The Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson

 

Copyright© 2017 – Nicholas Hall

 

Chapter Six

"We cannot kindle when we will

the fire that in the heart resides

the spirit bloweth and is still

in mystery our soul abides."

( Matthew Arnold)

 

Rock Creek Ride

 

Edmond Chapman, handling the reins of a sleek, finely conformed black horse pulling his buggy, looked to be about sixty plus years of age, white hair, leaning toward the portly in girth, and perhaps five feet eight or nine inches in height, although it was difficult for me to determine since he was sitting on the buggy seat. Beside him sat a pretty little girl, not more than eleven or twelve years of age. She was older, I thought than Henri and Benjie, younger than Jubal, and closer to Antoine!

"Hi ya, Mr. Chapman," Jubal shouted happily.

"Hello yourself, young Jubal," Chapman replied, smiling warmly at the lad and brining his horse to a halt. Peering at me, he asked, "Who's your friend, Jubal?"

"This is Mr. Jeansonne," Jubal answered proudly, "and he's going to be my new tutor!"

"What happened to the other chap?" Chapman inquired.

"Don' know," Jubal responded, "woke up one morning about two weeks ago and he was gone. About two days later some Union soldier boys stopped by the house. Don' know what they wanted either," anticipating the next question.

Chapman gave the reins a snap, urging the horse on and shouted over his shoulder, "Tell Celeste I have a guest for a couple of days and then you hustle up to the house and bring the horse and buggy back to the barn. Have Hiram check the left hind shoe; critter seems to be favoring it a bit," and proceeded down the lane to the main house.

"We better get to hustling," Jubal said to me as we started at a dog-trot back to Madame Doucet's.

He poked his head in the door, announced Mr. Chapman's arrival with a guest, and took off for the big house to do as he was instructed. Jubal was supposed to help Rueben move some livestock, so I expected the tour was over and I was on my own. I really wanted to check out the park where my motorcycle was left, if such a park even existed, but I had no idea where to start looking. I thought, perhaps and just perhaps, Hiram down at the livery could help me. When I entered the tack room at the stable, he was busy hanging up leather harnesses, collars, bridles, and other equipment used to harness up horses and mules for the tasks required of them. Spotting me, he was about to speak when Jubal rattled up in the buggy.

"Mr. Chapman said to check the left hind shoe on this gelding," Jubal said and before he could say more, Rueben rode up on a saddled mule.

"Jubal," he said, "don't get too comfortable. Saddle up and get going. We have over thirty head of cattle to move to the south pasture and a small flock of sheep to move north to that hilly ground on the way to the quarry! We'll do them last."

Jubal saddled up a smaller mule, gave it a jab in the flanks with his heel, and rode off with Rueben.

"That Jubal, he be a right smart boy; jes like those three younger ones. Celeste Doucet, she do a fine job raising them boys. Jubal probably end up reading law somewhere."

The way he'd "handled" me, I was certain he'd "do" something or somebody; whether in the context of law or just plain lust, only time would tell. Possibly, he would do both. I left Hiram and began wandering around the out buildings until I ended up in a large shed filled with farm machinery.

Jacque, Gabriel, Paul, and Jefferson were there in the midst of a discussion concerning plowing and planting. I stood to the side and listened as they made plans. I scanned the array of equipment stored in an orderly manner and had no idea what any of it was used for. I was a city boy and besides, I had no idea what equipment was used to farm in 1865. I did notice, however, the absence of wagons, such as those I'd seen in photographs of the Civil War and of settlers of the era. The youngest, Jefferson, noticed me standing there, said something to his older brothers, and walked over to me.

"Something I can do for you, Mr. Jeansonne?" he asked.

"Please call me Tom," I replied, somewhat hesitantly after my encounter with Jubal, wondering what his older brother might want to do, and thought better of what I imagined I'd like to do to both of them and continued, "no, I'm just looking around."

Jefferson, his eyes following mine, said proudly, "Mr. Chapman; he buy the newest and the best machinery for us to farm with."

