Date: Wed, 22 May 2002 07:53:53 EDT
From: SWarri1349@aol.com
Subject: High Iron Chapter 10 Gay/Historical

			   High Iron Chapter 10
			    The fate of Destiny

  He walked down the brick street, his clothes ragged and his shoes in
shreds, his golden hair matted and dirty and the green eyes that once
shined like shamrocks dull and full of lost hope. He listened to the
steamboat whistles along the dock as he looked around the town perched high
above on the bluffs of the Yazoo River that now flowed past when the
earthquake of 1873 changed the course of the mighty Mississippi and the
Corps of Engineers stepped in and rerouted the Yazoo which he learned meant
River of Death in the Yazoo Indian language. He looked around, nothing
escaping his eyes as he looked for work or anything he could find to earn a
bite to eat, a piece of stale bread or a thrown away scrap of meat from
some rich man's table. He watched the niggers building the great flood
wall, even they had jobs when he could find none in some places. He could
still see little reminders of the War Between the States, pocked hillsides
and remains of old caves where the citizens hid during the shelling now
being covered in kudzu vines and overgrowth on the outskirts of town. His
feet ached with each step and his stomach growled inside his thin frame.

 The shadow person walking beside him, limping along in step every time he
passed a glass window, showed a ragged 17 year old body that looked to be
only 14 in size. He stood only five foot seven and weighed a hundred and
fifteen pounds when soaking wet, his legs only had a very light coating of
blond hair and his chest smooth as a baby's, with one or two strays
circling his dime sized nipples that stood out in their pinkish glory from
his tanned chest. He quickened his pace and each time his foot made contact
with the brick street he winced and wanted to scream but he knew he was
being followed. He limped past the other people on the street, most barely
giving him a glance as they strolled to and from the market by the river or
checked on steamboat arrivals and the cargo they were shipping or waiting
to receive, innocent little boys laughed and held tightly to their mother's
skirts. He stared at them with a burning hatred, "Why couldn't I been like
them? A normal life, a loving mother and father, no, God cursed me with a
whoring mother and drunkard father and a baby brother that I can barely
remember. He was...., damn, I can't even remember his age, when I last laid
eyes on him and I was eleven, then my world crumbled into a smoking chaos
of hell and brimstone.

 His feet screamed as he continued his quickened pace, brushing past well
dressed ladies and gentlemen and shoddy dressed day laborers and steamboat
men. He reached the riverfront that had been hidden by the old brick
buildings that lined Main Street and the Railroad tracks of the Yazoo and
Mississippi Valley Railroad as he limped down the steep hill from Main
Street to Levee Street and crossed the tracks not far from Levee Street
station, also called Illinois Station. A tall three story brick building
built in 1903 to replace a wooden one burned in the last century when the
line was owned by the Louisville, New Orleans and Texas Railroad. He
stopped and quickly glanced over his right shoulder and no longer saw the
man that had been following him. He stopped and leaned against a part of
the finished flood wall and took a deep breath into his lungs that felt as
if they were on fire, already April was beginning to blister the South and
summer was months away still. The breeze that blew from the river sent
chills down his spine as it cooled his sweat-drenched shirt as he sat in
the shade, breathing hard.

 He let his eyes close and tried to relax his body but dark thoughts kept
entering his mind and he mentally tried to fight them off, but tiredness
overcame his will to stay awake, he slumped against the cool concrete as
his breathing smoothed into that of deep sleep. The world around him
continued to move, most paying no attention to the boy propped against the
flood wall, sleeping and dreaming as his exhausted body thrashed about as
he was chased by the demons of his past. Rich little boys even took the
chance to kick him as he slept before their mothers grabbed them away and
told them to leave the white trashy boy alone and swatted them on their
butts for being cruel to people who did not try to take care of
themselves. The poor whites and blacks who passed by him, some felt pity,
others felt nothing because they were in the same plight, jobless or
homeless, some like him alone and lost in the world. He lashed out in his
dreams, trying to run from his haunted past but to no avail, no matter
where he went or how far he escaped New Orleans, in his dreams he once more
repeated the events years in his darkened past...

 The blue skies above heated the Crescent City into an oven, the heat
reflected from the red bricks of Bourbon Street as the crowds of citizens
walked to and from the markets in the French Quarter. He walked between his
mother and father, as trails of tobacco smoke drifted from his father's
pipe like it did from the tall stacks of the steamboat his father was pilot
for on the Mississippi River, and for once his mother did not have his
younger brother to tote along. It was like when he was the only child and
they were happy before his father started to drinking and his mother to
whoring in the seedy riverfront bar. Today was special, they had left his
younger brother with the neighbor and they told him they were taking him
out somewhere special to celebrate his 11th birthday. That morning like
most mornings he had fed his baby brother and watched him while his mother
did dishes and other chores before she took over and sent him scrambling
out the door to go play with his friends, baseball in an open lot or
fishing in one of the many canals, or tag in an alley, or sitting up on the
hill by the great freight yards of the Illinois Central. 'The cursed evil'
as his father called any railroad because they stole the river trade and
almost killed the graceful steamboats.

 They continued to walk, brushing past well dressed men and women and
shoddy dressed common workmen and the poor and the Negroes looking for work
or delivering supplies to the many shops. The AJAX Brewery soon was passed
and the wonderful smells of hops and barley being brewed into the famous
DIXIE beer across the street and not far away was Jackson Square and Saint
Louis Cathedral, surprising that is the way his father turned, headed for
Jackson Square with the big bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on his war
horse, celebrating the victory over the British at the Battle of New
Orleans in 1814. They passed the wrought iron lamp posts with the gas
lanterns above and entered the square surrounded by old trees and grassy
areas with a large fountain in the center. A few people mingled in the
square under the live oak trees, reading the newspapers as their children
played near the fount as a priest stood at the doorway of Saint Louis
Cathedral to welcome the flock to daily mass as the church bells rang and
blended with the moans of the Steamboat Natchez as she pulled away from the
dock northward bound. He looked around, watching all the people and things
going on, he hardly ever got to see this part of the city, for most of his
young life he lived north of town in a clapboard house with a large yard
all around the house on the hill until his father was fired from the
steamer Mayflower for drinking on the job and almost colliding with a rival
steamboat near Vicksburg. The white house on the hill was soon sold, along
with almost every piece of furniture and family heirloom collected over the
years. The family moved south to the riverfront to a two room shack with a
rough board floor and a pot belly stove for cooking and heat; a small
knocked together table and 4 stools were the furnishings for one room and
three corn shuck beds with rough woolen blankets in the other. Wax candles
served as lighting compared to the fine gas lamps and goose down beds of
the white house on the hill, so this was hell or so he thought. Eleven
years old in the year of 1924, living in the South in the greatest nation
on Earth or so he thought...

________________________________________________________________________________

 "Come on, boy, get your fuckin' head out of them clouds, there's someone
important I want ya to meet and me and your mother dearest promises ya one
thing, your life never will be the same!" His father spoke as he grabbed
his hand and pulled him along faster down the brick walkway. He didn't
understand the rudeness of his father's hand as he suddenly was snatched
from his daydream back to harsh reality with his father's hand and biting
words. His perfect bubble of life was about to burst like a hot air balloon
touching a smokestack. They continued towards the Cathedral and then beside
it down Pirate's Alley. They passed beggars and thieves and street whores
as they got farther past the imposing church and soon he noticed there were
not many coppers around as there had been around the square and the French
Quarter. The streets became narrow as the tall buildings with their wrought
Iron balconies hanging over the street, with clothes blowing in the light
breeze, hugged the bricks and cobblestones. The coolness of the shade was
welcomed as the wind chilled his sweat covered back as they walked faster,
his father dragging him along at times. He did not understand the sudden
rush of reaching the unknown destination in the old Creole city.  His
boyish mind reeled as he tried to figure out his father's words and take in
all the sights that were new to him.

 They soon reached one of the City's old cemeteries and passed through the
rusting wrought iron gates and down the graveled path that was now littered
with leaves and vines, the marble statues and eerie shadows sent new
shivers of fear down his spine as he wondered why anyone would want to meet
in such a place as this. The huge mausoleums stood silent as their silent
statues stared out and seemed to follow their every step with their cold
dead stone eyes, angels with broken wings and heads covered in ivy hung
their heads in silence of the dead ones they were supposed to protect. The
only sounds were the wind in the trees, the ruffling of the leaves, and the
crunch of the gravel below them as his father continued to drag him along
and his mother panting to keep up the fast pace. Soon his father slowed his
pace outside a vine encrusted mausoleum on the far back side of the
cemetery. He looked around, the old live oak trees draped their limbs over
the fence that in places had fallen in disrepair and offered a quick escape
for the grave robbers and Voodoo Queens that liked to practice their black
magic in the darkness of the night on the witching hour of three am. The
huge mausoleum stood silent, its iron gates open, the one on the right hung
by one rusty hinge, and the ancient lock busted on its rusty chain. A
victim of a grave robber or a Voodoo Prince.

 "Did anyone follow you?" A deep foreign voice asked from the mausoleum and
his 11 year old skin prickled with fear as he tried to run before his
father's powerful grip yanked him off the ground and into the air, ripping
the collar of his patched linen shirt.

