic vision. Besides his usual brand of horror, he explores the realms of sci-fi, Medieval fantasy, and the mythology of rock 'n' roll. With the help of his sound effects gang, the Crypt Kicker Five, Robertson simulates the fury of alien battles, the terror of deep space, and the strangest of marriages, complete with a warped Wedding March. The title of the CD, a play on words from the traditional Wedding Vows, has death as the pervading theme. Death as revenge, death as sport, and death as a release are just a few aspects of the subject covered in the 24 poems. Death is viewed from a variety of perspectives, as well, when a burnt-out executioner, a hardened soldier, and a crazed serial killer vent their feelings. The death of love and its effect on the human psyche provides a chill in "husband (ghost)." Adding punch and variety to UNTIL DEATH DO IMPART, are four songs by the rock group ShadowFox. Co-written by Robertson and guitarist A.J. Curtis, these tunes range from the haunting blues of "Shelly" to the wry humor of "Devil on MTV" to the swamp rock of "Shadows Part Slowly" and "You Are a Witch in Pretty Skin." Robertson immortalizes the band in "ShadowFox (A Mythology)," which documents the mid-Seventies genesis of the legendary Pennsylvania rockers. Robertson begins UNTIL DEATH DO IMPART by asking the poetic question "What do you do/When your whole family's strange?" and ends with "The Moor" where "wasted trees writhe with rigor mortis." In between you'll catch a train with a homicidal maniac and meet a host of modern monsters and futuristic fiends. Step up to the ticket window. For the economical fare of $10.00, you'll take a 40 minute ride guaranteed to freak Rod Serling! For song lyrics check out the "Music" segment of this website.