Gabriel, overhearing our conversation, interjected with a laugh, "Even if'n it don' work so good!"

That remark brought a laugh from all four of them. The other three men gathered around Jefferson and me and began naming the equipment used; all horse or mule drawn, of course. There were plows, harrows, cultivators, side-bar sickle mowers, a couple of "seed planters," and two "Brown-made corn planters."

"We can plant a heap of corn with those planters," Paul allowed.

"But first we gots to get the plowing done," chimed in Jacque, "and we don't get that done jawing about it."

Enough said, it was time for everyone to get to work. Before they could leave to their assigned tasks, I quickly said, "Thanks for the clothing, Jefferson. Mine were a bit soiled."

Gabriel quickly said with a chuckle, "Jefferson, you been hoping for some handsome young stud to get in your pants and it looks like it done happened!"

Jefferson blushed, put his head down shyly while his brothers guffawed at the joke.

Jefferson was to take a walk-behind plow and plow the large garden east of the big house, while Paul and Jacque would each use a two-bottom plow rig with a small seat attached to work up a field someplace else; they didn't say where to me and I really didn't need to know. I noticed the plows and other equipment had small iron-spoke, iron rimmed wheels, which could be raised or lowered by a lever, attached to them.

"Hiram put them wheels and seats on to make it easier for us move them around and rest our asses on. Makes work a lot easier and we can do more," Jacque said with pride.

"How many acres do you plant?" I asked.

"This year, Mr. Chapman wants about three hundred acres of corn, eighty of oats and twenty each of barley and rye planted."

If my math was correct, that was about four hundred and twenty acres; add that to the almost five hundred acres the tenets farmed and Mr. Chapman owned a sizeable piece of ground in Lee County.

"How many acres does Mr. Chapman have?" I inquired.

"Jes' this place alone?" asked Jacque.

I nodded, he thought a moment before saying, "What with the hay ground, the pasture ground, timber, and all, I'd think around a thousand and then another six hundred acres."

With that, the conversation came to a definite close and the men hurried off to gather up teams and hitch them up to equipment.

I now had time to contemplate my predicament; at the very top of my list of things to do was to devise a way to return to my own time. If that was impossible, then decide how to survive in this age and era! Although the young males bouncing around and their seeming willingness to engage in some sort of delightful encounters was tempting, I despair of the thought of having to remain here. I did miss the more modern conveniences. My fears of being discovered as a fraud and possible catamite were just as paramount in my thoughts. Perhaps, I thought, my questions and quest could be answered if I could but return to where I'd catastrophically entered this time and place – the little roadside park with the big rocks and small cave. I had no idea where it was or how to get there. As of this moment, given that bit of a dilemma, I was truly and royally fucked!

The sun was growing high in the sky as I continued to ponder my options and situation. If I should fail to return to 1983, then it was tantamount I fabricate some plausible story explaining my presence at the Chapman Farm. The more I thought of that, should I fail, the more it seemed to make sense. Jubal opened the door when he announced to Mr. Chapman I was to be his new tutor since the other one departed in haste. The question would be, how did I appear on the farm? Was it by accident or was I in pursuit or investigation of the whereabouts of the missing former tutor? Perhaps, I thought, say little, remain mysterious, and let others conclude as they would!

This still did not resolve another major issue; if I was indeed trapped in the past, and apparently I was at this point in time (God, what a bad pun!), how would I disguise the fact I knew of things happening in the future? After all, in addition to my PhD, I did have a minor with my Bachelor's degree in History and studied, in some degree or other, the history of the United States and was quite familiar with many of the main (and some minor events occurring throughout the ages) so it would be impossible to ignore them. Could I prevent something from happening I knew would, such as Lincoln's assassination? The more I thought about it, the more I doubted it because if I was able to prevent it, I wouldn't have studied about it would've I?

So many questions; so few answers!