 "No, we were not followed by anyone," his father replied, still holding
him in the air by his collar, he squirmed and wanted to scream but he knew
better and at that fleeting moment he still trusted the man he called his
father, he had no reason not to.

 "Very good, I see you brought your painted lady as well, my kind capt'n."

 "Yes, Sarah insisted she come along since she was the one who arranged
this black deal!" He was surprised his father's voice had anger in it at
this unseen stranger and his mother.

 The voice laughed long and deep, "My, my, Captain, it is not a black deal
at all, just one of blood for cold hard cash." The voice hissed the last
words.

 "Call it whatever you want to, O'Neal, as long as you brought my gold."

 "Oh, yes, master, I brought ye your golden double eagles!" The still
unseen man shook the leather bag as gold coin clanked against gold coin.
"Well, put me goods on the ground, why don't ye, captain Sar, once you make
sure he can't run away from me." The man threw out a hemp rope, "Use this
here rope and tie him like you would a little piggy."

 "I will not tie him like an animal!"

 "Oh, yes, by God you will or this pistol will claim another to put in this
brick tomb, he is mine now! Your painted lady sold him to me for five
hundred gold coins." The man stepped out of the dark mausoleum, his black
cloak tied around his neck and tossed back as his right hand gripped a
black cane with a large silver dragon as the head. The black leather boots
were dusty but well oiled and shined where the clay had not touched the
leather. His britches, like his coat, were black, the only thing of a
different color was the white undershirt below the black coat jacket, he
tilted his black felt hat further back on his head and smiled, the gold
teeth glinted off the sun. "Now tie him like I told you, dear Captain, or
your wife will be a rich whoring widow!"

 "Sorry, my little one, so sorry! I be damned, you're not taking my
son. Come on, you bitch, it is time to leave or you can stay with O'Neal,
your fucking choice!" He turned as he heard the hammer of the pistol being
cocked....

 "Sorry, Capt'n, wrong fucking move on your part, take one more step and
this here pistol ball will go right through his tender head and the next
two will go through your suddenly caring soul, then I will fuck the whore
before sending her to hell to join you! PUT THE BOY DOWN AND SLOWLY TURN
AROUND!, DO IT BEFORE I COUNT TO FIVE!" He hesitated - "one!" He paused
now, holding his son in his arms like a baby, "TWO!"  O'Neal shouted.

 "For Christ's sake on the Cross, do what O'Neal wants, why all of a sudden
you care about this brat of yours?" Sarah screamed at her husband!

 "Yes, my capt'n, listen to your painted lady, for where you're going if
you don't, Christ won't be able to save your black soul anyway!"

 "Sorry, me laddy, so sorry I ever listened to that bitch that you have to
know as your mother, if it wasn't for your little brother at home, the
bastard would have to kill me before he touched you." He put his son on the
ground. "Please, little one, don't make it any harder on me or yourself,"
he whispered as the boy began to cry as he felt the coarse rope being
wrapped around his wrists. He held his head out of the dirt as his feet
were raised and his wrists met his ankles as the rope grew tight and he was
bound just like O'Neal wanted, a little dirty pig lying on the gravel
helpless.

 "You made a wise choice, captain, here's your gold coin," O'Neal threw the
leather pouch to Sarah. "Now get out of my sight before I change me mind
about letting you two live!" The boy looked up at his father as his father
looked down and he bent over and kissed his son's cheek, "So sorry."

 "GO, YE BASTARD, AND LEAVE MY PROPERTY ALONE!" O'Neal shouted and pointed
the pistol. They ran and he didn't look back at his son...  Because he knew
that if he did he would die and leave his other son an orphan. 'Maybe,' he
thought, 'he would be better off if he was.'

 "PAPA! Don't leave me, Papa! Why, WHY!!" he cried, and his father never
looked back and his mother never looked at him once.

 "Shut your fucking trap, boy, you're mine now. OK, boys, come out and drag
him inside, we have more work to do!' Two older teens came out of the
mausoleum, both shirtless and in ragged denim jeans that ended at the
knees, they grabbed the rope and picked him up roughly and dragged him
across the gravel into the the cold tomb as he tried to kick and as he
screamed.

 O'Neal walked over and took the silver end of the cane and hit him in the
chest, "Shut your fucking trap before you put yourself in hot water, boy,
scream one more time and I will cut your tongue out!"

 "Tie that rope tighter, I think his papa tried not to hurt his boy, and
gag that trap, we will return tonight and retrieve him when there is not so
many eyes to pry upon my business."

 O'Neal and the two older youths made sure he had no way of escaping, "Put
him up there on that ledge so in case someone noses around he won't be
seen. I would hate for someone to steal my property." O'Neal let out a deep
laugh and it was followed by the other youths. The echo of their footsteps
soon faded and he was left alone in the tomb of the dead, kept company only
by his sobs as his body ached from the blow to the chest and the
realization that it was his Birthday. He tried to scream through the gag
but he couldn't, he tried to move and was helpless, every time he tried the
rope grew tighter and the darkest thing in his mind was why did his mother
hate him so to do this and why did his father help her, or was he forced to
like she had so many times in the past to reveal secrets that forever would
tarnish the family name and make them no better in society than a poor
negro family or a creole. He lay there on the cold bricks, shaking with
fear and a chill that would not leave him, not only from the shade and the
chill from the bricks but one from deep within.  One of hurt, anger, and
sadness all combined as his legs and arms began to cramp from the way they
were tied and the burning in his wrists from the cutting of the rough
rope."Oh why, God, have you abandoned me?" He tried to whisper the words
that his mind screamed forth. He felt his bladder as it grew tight, no, no,
he wanted to scream total embarrassment if he were to piss in his pants as
if the situation wasn't bad enough to begin with. Finally his mind forced
his eyes closed as he slept from mental and physical exhaustion, the cramps
in his arms and legs soon stopped as they went numb, all was not silent in
the halls of the dead as one eleven year old boy whimpered in his sleep,
forgotten about except for by three and no one else seemed to care.

________________________________________________________________________________

 "FIRE, FIRE!! HARD TO FUCKIN' PORT! GOD DAMN YOU, HARD TO PORT!!"  Captain
Hawk shouted to Robert in the pilothouse as the flames roared from the
overheated fireboxes on the steamboat GREY OAK. Robert spun the wheel
towards shore as deck hands with buckets fought to put out the blaze on the
boiler deck before it could reach the boilers and catch the entire boat on
fire. The gray smoke blew into the pilothouse as the breeze from the river
fanned it, combined with the speed of the steamboat herself as she slowly
turned towards the river bank and possible salvation from total
disaster. The steamboat eased into the still waters near shore and deck
hands quickly lashed her to shore, tying ropes around a huge cypress tree
before running back to help fight the blaze.

 Robert stayed in the pilothouse, fighting the smoke that made his eyes
burn and water as the smoke continued to engulf it, in case they had to
move the boat and he knew the danger of where he now stood above the eight
huge boilers separated by one flimsy deck of wood that had been soaked in
polish and wax for years and would burn hotter than hell's fires if the
fire reached the dry wood, but most likely before that the boilers would
explode and he wouldn't feel the flames or the fire anyway.  The men rushed
around like mad fiends from hell, fighting the flames awhile others threw
water on their comrades to keep their clothes from catching fire as the war
raged against survival or disaster. Flames crackled as the coal in the
bunkers began to smoke, then the mud clerk saw a plan of action.

 He quickly called several of the deck hands to grasp the hoses running
from the boiler intakes to the river and uncoupled the filters from the end
and ordered the chief engineer to reverse the flow as eight men grasped the
hoses as high pressure water from the boilers was sprayed upon the
flames. Clouds of steam rose from the hissing fire as it died down and soon
was out, leaving only wet smoking wood where the flames once danced
brightly. The GREY OAK was saved from disaster almost.

 "Quick. Reverse the flow and get those hoses back in the water, the
boilers are almost dry!" the chief engineer shouted as the men just stood
there exhausted, they paused as his words struck a new terror in their
minds as the filters were recoupled to the hoses and then dropped back into
the muddy river as the pressure from the overheated boilers quickly began
to suck fresh water, cooling them. Finally after over an hour the men
collapsed on deck, most gasping for fresh air as the wind from the river
blew away the clouds of steam and the remaining smoke of the now dead
fire. Hawser ropes were cast off from the stern as Robert, using the last
of the steam from the now dead boilers, swung the stern close to shore and
the deck hands tied her safely until the fires could be rekindled and the
steamer under way once more for Vicksburg. "Open one of those kegs of
whiskey, the receiver won't miss one," Captain Hawk told the mud clerk,
"the men deserve it for saving our boat."

 "Right away, Captain Hawk, sir." The mud clerk had one of the twenty
gallon oaken kegs brought from the once elegant main saloon to the boiler
deck where someone found an iron pike to knock the bung out of the keg's
end as men scurried to find cups to get their share; it was not common for
the captain to share cargo with the crew, much less whiskey.

 "Don't forget to doctor that invoice," Captain Hawk told the mud clerk as
he got his own cup of the fine whiskey and brought it to his parched lips
and sipped it as he repositioned his cap on his head. 'I wonder how many
more white hairs I have now?' he thought as he sipped the strong liqueur.

 "I won't, capt'n," the mud clerk replied as he took his own drink.

 Eric entered the pilothouse, bringing two tin mugs of whiskey,
"compliments of the capt'n."

 "Thanks, Eric, for once I really need it," Robert spoke as he leaned back
in the high chair in the pilothouse and brought the mug to his lips and
drank.

 The chief engineer sat on his stool, watching the boilers suck fresh water
from the muddy river as the black firemen shoveled fresh coal into the
fireboxes to build up steam, at this moment boiler pressure was nonexistent
with them having to put out the fires to save the boat and the use of the
suction hoses to spray the last of the water and steam from the boilers on
to the smoking deck, thankfully there was little damage except to the deck
and a few pieces of cargo. If the fire had gotten out of control they all
would be swimming with the fishies or sailing through the air as the
boilers exploded. The red needles slowly rose 10 pounds, 20 pounds as more
coal and dry cottonwood was added and every now and then a WHOOSH of fresh
kerosene as it was dumped to make the wet coal begin to burn along with the
cottonwood branches and other items thrown into the now soggy fireboxes as
grayish black wood smoke wisped slowly from the tall stacks capped with
fluted crowns like so many steamboats, the final word in decorating art for
a machine that was built for work and comfort in travel, as they sat tied
to the bank. The Standard Oil Boat Sprague was slowly steaming past with
her cargo of 20 barges of crude oil for New Orleans. She sounded her
whistle as she passed the Grey Oak. Robert sounded an answer, quilling it
to save steam as the firemen worked overtime to build up pressure. Thirty
minutes later the shout was given to "CAST OFF"

 "Full Reverse!" Robert shouted into the speaking tube as the big
paddlewheel began to turn and the ropes were brought in from shore.

 "AYE, PILOT, FULL REVERSE SHE IS!" the engineer shouted back as the huge
iron levers were shifted, connecting the piston rods to the crankshaft of
the paddlewheel.

 Robert turned the wheel and the stern of the boat swung out into the
current of "Ole Man River" as the smoke turned from gray to raven black
against the burning Southern sun. The bow soon was pointed north once again
as Robert leaned over. "Full Ahead!"

 "AYE, AYE, PILOT, FULL AHEAD SHE IS!" the engineer replied as the levers
were changed again as the paddlewheel came to a full stop, then reversed
direction as the steamer pushed out into the channel.

________________________________________________________________________________

 "Wake up, you worthless little shit!" O'Neal said as he hit the boy with
his cane. The boy let out a low groan as he felt the heavy cane hit his
ass, the gag was the only thing that kept him from screaming. "Lew, Bo,
take him out to the hearse, but strip him first, I hate to get dirt on the
linen, our daylight customers might not like to have their departed loved
ones riding to the beyond on dirty linen." The boy shivered deep inside his
thin frame as he heard the words. He couldn't see a thing with the
blindfold still over his eyes and his numb limbs beginning once more to
cramp. He felt the rough hands of Bo and Lew grasp him and lift him down
from the ledge to the cold brick floor. He felt the hands grab his shoes
and yank them off, then the torn patched socks as he just lay there
helpless, hot tears streaming down his face from his red puffy eyes. He
heard two loud clicks as the teens pulled their clasp knives out and began
to cut his shirt to threads and ripping it from his body as he was dropped
back to the cold bricks. His entire body shivered, then came the slits and
rips as his tattered jeans were cut off of his body. He began to soak up
the coldness and dampness of the brick as he shivered now only in his
briefs that were too small and tight on his frame. He felt hands grasp
them.

 "Stop, leave them on him for now," O'Neal said, then motioned in the
darkness with his kerosene lantern to the entrance.

 "Alright, boss," Lew spoke as he lifted the boy in his muscular arms and
toted him to the hearse. The boy was helpless as Bo and Lew carried him to
the waiting hearse and the four black restless horses that stood tied to
the rusting iron gates. He tried to scream but the gag choked back all
sound, even a muffle, his jaws ached while his arms and legs burned with a
branding fire from the rough ropes that dug into his tender boyish skin as
they held them tight against his thin body. O'Neal followed as the back
doors of the hearse were opened by Bo, then once more the boy was picked up
like a bag of goods and shoved inside the back of the hearse on his
stomach.

 "Bo, get that lantern and go fetch his clothes, we don't want anyone to
even know we was here, you understand." O'Neal's voice was strong and began
to slur as the whiskey did its magic and the fading Irish accent grew
stronger, amazing after almost forty years in the States and he still had
that taint from growing up in Dublin.

"Yes, Sir, Mr. O'Neal." Bo grabbed the lantern and quickly left to gather
the boy's rags that he called clothes, while Lew closed the doors and
mounted the driver's seat with O'Neal. No one called O'Neal by his first
name, one that he hated with blackened rage and cursed his parents since he
was old enough to know what the words meant. How could any decent parents
name their Irish son Scotland? He would rage and vent like the boilers on
an overheated steamboat, then calm down and go into a new fury and if he
was drinking whiskey or brandy his fury was triple fold.  Bo and Lew were
both witnesses to what he could do, they would never forget the night at
the Steamboat Inn on the Orleans waterfront when someone called him
Scotland as a dirty slur. Before anyone could or dared to stop it, the man
who uttered those words paid for them with his life as the walnut cane
separated and the three foot short sword ran the man through the heart. The
big man fell with a look of mystification and shock and never heard the
words O'Neal spoke. "Rot in hell, you motherfucking French Toad!" Bo nor
Lew wanted to see O'Neal's fate when his final hand was dealt, if the dark
lord Satan had a right hand man his name was Scotland O'Neal the Third. Bo
rejoined them and the boy's clothes were stuffed behind the driver's bench
and he climbed the wheel spokes and sat down in the middle between the
other two men. He and Lew both were in their teens and O'Neal had to be in
his forties or older, neither had the balls to ask the man.

 Lew snapped the reins and the now free horses began to move, jerking the
hearse into motion, the boy in the back felt the jerk and the chill of the
night as the breeze blew in from the small open window located to the front
and below the driver's bench. The cool wind raced across his almost naked
frame like wild stallions on the open prairies. He heard the crunch of the
oyster shell gravel below the heavy wooden wheels and hardened rubber tires
that soon changed to hard brick and a low rumble as the hearse began its
travels down the back streets of New Orleans.  Muffled echoes drifted
inside of the city that never slept and they entered his mind as he
pondered his fate The hearse eased through the narrow streets and alleys,
headed towards the north and Lake Pontchartrain. The mixture of sounds
continued to waft by the boy's ears - Irish, Spanish, French, Cajun voices,
out of tune pianos playing the latest in raggy music, and something called
Jazz echoed from tarnished trumpets as the 3 am bell of Saint Louis
Cathedral rang out loud and clear, combined with the loud reports of a
pistol being fired and the screams and shouts of the painted ladies of some
French Quarter saloon.  The clatter of hooves grew faster as an unknown
drunken voice shouted out, "Got room for one more?" and then laughed as the
clang of the bell on the paddy wagon drowned out the voice. "Looks like it
is going to be another good week, boss!" Lew said as he watched the men
drag the dead man out onto the sidewalk, "and tis just Monday!"

 "Yes, me boyos, you got to love this city for she always tends to keep us
in business, never a dull day or night in the funeral business or in the
slave boy market as tonight's case may be!" O'Neal let out a loud
boisterous laugh that sent more chills to the alert ears of their young
captive. The busy sounds of the city soon vanished into the night and the
clap clap of hooves on brick was replaced by hooves on dirt as the hearse
began to bounce along the old wagon road to the lake shore. The clatter of
the hooves grew faster and sometimes he actually found himself bounced in
the air. He wanted to scream every time his body made contact with the thin
covered hearse floor, causing faint whiffs of pine and linen to mix with
the chilled air.

 "Lew, slow down for that fuckin' railroad track up ahead, don't want to
bust an axle," O'Neal said as he puffed on a cigar.

 "Yes, Sir, boss. I remember the last time I hit it at a good gallop,
almost threw Bo off the seat!" Lew said, then chuckled.

 "Well, you not in no fifty dollar buckboard either tonight and you fuck up
my hearse and you will be riding in the back in a pine box," O'Neal replied
between puffs of strong cigar smoke.

 Lew reined in the horses and slowed them to a trot as they approached the
weedy railroad track and dirt packed crossing of the Pontchartrain.
Southern Railroad. The railroad had been there since the 1830's, chartered
most likely by some now forgotten New Orleans planter. The line predated
the Baltimore and Ohio by two years and its first steam locomotives weighed
no more than 20 tons each, named Lucifer and Swamp Angel. The weed-grown
rusted rails saw little traffic these days. The little 12 mile road once
took wealthy city citizens to the lake for day long picnics and hauled
fresh drinking water to the city in home made tankcars but now most took
their private automobiles or found other places for a picnic. The little
home-grown line still hauled the occasional car of cordwood or molasses and
cotton but the wooden flatcars with the hard narrow benches and brightly
colored awnings were long gone and the two old wornout and broken-down
steamers both still burned wood, creaked and puffed along as each puff they
took might be their last one.  The hearse creaked over the rails and
continued towards the lake front as a sharp cry sounded to the south as
Engine #2, also called the Mole, crept down the line at a max speed of five
miles per hour, her diamond stack shooting stars of hot cinders out of the
top and along the right of way. The full moon lit the tracks and the feeble
yellow kerosene headlamp shone down the rails that could barely be seen for
the weeds, the old bell clanging as the little engine built in the 1870's
rocked back and forth as if on a stormy sea and not flat ground.