My meandered walk brought me back to the Doucet portion of the Chapman house. Madame Doucet was in the kitchen with the other ladies planning and organizing for Mr. Chapman's residency and the accompanying services needed to accommodate him. She grinned at me as I entered the kitchen, invited me to sit down, and Mrs. Davis poured me a cup of coffee.

Madame Doucet finished with her instructions to the others, poured herself a cup of coffee, and joined me at the table. Once she was settled and had taken her first sip of coffee, I inquired how I'd get back to the place the boys found me, using an excuse to make certain I'd left nothing behind.

She thought about my request and finally offered, "If Jefferson finishes plowing the garden before the little boys come home from school, I'll have him take you."

It sounded fine to me and was about to leave, when Jubal bounded in again.

"Mr. Thomas," he asked excitedly, "you want to watch when we breed that mare?"

If, eventually, I had to assume the persona of a man of the 1860's, especially appearing from nowhere and even though I'd never seen a donkey and a horse breeding, I grappled with the limited knowledge I'd acquired in biology classes, so asked, as we walked toward the stables, "Is the mare in heat and ready to accommodate the stallion?"

"Oh, she's more than ready," giggled Jubal. "Hiram's been walking her by Big Boy and Little Boy, those are the donkey studs, for about an half hour. Every time she walks by, they snort and kick `cause they're so anxious to breed her. She's dripping from her hindquarters every step she takes."

At the stable, Hiram had the mare backed up to an earthen ramp with a raised platform on either side of her. The mare's head was held tight in a stanchion to keep her from getting away and, if my inexperienced eye was any judge, dripping lubricant from her vagina, in anticipation of the stallion.

"Hiram built that so Little Boy can mount her, get a good grip on her sides and slide his cock in her easily," Jubal noted proudly, demonstrating to me his vocabulary was more expansive than I'd originally thought.

"Bring out Little Boy," Hiram commanded and Jubal hastened to the task. When he returned, he led a medium to small "jack" or male donkey from the stables. The donkey's cock was flopping stiffly beneath him. When they approached the mare, Little Boy became more agitated and starting snorting and pulling on the lead rope in its desire to do what his penis demanded! Up the ramp and Little Boy mounted, but didn't seem to hit the mark right away. Jubal reached under, grabbed the stiff donkey cock, jacked it a couple of times, and in one swift motion, inserted it the mare's vagina. Little Boy gave several thrusts, grunted, nipped her neck, thrust a few more times; she squealed, he rested a moment, shoved in hard again, and his cock began to pulse his sperm into the mare. It was of sufficient quantity, when he dismounted, it ran down her backsides!

Jubal quickly put Little Boy back in the stables while Hiram moved the mare to a place that held only a stanchion. He placed her head and neck in it, secured it, and waited for Jubal to bring Big Boy out for his turn up the chute. When the donkey came closer I could see why they called him "Big Boy." He certainly was! That donkey's cock looked like a major league baseball bat hanging down underneath is belly! It twitched forward, hard and ready, at every step. Jubal didn't need to guide that instrument into the mare; Big Boy mounted and with one shove, planted himself right where he was supposed to be. Evidently he was more excited than Little Boy because he only hunched a few times and he was unloading his balls in the mare!

Once he dismounted and was led away, I asked Hiram why he used two to breed the mare.

"Just to make sure the mare is properly seeded," he explained. "Besides, that's the way my daddy did it!"

I didn't ask if he meant breeding horses or people!

Well, it was quite an experience I must admit. I acted as though I'd seen it a thousand times, but watching that stud fuck the mare left me as hard as a cedar post! From the looks of Jubal's pants as he walked toward me from the stables, it did the same to him. By the time the breeding was over, it was lunch time, and we retired to the kitchen.

After lunch, Madame Doucet suggested I nap for a while and I did. When I awoke, Jefferson was standing by my bedside, smiling at me. Man, it seems as though every unattached male on this farm thinks I'm either a mare in heat or a stallion ready to breed, the way they look at me!