 "Um, Boss, I don't think our hearse is big enough to bury a dying
railroad," Bo said, then chuckled and almost dropped his corn cob pipe when
Lew hit a hole in the wagon road.

 "Bo, hold onto that there pipe now, the corn not in season yet for you to
make a new one!" O'Neal laughed.

 Bo just looked over at the two beside him with an icy stare, then turned
to look forward again at the distant lights of the lake steamer unloading
her cargo on board a set of old wooden boxcars and flatcars, while waiting
on the little train to arrive with its cargo for the steamer. The long
grass made swishing sounds in the wind and as it passed under the axles of
the hearse as Lew continued to make the horses move at a brisk pace towards
the almost forgotten landing and the now humble lake steamer as to the east
the wail of an Illinois Central locomotive cried out into the night like a
banshee in search of a victim, answered by the deep wail of a unseen
steamboat plowing the river to the north.

 "WHOA!" Lew cried as he approached what he thought was a log until it
opened its mouth and bared its double row of razor sharp teeth at the
approaching horses and let out a deep growl. "God damned alligators!" Lew
spat as he reached for the double barrel shotgun from behind the driver's
bench and cocked both barrels. "Hold the reins, Bo." Lew passed them to Bo
as he jumped down from the driver's bench and approached the 14 foot long
creature with caution; he did not care to become 'Gator Bait' to some
overgrown lizard. The gator snapped at the appoaching man and moved his
tail back and forth with a quickening pace, one hit from that powerful tail
could break a man's leg. The horses were uneasy and tried to back up as Bo
held the reins tightly, they snorted and swished their own tails in
uneasiness as Lew drew a few steps closer as he raised the shotgun to his
shoulder and placed his right hand on the forward trigger and set it, then
the second trigger. He listened to the gentle snap as he set it and he
prayed that Bo had reloaded it with buckshot and not birdshot. The gator
turned its head and snapped at Lew as O'Neal watched with a sneer as he
chewed on his cigar, letting little smoke rings escape his parted lips. Bo
sat stunned trying to remember what cardboard covered shells he had
reloaded the old 12 gauge shotgun with, praying silently it was
buckshot. The gator reared up on his stumpy legs and began to move towards
Lew, baring its teeth and letting out a soft growl.

 "Shoot the fucking mugger, will ya already," O'Neal said as he threw the
cigar stump at the gator who snapped it up in its mouth and continued its
attack plans towards the pesky human that interfered with its nap.  "Bo, we
might be advertising for new help in the morning, that mugger is hungry and
Lew is supper!"

 The boy in the back heard all the talk and commotion outside but couldn't
see a thing, the blindfold still tighty in place over his eyes, then came a
double blast from the shotgun and a blood curdling scream followed by the
jerk of the hearse and the galloping of hooves.

 The gator lurched at Lew as he stepped back and tripped over a stump in
the tall grass, the shotgun roared to life, both barrels spitting out
orange flame as the buckshot hit the gator in the back of the head just as
the powerful jaws clamped down on Lew's exposed right thigh, tearing the
flesh open, then opening again to bite down once more, removing the family
jewels of Lew and the life giving blood of the 19 year old boy who never
would see 20, his dead mutilated body would not be found before morning
lying in the tall grass beside the dead alligator. At least the dead gator
would be some use as the man who found them would soon be wearing a new set
of boots and Lew would be buried in a pauper's grave with a simple wooden
cross north of town.

 "Well, Bo, I guess you now get Lew's cut of the deal, until we find more
help, slow this burying wagon down, we almost at the steamer and they most
likely didnt even hear the shots fired with this tricky wind anyhow,"
O'Neal said as he cupped his hands to strike a match to his cigar.

 "Yes, sir, Mr. O'Neal," Bo said as he slowed the horses to a trot as the
hard rubber wheels bounced over the wagon ruts in the road. They soon
reached the steamboat tied to the rotting decayed pier that ran out into
the lake and the piles of cargo being loaded onto the boxcars. The scene
was like many in 1924, the wooden boxcars with peeling paint and rusted
grab irons and handles lit by the iron briers of burning pine knots casting
dancing shadows upon the steamer that once was white but now nothing more
than a floating wreck, the paint long gone from her white sides and fancy
gingerbread lacings on her upper decks. Specks and flashes of orange could
be seen in her tall smokestacks from rusted holes.

 "Scotland O'Neal, you're late!" the big heavyset captain said as he
watched the black deck hands unload cargo as he ran his hand through his
black beard; most people called him Blackbeard, the steamboat captain.

 "So I am, Blackbeard, but I have your cargo if you have my 800 golden
eagles!" O'Neal sneered, he hated being called by his first name, espcially
by a tub of lard with a mouth. He chewed his cigar and thumped ashes on the
dock.

 "Bring the cargo and come to my cabin, where is the other tinhorn of a
partner of yours?"

 "He's gator bait and what does it matter to you?"

 "Not a thing, city slicker, not a thing, nothing matters to me but my boat
and my cargo and my insurance against bad deals." Richard Kette, known
throughout New Orleans as Blackbeard, patted the two heavy Colt revolvers
hidden under his blue jacket.

 "Bo, bring the brat, time to collect our hard earned wages!" O'Neal said
as he jammed the cigar back between his yellowing teeth as he gently
checked his coat pocket for his own Colt 45, he could have saved Lew but
why waste a bullet on the street kid. He once loved the boy that he found
in the gutter half beaten to death at age twelve and he taught the boy
quick on how to please him till he grew older. Lew served his purpose to
O'Neal, now he was dead. "Oh well, that was the card game of life,
sometimes you win, sometimes you lose,, and sometimes you paid with your
life."

 "Yes, sir, Mr. O'Neal." Bo walked around back and opened the doors and
dragged the boy out who whimpered when he felt the rough hands on his
tender ass cheeks. The boy shook but at the same time felt himself start to
grow hard in his briefs.. 'not now,' he thought, 'was it from fear or did
he actually enjoy the rough hands playing with his hind end,' more confused
thoughts ran through his mind as Bo took his slow time getting him out of
the back of the hearse as the rough hands played with his almost naked body
and then he felt himself being rolled over on his back,' no' he sighed as
he was rolled over and heard the deep voice of the older teen. "Glad you
like it because by the time you're done you will learn to love it whether
you like it or not, little one, I pity you for I know what you will go
through before it is all over. I was your age when O'Neal found me on the
streets after my parents died from yellow fever. I wish now I had died with
them, but my heart no longer knows how to love, only to hate and survive as
long as I can before I kill the bastard who just walked away from
here. Have hope, little one, have hope." The rough hands were now gentle as
he smoothed the boy's cheek and wiped the tears that were streaming from
below the blindfold. "He did Lew the same way as me and we was going to
kill him but the gator got him and O'Neal did nothing to stop it and he
could have. O'neal was a gambler on the packet boats and is a crack shot. I
know I am now one of the evil ones and I love boyish perfect flesh such as
yours but I would never hurt you like O'Neal did when he raped my ass at 11
and told me the bleeding would stop after I took a good shit...."

 "BO, WHAT IS TAKING YOUR SORRY ASS SO LONG? BRING THE GOD DAMNED BOY TO ME
NOW, GOD DAMN IT, BEFORE I GET PISSED!" O'Neal shouted.

 "Com'n, Boss!" Bo shouted. "Come on, little one, time to meet destiny eye
to eye" Bo picked the boy up and put him over his shoulder and headed
towards the gangplank of the steamer and where Kette and O'Neal watched and
waited.......

________________________________________________________________________________

 The sun beat down on the levee at Vicksburg, Mississippi as a yard engine
chuffed down the track towards the station with more building supplies. The
little 0-4-0 #12 clanged her bell to warn everyone off the tracks as the
engine shoved the 10 loaded flatcars of dry cement and the workers sat on
top of the bags as they rocked down the track, enjoying the cool breeze
that tried to cool the parched Mississippi landscape as steamboats pulled
up to the docks. The boy continued to sleep in the shade as he sweated from
the heat, then shivered, his body was sick but his mind too exhausted to
know as he dreamed of his past, while one man watched from his desk in the
station as the telegraph clicked and sent its messages up and down the
line, reporting the progress of the Delta local as it passed over the iron
pivot bridge at Redwood Junction eighteen miles north of Vicksburg. The
station agent continued to watch as passengers began to gather in the
waiting room with their baggage. A few years ago they would have been
waiting at the dock for a southbound steamboat and would have arrived 12
hours later at Natchez, now the trip took only four by the iron rails that
followed the river south. "He needs a caring soul and he is alone in the
world, otherwise he wouldn't be sick and sleeping against hard concrete on
a dirty levee, maybe he will let me help." The whistle of the switch engine
brought him back to the present as it sounded a call for a clear signal to
pass the station and he quickly grabbed the chain and raised the semaphore
blade to give the little #12 clearance to proceed. The engineer tooted his
whistle as he eased past, bell clanging her warning. Three miles down the
track the little 12-spot eased into a makeshift siding as engine #26, a
4-4-0, rolled past with her six cars of mail, baggage, and passengers; soon
she would be easing to a stop in front of Illinois station on Levee street
in Vicksburg.

 "Da?" the tall lanky eighteen year old called as he walked into the cool
of the station.

 "Uh... yeah, Son?"

 "Shouldn't the signal be set for red? Number two is due in fifteen
minutes."

 "Ya, yes, thanks, Brian."

 "You're welcome, Da. I am going to go help with the baggage now, holler if
you need me."

 "I will, Son, and thanks."

 The Regulator clock ticked away the minutes and soon a whistle from the
north broke the silence of the station as #26 rolled down the line at 10
mph, passing the new defenses that the citizens of Vicksburg prayed would
save them from the devastating waters of Ole Man River when he flooded his
banks and swamped most of the business district along the river. The flood
of 1929 was one of the worst in history and the old levees had failed as
the water grew higher, the dirt and logs gave away, flooding most of the
lower town. The Railroad station and yards were four feet under water and
water continued to climb. The first floor of the station was a mess when
the water finally receded back to its bed and the clean up began; four feet
of mud had to be scraped from the floor. He stood up and telegraphed Port
Gibson of the train's arrival, then walked out into the heat of the day to
pass up the train orders to the engineer.  The conductor stepped down in
his blue and gold uniform to take tickets and escort the ladies up the
passenger car steps as his son Brian tossed mail bag after mail bag to the
baggage handler and mail clerk as they threw more back to him. His flesh
and blood had iron flowing in it just like his pa and he smiled. Soon
everything was stowed and passengers aboard as Brian grabbed the mail truck
and rolled the heavy four wheeled wagon around to the front where the
passengers collected their items and the postal workers gathered the mail
and placed it in the back of the mail van, while he raised the blade once
more and gave the engineer of #26 the high ball. The engineer yanked the
braided whistle cord and gave the old engine some sand as she took to the
rail and glided out of the station as if on air as the steamboat captains
glared at the money they had lost to the Iron Road.

 "Brian, come here, please."

 "Yes, Father?" the tall handsome boy asked, his cheeks glowing as he wiped
the sweat from his brow and slicked back his brown hair.

 "See the boy sleeping by the levee over there?"

 "Yes, Da, I saw him when he came up, he's sick, ain't he?"

 "Yes, Son, he is. We need to help him, it is the Christian thing to do."

 "Yes, Da, it is. Will we let him stay with us?"

 "Son, I would not have made the suggestion that we help him if we wouldn't
let him sleep under our own roof, we might have to let him share your bed
but I know I brought you up to be a kind young man and you haven't failed
me in that respect yet."

 "I hope I never fail you, Father," Brian said as he looked up to the man
who bore him, John Peterson, a man at 40 who had not a single gray hair,
who never refused anyone, and a man that everyone looked up to.

 "So, Son, shall we go and offer the young man our help?"

 "Yes, Da." Brian smiled as his father put his strong arm around his boy's
shoulders as they walked down the brick street towards the wharf and where
the boy was sleeping, still fighting his past as if it was happening at the
very moment as the fever raced through his body.

________________________________________________________________________________

 The night air blew off the lake, sending shivers through the boy's thin
frame as Bo carried him up the gangplank and onto the steamboat. He still
could not see where he was going but he felt the shimmer of heat from the
boilers as they passed them and up the stairs to the once grand saloon, his
sense of smell was taking over for his blinded eyes as he smelt the faint
odors of food and his stomach growled. "Aww, little one, I am sure they
will soon feed you," Bo said. 'Damn, he was beginning to hate this task and
fuck the money. Cruel fate had struck again or so it seemed, on an innocent
little boy.' They passed through the saloon and to the narrow set of stairs
that led to the Hurricane deck roof. The chill of the wind engulfed man and
boy as he quickened his pace to reach the cabin door. Bo used his heavy
boot to knock on the door, "Let me in, boss, I got the boy,"

 O'Neal opened the door, "Come in and bring the slave."

 Blackbeard sat behind a large oaken desk, his English pipe dangled down at
a sharp angle from his lips as smoke drifted from it as he counted the
heavy gold coins before him. "OK, bring me my goods and I will give you
this here pile of double eagles," Blackbeard said as he shuffled his weight
in the wooden chair.

 O'Neal snatched the boy away from Bo and shoved him roughy forward towards
the beaten and scarred desk, poking and prodding him like a cow.

 "You treat all yo' goods like cattle, O'Neal?" Blackbeard asked.

 "Well, dear Capt'n, most don't care how rough I treat the pine box they
in, the fancy coffins their dear ones pay for just is for show, I return
and we replace that nice fancy one for a pine box once the grieving party
leaves, saves on overhead, you know."

 "You cheating dawg!" Blackbeard laughed.

 "I might cheat, I steal, but No one calls me a dog!" O'neal barked.

 "Now, now, my friend, cool the boilers, it was all just a jest! I would
never screw my suppliers of such fine pieces like this blindfolded before
me, besides, if you tried anything, this what this is for!" With a click
and a blink of an eye Blackbeard held a modified Navy Colt in his big hand
and the business end was pointed square in the center of Scotland O'neal's
chest.

 "Gawd, that was fast!" Bo said as he stepped back and closer to the door.

 "Yes, son, us ole river rats hafta be fast to survive, right, O'Neal?"
Blackbeard carefully repacked his pipe with his free hand and reached for a
match as the muzzle of the pistol continued to track O'Neal's breast bone
in its deadly sights.

 "Yes, we do, Kette," O'Neal drew his own Colt and aimed it at Blackbeard,
"and I never like that end of a pistol aimed at my heart!"

 "Nor I, my friend." Blackbeard uncocked the Navy Colt and laid the gun
back on his desk as O'Neal did the same. "Truce over some fine Cuban Rum?"

 "Truce, old friend, and yes, rum would be most pleasant, some things never
change, do they?"

 "No, my friend, they don't, so business is over, and the drinking begins!"
Blackbeard grabbed the dark bottle and three drinking glasses and filled
them. "Bo, remove the kid's blindfold."

 "Yes, sir, captain," Bo said as he untied the blindfold and for the first
time in over 12 hours the boy could see. He blinked his eyes, blinded by
the light, then focused on his surroundings. The cabin, like most, was
small and cramped but larger than the rest on the Texas Deck since here
where the master of the boat made this room his office and sleeping
quarters, electric lamps lit the room with a yellow glare and cut a haze
through the strong tobacco smoke that filled the room from the cigar and
pipe of the two men behind the desk. One standing was tall and slender, the
one he knew was O'Neal, his buyer, the dragon headed cane resting in his
right hand, the full glass of rum in the left. The huge blackbearded man
must be Kette, the one referred to as Blackbeard, the boy had heard stories
of him. Everyone said he ran moonshine and illegal firearms, and the other
was true now, a boy slave market and he was the product. The two men sipped
their rum as Bo sat by the door, drinking his slowly as he felt two sets of
eyes roaming every inch of his body like vultures eying a dead animal, the
only one not raping him the rest of the way was Bo who refused to look
above the rim of his glass.

 "Bo, if you're hungry, go down to the galley and have the cook rustle up
some food for you. I am sure we can handle this little piece of tender
meat," Blackbeard said as he ruffled through the top drawer of his desk and
brought out a packet of playing cards still in the paper cover and tossed
them on the desk top. O'Neal cracked the wax seal and began to shuffle the
cards, making them blur before the untrained eyes of Bo and the boy as
Blackbeard smiled, "I see you haven't lost the knack for fast shuffling,
you bloody card shark!"

 "No, I haven't, some things you just never forget how, once you learn
them, like how to make a fast draw!" O'Neal said as he puffed on his
cigar. "Bo, go get ya some vittles and bring the boy some back too, I hate
to have him starve."

 "Yes, sir." Bo sat his empty glass on a free corner of the desk and headed
for the door and then to the boiler deck where the galley was located, glad
to be out of the cabin for awhile. The wind had a bite to it as he stepped
out onto the Hurricane deck roof, he walked towards the narrow stairs as he
listened to the wind howl and the boards creak beneath his boots. He went
down the stairs and walked around the main saloon, letting his hand slide
along the dry splintered railing that ran along the promenade, until he
came to the bow and headed down to the boiler deck and to the galley
located behind the boilers. Bo stepped into the small cramped kitchen that
faintly smelled of meals from long ago and burnt lard and grease as the big
pot-bellied black cook lifted a pot of coffee off the wood stove and sat it
on an iron ring.

 "Eve'n, Sar, what can I do fo' you?"

 "I want some breakfast and I need some vittles for a little boy, your
captain's new plaything till he is sold," Bo said as he reached into his
patched pants for his corncob pipe and tobacco.