"Momma Doucet says you'd like to go down to Rock Creek where the little boys found you," he said.

I nodded and slipped on my boots.

Jefferson was sweaty, evidence of labor glistening on his face, soaking his shirt, and seeping around the waist band of his trousers. He exuded that scent of a young man, in his prime, sexually and sensually attractive and fit for action.

Jefferson pointed to a saddled mule in front of the house and asked, "Mind riding double?"

"Not at all!"

He smiled shyly and before mounting, he dropped his suspenders from his shoulders and proceeded to peel off his wet shirt. A brown, naked upper torso was landscaped in front of me, shoulders and upper arms firm but not thick, chest of medium width with fine, flat nipples and pectoral muscles that flexed as he moved. Jefferson's abdomen foretold of hard labor but care in developing; leading to a waist so slim and hips so narrow it was a wonder his trousers would stay up without the suspenders!

He mounted the mule, moved one foot from the wide stirrup, extended a hand to me, I clasped it, slipped my foot in the empty stirrup, and following is example, swung my right leg over the back of the mule.

"Here," he advised, "settle behind me on the saddle and wrap your arms around my waist so you won't fall. We're not so big we both won't fit."

I did as he instructed and when my arms encircled him, I realized he'd not pulled his suspenders back in place, allowing his trousers to slide to a point just above his ass-crack in the back and the waist to rest just above his pubic region in the front. He might not think either of us is too big, but I was growing fast as I snugged myself tight to his back! Jefferson gave the mule a nudge and down the lane we rode. As we rode, I felt him push my hands lower until they were resting just over his crotch on the bare skin of his lower abdomen. When I used one finger to "accidently" tickle his pubic hairs slightly, I felt him tremble and emit a slight groan of pleasure!

Fifteen minutes later we were at the place he said the boys found me. Before dismounting, I scanned the area; the big rocks were still there; the small cave, and the creek, but my motorcycle and helmet were gone! I quickly climbed down and began a methodical search of the area and found nothing. The state highway and the outdoor toilet were absent and from the looks of things, never existed in the first place!

"Everything okay, Mr. Thomas," Jefferson asked.

I said nothing at first, the sinking feeling of reality settling in on me, depressing me, and consigning me to my fate. Why and how I'd been transported back to 1865 was a mystery to me and more so, I could see no way for me to return to my time and place in 1983!

I nodded that all was well, yet something in my face told him otherwise.

Jefferson walked up to me, held me at arms- length, and said, "You sure are a mystery man, Mr. Jeasonne."

Stepping away from him, I turned to look again, thinking I may have overlooked some item, and seeing nothing out of place, swung my gaze back to Jefferson. Standing before me was a naked, brown man, looking at me with longing in his eyes and his cock at full erection, pointing proudly in front of him. I knew what he wanted and I wanted to dissipate my disappointment and frustration by some old-fashioned, gut-wrenching, ass-splitting butt-fucking!

"I do want to fuck you," he said softly, but sincerely.

I dropped my pants, stripped off my shirt, and stepped out of my boots. Quickly engulfing the head of his uncut prick in my mouth to moisten it, I lapped it with my tongue, then turned around, bent over and invited him to prong me properly. Stepping forward, he found his target and hit the bull's-eye with his staff! Jefferson was a gentle, passionate, but enthusiastic lover, as many young are, and expended his copious seed in my chute in short order. Withdrawing, after twitching the last of his offering, he bent over and offered me his own love tunnel!

Wasting no time, I too, was quickly buried balls deep, thrusting fast, seeking release, and when it came, it came with a loud "YES" from me and an equally loud moans of satisfaction from Jefferson! The ride back to the farm was somewhat uncomfortable for both of us. His prick was not what the average dude carried, I thought, and neither was mine, albeit somewhat smaller than Jefferson's.

About half-way to the farm, Jefferson looked over his shoulder at me, grinned and announced, "I daresn't fart or I'll shit my trousers!"

To be continued.

***

Thank you for reading "The Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson" – Chapter Six

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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