 "Yes, Sar, will fat ham and eggs be fine along with hot coffee?" the big
cook asked as he reached for the big iron skillet.

 "That will be fine and thank you."

 "You're most welcome, Sar, I am sorry I can't offer more but the supplies
have not arrived from the train yet," the cook spoke as he reached for six
large brown eggs and the slab of salted ham.

 "This is fine, I am sure the boy will be most grateful, I know he hasn't
et all day." Bo sat down in the chair and let the strong smoke drift from
his yellowing teeth as the smells of the eggs and fat ham filled his nose.

 The cook sat a tin cup of strong black coffee along with molasses and
cream, then returned to the large Southern Belle cooking stove, the stack
for it shared the left large smokestack for the boilers. Bo took the
tarnished spoon and poured the thick molasses and cream into the coffee and
stirred it. The strong wind gust that hammered the steamboat made him
splatter some on his hand as he silently cursed.

 "There be a strong storm comin' off the Gulf, I can feels it in my very
bones," the cook said as he sat the tin plate piled high with eggs and ham
in front of Bo along with a knife and fork.

 "Yeah, there is one coming, this wind just too damned cold for April and I
want to be off this floating wreck when it hits too," Bo said as he dug
into the hot food.

 "I hope we're not caught in the middle of the lake or worse yet the narrow
channel under the lift bridge of the railway."

 A sharp blast sounded the arrival of the 'Mole' and her four car train and
the shouts of the mud clerk signaled for the deckhands to get to work
loading supplies and cargo onboard as the wind continued to pick up and
lightning flashed out of the southern skies, blocking the moon behind a
thick blanket of black clouds. The jumping flames from the iron briers and
the lightning flashing across the skies made the whole scene surreal like a
painting from Dante's Hell as men sweated, moving barrels of cargo onboard
the steamer from the boxcars as black smoke blew down from the crowned
stacks, mixing with the gray wood smoke of the steamer, causing the men's
eyes to turn red and water as fireman and engineer struggled to keep the
little engine's boiler full of water with the extra draft caused by Mother
Nature, the dry cottonwood was turning to ash the second it touched the red
hot grates in the firebox. The master engineer onboard the lake steamer was
having about as much trouble even with the dampers closed shut and the
fires banked, the wind whistling through the wrought iron crowns continued
to suck at the fire, drawing the hot air upwards, making the hard coal glow
a firey red as the fireboxes glowed like cherries. The eight big 200 psi
boilers whined as the suction pipe tried to keep them supplied with cool
lake water as the second pipe was busy feeding the little steam engine's
tender thanks to a hose that was kept onboard the tender for such
opportunities as this, using the pressure from eight boilers to fill their
tank instead of waiting and using their own. The chief engineer watched the
fireman of the little steam engine roll the hose up and store it once more
on the back of the little square tender before bringing the one connected
to his own overheated boilers back and dropping it into the lake as
lightning zipped across the sky and thunder rolled closer. The steamer
rocked as her bow lines stretched tight and then loosened, slamming the
battered bow into the dock, throwing men to the deck as they struggled with
the cargo. The backup light on the tender of the 'Mole' winked in and out
of the darkness as the brakeman struggled to couple the airlines of the
boxcars as the tattered flag of the United States whipped straight out from
the stern mast, snapping like pistol shots over the wind. The guy wires of
the fifteen foot smokestacks sang in the wind as the smoke now blew
straight out into the blowing gale.

 Bo had turned pale as he finished his meal and prepared to go back up to
Blackeard's cabin as he listened to the howling wind and the high pitched
whine of the boilers. He grabbed the tin pot of coffee and the covered
plate of food and looked around before stepping out the door that slammed
against the wall as the wind snatched it from his fingers. "Go, I got the
door, and by gawd this is a hurricane abrewing, not no April storm!"

 The black cook yanked the door closed before Bo could reply. He looked
around and quickly fought his way to the main stairs at the bow of the
steamer and up them to the main saloon, "The hell with going around the
outside this time!" The electric light bulbs swung in their holders in the
old chandeliers that once held kerosene lamps with each sway and groan of
the steamboat as he hurried along to the stairway to the Hurricane deck
roof. The wind hit him with a blast that drove his body into the wall as he
began to climb the stairs after opening the door to the outside. He reached
the top and looked at the twenty or so feet of wide open deck and he felt
weak at the knees, his full stomach now in knots as he braced himself and
said a silent prayer, then he stepped into the storm and raced across the
deck with the wind determined to sweep him into the lake. He reached the
cabin door and without knocking yanked it open and stepped inside.

 O'Neal looked up from the card game that he and Blackbeard were finishing
up. "Glad to see you finally made it back!"

 "Yes, Sir, that storm is hitting something fierce. Here is coffee and food
for the boy," Bo said as he sat the tinware down on a small table.

 "Thank you, son, you may untie him so he can eat if you want to,"
Blackbeard said as he shuffled the deck of cards and dealt seven to himself
and O'Neal. The boy gave him a sad smile as Bo cut the ropes, freeing the
boy's hands that now were raw at the wrists and full of cramps. He gingerly
rubbed them till the blood began to flow and he once more felt a tingling
in his small fingers as he carefully reached for the food and uncovered
it. He took a sip of the coffee and smiled. Bo had thought to add molasses
to it to get rid of the bitter taste. Bo just looked down and cast a sliver
of a smile so O'Neal and Blackbeard wouldn't see it. The winds rattled the
glass of the windows as it whistled around the cabin, then it struck him,
who was taking care of the horses and hearse?

 O'Neal looked over at Bo, "Don't worry about the horses and hearse, I had
the mud clerk take care of that while you was stuffing your face. The
horses are in a boxcar and the hearse is so heavy it should be fine for
now, we're not going anywhere at the moment, my momma raised no fool!"

 "Yes, Sir, Mr. O'Neal," Bo said and sat back down and pulled out his
pipe. 'Time then for a smoke,' he thought and then wished he was anywhere
but where he was.

 The wind grew stronger as marble sized hail joined along with sheets of
rain. Blackbeard stood up and walked over to a speaking tube he had
installed to the pilothouse. "Pilot, sound the whistle, call our deckhands
back onboard and prepare to cast off!"

 Bo's stomach tightened as if in a vise when he heard Blackbeard shout
"cast off ", while O'Neal just sat calm as ever, smoking a cigar and
drinking rum. "Bo, you're a damned greenhorn, quit acting so fucking
scared, hell, the boy is more calm than you are," O'Neal said as he poured
more rum into his glass.

 Blackbeard laughed, "O'Neal, he been on this here boat many a time but
never in a storm or while moving," then walked back over to the speaking
tube, "Pilot, turn the Water Witch against the wind so you don't blow the
glass out of the pilothouse!"

 The boy's face went pale as he heard the name of the steamboat, and it dug
into his mind. 'WATER WITCH, WATER WITCH, momma said I was born upon a
steamboat named the WATER WITCH. Oh God, no!' his mind screamed.

 There was a hammering at the door as a faint whistle was heard coming from
the steam engine as it began its journey back to New Orleans. Bo opened the
door and the drenched mud clerk stepped in the cabin and pulled a slip of
paper from deep inside his jacket and passed it to O'Neal. O'Neal looked at
the man and unfolded the paper, a bill for transporting four horses and one
hearse to New Orleans, twenty dollars.  "Hmmm."

 "They thought they would do you a favor and at the same time make a little
extra cash, at least they didn't rape you on the charges," the mud clerk
spoke as water ran off his rain slicker and onto the floor.

 "Very true and thank you," O'Neal spoke as he folded the paper and stuck
it into his wallet that he kept inside his vest.

 "You're most welcome, Mr. O'Neal. Need anything, Capt'n, before I head to
my quarters to dry out?"

 "No, I believe we are fine and thank you, Jack."

 "You're welcome, Sir, have a good evening."

 "You too, Jack," Blackbeard spoke as the young man walked out and closed
the door against the hammering rain.

 " I still have not figured out where you found such a fine young gentleman
to work on this here tug!" O'Neal spoke as he reached into the cigar box on
the big desk.

 "I bought him, from a river pirate for ten gold pieces and a barrel of
Kentucky whiskey ten year ago," Blackbeard said, then added, "and I love
Jack, no one lays a hand on him without eating a bullet afterwards."

 O'Neal nodded as the thunder rumbled and the wind rattled the steamboat
from bow to stern. The three men happened to glance over at the boy and in
the arcs of the light his eyes glowed a dark emerald green, like the
navigation lights high upon the smokestacks with only one message - 'You
might have me now but not for long.' Both O'Neal and Blackbeard both
shuddered deep down in their blackened souls at this eleven year old boy's
piercing green eyes that seemed to look right into their souls.

 The two pilots could see the whitecaps on the waves as the open lake
turned into a miniature sea as the bow crashed through them, raising, then
dropping, and the flat bottomed steamboat was not built for such punishment
as the water washed over the boiler deck, splashing against the crated
goods piled high as the deckhands hurried to carry as much of it as they
could to the saloon to keep it safe. The clothes on the firemen and boiler
stokers steamed as they were soaked by the cold rain and then dried out
from the red hot fires as they huddled as close as they could to the
massive boilers to escape the howling winds and sheets of icy rain. Flames
of fire and smoke shot from the tall smokestacks as superheated steam
vented from the escape pipes, the hard coal ingited the instant it touched
the fireboxes as some looked over to the long rows of cottonwood used as
backup when the price of coal climbed too high or their supply ran too
low. The rain continued to soak it, giving some insurance that the
fireboxes would not set it ablaze on deck. Water puddled, then ran off in
sheets of dirt, and grime was washed from the steamer's windows and
fixtures as the men looked up at the stacks in the blowing rain, looking
like two giant roman candles as the guywires sang in their high pitched
voices and the pennant on the bow snapped in the wind. The thick paned
glass in the pilothouse shuddered with each crashing blow of the wind and
rain, followed by the popping of the hail against the glass as the pot
bellied stove simmered with a pot of coffee.  The pilot rang three bells on
the engineroom telegraph, signaling full power reverse to the massive
thirty foot side paddlewheels as he turned the wheel. The chief engineer
rang back as he threw the massive cranks into reverse and turned the brass
wheels, letting the high pressure steam into the pistons as the large
wheels began to turn and then splash as the boat backed away from the
wooden dock, giving the bow room to raise and fall with the waves as they
grew stronger with each minute.

 The master engineer sighed with relief as he watched the needles on the
boiler gauges inch slowly down off the red line of 225 PSI as he ordered
the firebox doors opened once more to add fresh coal to the red hot
coals. The pilot sounded the whistle but the sound was barely heard over
the howls of the banshee winds of the lake as the green navigation lights
winked in the rain. The question, head north towards the Railroad bridge
and Manchac or to the east to Slidell; the pilot decided North towards the
Railroad bridge and the tiny hamlet of Manchac.

 Blackbeard knew by instinct that the boat was moving towards the northwest
and Manchac, the hammering winds quieted against the side of the cabin but
now hit the rear with full force as the boat changed direction and Bo
jumped up to move to another seat closer to the boy and the side of the
cabin that the wind wasn't hammering. The boy let out a light giggle that
caused Bo to stare and Blackbeard burst into loud guffaws of laughter.

 "Boy, I have noticed none of this bothers you one bit and I want to know
why?" Blackbeard looked over at him as he asked the question, the deck of
cards forgotten for the moment.

 The boy looked up at the big man and spoke in a strong voice. "I was born
on this boat, eleven years ago today. April 29th, 1913, when my papa was a
pilot on the WATER WITCH under your direction, then he left for the
MAYFLOWER and you hated him ever since like I hate both of them, the
bastard and bitch!" He spit with anger as Bo drew back from the boy with
the blazing green eyes. He was now sweating, the moisture glowing on his
pale hairless skin under the yellow lights of the cabin as Blackbeard sat
there stunned to silence and O'Neal froze with the cigar halfway to his
lips. Blackbeard shot an evil stare at O'Neal, "You bastard, I told you I
only wanted boy slaves from other places like a good little Railroad brat
or a merchant's son, but no one from the River trade, GOD DAMN YOU, MAN!  "
As Blackbeard cursed O'Neal, no one noticed the boy reach down and untie
his ankles and spring to the rough wood floor and charge towards O'Neal,
fists flailing as he hit the man, knocking the cigar from his mouth as the
small fist made solid contact with the man's nose, spraying blood
everywhere as a naked knee targeted the man's groin. O'Neal let out a rush
of air as the knee rammed into his balls, bringing him to the floor but not
before the cane came down on the boy's head, knocking him out cold.

 "BASTARD SCOTLAND O"NEAL, how dare you hit him like that, you take the 3rd
cabin onboard the Texas deck with your helper and leave my sight now before
this pistol finishes the job the boy started!" Blackbeard pulled the man up
on his legs and shoved him towards the door. "You take care of the bastard,
Bo, I have no score with you, only your boss, understand, and thank you for
giving the boy attention, I noticed the smiles passed between you two."

 "Yes, Sir, Captain Kette, and thank you, sir, for the cabin, even if I
have to share it with him," Bo spoke as he helped O'Neal to his feet.

 "Well, take the bastard to his cabin, then come back and see me and I
might be able to arrange something more fitting for you, young man."

 Bo grasped O'Neal by the shoulders and opened the door to the howling cold
winds and escorted him to the cabin beside Jack's on the Texas deck and sat
the man on the bunk while grabbing a rag and dipping it under the corner of
the roof to soak it in rain water and handed it to O'Neal before returning
to the cold outside and walking towards the captain's cabin, noticing the
light still on in Jack's.

 Bo entered the cabin and saw Blackbeard cradling the boy in his big arms
and wiping away the sweat and the trickle of blood where the heavy silver
head of O'Neal's cane had struck. "Yes, Captain?" Bo asked as he walked
over to the big desk and sat on the corner and took the boy's right hand in
his.

 "He will be ok, he needs rest, and thank you once more from my heart, I
just realized I am staring at my past in my arms. You see, his mother Sarah
also worked on this boat as a saloon girl and a lot of nights when her
husband Robert was in the pilothouse let's say we took care of the bonus
wages in my bunk. When this laddie was born onboard late that April night,
I feared for the worse that he wouldn't look like the man she was married
to so I found a way to get rid of them. I paid the captain of the MAYFLOWER
a thousand dollars to hire Robert away from me without any sign I was
behind it." Blackbeard's tone was soft and low as he spoke, st ill running
his big hand through the blond hair of the boy in his arms.

 "Capt'n, were you ever married?" Bo asked.

 "Yes, Bo, many years ago, I lost both my wife and boy in a steamboat
explosion south of Grand Gulf. The ROSALIE , like so many of the fine
packets of her day, was overloaded and being pushed too hard and her
boilers couldn't handle the strain and as she rounded the bend they
exploded, everyone onboard was killed except for a lucky few and after
months of grief and my return from the blockading squadron off of Cuba I
took what little money I had and invested in the WATER WITCH and, yes, I
have always loved boys, one of my darkest sins of my life, Bo."

 "I love them too, but there is one that I really love and I noticed his
light was still on under the cabin door." Bo smiled as Blackbeard just
nodded.

 "So you like my Jack, huh? Bo?"

 "Yes, sir, I do," Bo replied.

 Blackbeard turned and rapped on the wall behind him, then turned back to
look at Bo. "Your boy will join us in a few moments, so time for the truth,
do you love him?"

 Bo, looked at Blackbeard, "Sir, that is a good question, and until tonight
I don't think I could have answered it, for so long all I have known is
hate and how to use people to get what I needed and then throw them away
like gutter trash. O'Neal let Lew die tonight when that gator attacked him,
O'Neal could have spared his life and didn't, then he said I could have
Lew's share of the blood money." Bo pulled the small pouch of gold coin
that O'neal had passed to him early on in the night and tossed it on tthe
desk. "Three hundred gold eagles and I don't want a one of them but when it
comes to your Jack I would like to learn how to love him if no one else in
my worthless life till now."

 A knock was heard from the outside of the cabin door before it opened and
Jack stepped in, wrapped in a long black rubber raincoat, his shoes tied on
his bare feet with his legs showing. "Yes, Captain?" Jack asked as he
looked on the scene.

 "Jack, my boyo, didn't mean to drag you out in the rain but some things
have happened."

 "Yes, sir, I heard the shouting match, what happened to the little one?"
Jack asked as he walked closer to the desk.

 "The bastard O'Neal hit him with the cane after the little one kicked him
in the balls," Bo said.

 Jack laughed a high musical note and smiled, "He deserved it."

 Blackbeard nodded, "Indeed he did, now back to the reason for me calling
your handsome self out of your warm bunk. Bo here says he has an interest
in you and I want to know how do you feel about him?"

 Jack smiled, "Yes, I like Bo too, but have been scared to ask you about
him. I know your feelings and I know you all too well, you saved me from a
fate worse than death, for that I can never repay you."

 Blackbeard looked up and smiled as the winds hammered the WATER WITCH and
the boat steamed towards Manchac. "Thank you, Jack, for your honesty and I
know I have done things in the past to you that I now wish I never did
since I consider you a son to me. Bo, you and Jack may share his cabin from
this point on and tell O'Neal you just found a new job as assistant clerk
on the WATER WITCH so when we reach Manchac he will leave this steamer,
never to return, the market is closed from now on."

 "What about the little one?" Jack asked as he stepped closer to Bo and
wrapped his fingers in Bo's hand.

 "Well, we'll take care of him now," Blackbeard said as he looked down into
the now fluttering eyes of the blond headed boy that smiled. "Well, well,
he is awake and smiling, so at least my nuts are safe at the moment!"

 Bo and Jack laughed as the little one blushed, then smiled again.  Jack
walked over, pulling Bo along with him. "What's your name, little one?"

 The blond boy looked nervous at first about giving out his name, then
spoke. "Ryan Parsons." The cabin grew quiet except for the raging storm
outside the steamboat. "So what is going to happen to me now?"

 "Well, we're going to get you well and rested and hopefully if we survive
this damned storm, set up in a cabin with Jack and Bo since I just hired Bo
away from O'Neal and, son, you will never have to set eyes on him after we
land at Manchac. Jack here is also a crack shot with a pistol and rifle. I
showed him how. Once I began to trust him."  Blackbeard smiled.

 "Are you packing a pistol now under your rain coat?" Ryan asked.

 "No, Ryan, I am barely packing my underwear under my raincoat. Do you want
to check?"

 Ryan blushed and then smiled. "No, I trust you."

 "What, you think I am a old troll at eighteen, I am not like Blackbeard,
now he is ancient!" Jack laughed to show it was all a joke.

 "You little shit, come here for calling me ancient! Hop up, Ryan."

 Ryan crawled out of the big man's lap "Bo, grab him and hold Jack and
remember you work for me now so no disobeying your Captain."

 "Yes, sir!" Bo grabbed Jack from behind.

 "Now, Bo, bring him over here and lay him across my lap after Ryan helps
you to remove that wet rain coat."

 "OH, SHIT!" Jack tried to back up as Ryan, quick as a fox, was over beside
him grasping for the hard rubber buttons on the rain jacket and began to
unsnap them. Jack couldn't help to let his eyes roam over the cute little
eleven year old dressed only in his tight jockey shorts. The boy had a cute
little bubble butt that wanted to burst through the tight thin cotton. Jack
tried to divert his thoughts before Ryan got to see what he had hidden in
his own briefs, now he wanted to curse himself for not slipping on a pair
of trousers.

 "OK, Bo, how we going to get it off of him without him escaping?"  Ryan
asked as a broad smile crept over his face.

 Blackbeard laughed and smiled as he watched the three young men in his
cabin having good natured fun, he couldn't remember the last time laughter
rang out from this cabin from real fun and it helped to ease his mind as he
continued to listen to the hammering rains and wind as the steamer
continued north. He was a worried man at the moment and the three boys were
giving his mind a diversion from the worries of how were the boilers doing,
the pilots, the boat itself, since it was over twenty years old.

 "I'll hold his arms close to his body and you work the coat over his
shoulders, then it is a matter of just slipping it off his arms."

 "OK, Bo, let's do it," Ryan said as he gripped the jacket and began to
tug. Bo made Jack bend over as Ryan reached higher and continued to
tug. The rain jacket slid down Jack's shoulders, exposing his pale smooth
skin and tight white jockeys, Jack was loving the attention and there was
no resistance as the jacket came free and fell to the floor, now Jack had
nothing left to hide his teenhood as it made a nice bulge in front of
him. He looked at Ryan for a sign of interest as Bo continued to hold on
his arms and brush against him. He noticed Ryan looking him up and down
shyly as he could and smiled deep down.

 "Boyo's, what you waiting on, for this hurricane to blow over before you
bring my boy to me for his punishment for calling his Captain ancient."
Blackbeard chuckled as he lit his pipe and leaned back in the big leather
chair.

 Bo and Ryan dragged Jack over toe Blackbeard and the big man reached up
and gave the boy a hug before leaning the eighteen year old over his
lap. "No, Capt'n, you know what it does to me when you spank me, no, not in
front of Bo and Ryan," Jack pleaded.

 "Sorry, Jack, my boy, you called your Captain old in front of them so you
get spanked in front of them and then I am sending your asses to bed for
the night." Blackbeard winked over Jack's shoulder as he raised his big
hand for the first time and brought it down on the handsome ass lying in
his lap.

 "OW, shit!" Jack screamed when the big hand made contact with his ass.

 "Capt'n, are the boys allowed to use such language on your fine packet
boat?" Ryan asked as he and Bo broke into giggles.

 "Why, no, young Ryan, such language is a sin on our fine souls and
spotless reputations!" They all cracked up, including Jack, until the hand
came down again and he moaned. "See, I told you Jack likes to be spanked,
listen to him moan."

 "I bet those cheeks are turning a nice shade of red," Ryan remarked as Bo
just sat back and watched as his own penis swelled in his pants from the
sight before him. Then Bo stood up and picked up the discarded rope that
had once bound Ryan's hands and picked up Jack's rain coat.

 "I shall return in a moment, I just thought our passenger might try to
leave without paying his fare," Bo said as he slipped out the door and
headed to the cabin where O'Neal slept.

 Ryan smiled and gave Bo a thumbs up and then smiled at Blackbeard and
Jack, who was still having his butt pounded by Blackbeard's big hand.

 "Ryan, come closer," Blackbeard said as he continued the torture of Jack's
behind with his powerful hand as Jack now just lay there moaning over the
big man's lap.

 "Yes, Sir?" Ryan asked as he stepped as close as he could to the big man
with his own young hairless legs rubbing against Jack's spread ones.

 "Very good, my laddy, you're already in the spot I need ya, now we can
make sure he doesn't close those cute but muscular legs of his. Now take
one of those cute hands of yours and check to see if you think I have
warmed his cute ass enough."

 Ryan blushed and didn't move till Blackbeard took his hand in his and
pressed against the tight cotton covering Jack's ass. "See, there is
nothing wrong with it and Jack won't be mad or upset with you. Will you,
Jack, my boy?"

 "Nope, captain, I enjoy it when a handsome boy rubs my red ass." Jack
turned his head and flashed a big grin.

 "See, Ryan. It don't hurt when both enjoy it."

 "Yes, Sir, I see," and he smiled but did not remove his hand after
Blackbeard had lifted his. " I wonder what Bo is up to?" Ryan asked as he
let his index finger slip under Jack's tight jockey shorts.

 Bo stepped through the door and cast a smile to the three in the room and
then stepped closely to Blackbeard and whispered in his ear so the others
couldn't hear. Blackbeard nodded his agreement and whispered back to Bo as
the others looked on with curiosity. Bo ran his hand down Jack's sweating
back then smiled. "I'll be back in a few and Ryan, don't fall in love with
that fine ass, it is mine but I might share." Then he once more rushed out
the door and into the blowing storm.

 Bo moved quickly back to the cabin where O'Neal was and went inside and
flicked on the light. O'Neal blinked at the harsh light in his eyes and
winced at the pain in his nose and groin when he tried to move and then
realized he was tied, his hands behind his back and his feet at the
ankles. "Bo,, untie me, those bastards tied me up!"

 "Sorry, Scotland, I did the tying myself and, by the way, I now work for
Captain Kette. I received a nice signing bonus, your wallet and pistol." Bo
opened his jacket to reveal the butt of the Colt 45.

 "You bastard!" O'neal hissed as he spat at Bo, hatred burning in his
eyes. "I will make you pay for this. I made you and I will break you!"

 "You didn't make me, you bastard, you tried to destroy my heart and soul,
you used me, raped me and Lew, and you didn't even try to spare his life,
you black bastard." Bo walked over to where O'Neal lay and whipped him
across his face with his hand, causing more blood to spurt from his broken
nose. Bo quickly decided to check O'Neal for the hidden hide out gun that
he usually kept hidden in his boot and found it, putting the small double
barreled gun in his coat pocket. Then dragging Scotland off the bunk and
onto the floor with a rough thump as he took the man's cape and threw it on
his own shoulders as he dragged O'Neal kicking and screaming from the cabin
out into the howling winds and pouring rain.

 "Where are you taking me, you yellow son of a bitch!" O'Neal screamed,
only to be drowned by the wind and rain.

 Bo didn't reply as he became used to the movement of the deck below him
and as he looked ahead at the tall steam vent stack in front of him on a
raised portion of the rounded paddlebox. The flat raised portion of the
paddlebox where the tall slender stack stood was the roof of the toilets
located on each side of the steamer, on the hurricane deck below, they like
many other things were based on the ones first used on Civil War ironclads
but these the user was protected, the wheels just kept a tank filled with
water and once the passenger was through they pulled a chain to wash away
the waste. Bo pulled open the door to the small cramped room and felt the
rush of hot air hit him as he dragged ONneal into the room, watching his
own head to keep from banging it against the iron tank. He instantly broke
out into sweats from the heat coming from the vent stack that was in the
center of the room and looked around for a suitable post to tie his
unwilling passenger; it was hard to see in the dark cramped room. He saw a
pipe and put his hand out to see if there was heat coming from it and
discovered it was cold, one of the pipes running down to the toilet, and
quickly untied O'Neal's hands and yanked them around the pipe and retied
them. O'Neal mutttered a curse and Bo whipped the man across his face again
to stun him into a moment of silence as he tied O'Neal's feet behind him
and around the pipe as well. "Now, good Sir, I hope your new quarters are
more suitable for your tastes and please watch the furnishings or we might
have to charge for the damage caused and if you need something please just
howl and no one will come.  Have a good night, Sir!" Bo gave O'Neal a swift
kick to the nuts, "and that is for Ryan, he sends his regards." Bo stepped
out into the wind and rain and pulled the door shut and locked the latch on
the outside and lifted his head up into the pouring rain and broke into a
smile as the wind whipped his jacket and blew his hair and the cold water
streamed down his cheeks. "FREE AT LAST!" he shouted as he walked back to
the captain's cabin.

 "I dunno what is going on with that guy on the roof of the Hurricane deck
but he is smiling as the wind raises hell!" one of the pilots said as he
stepped away from the window and poured a cup of coffee.

 "Dunno, Pete, just be glad this New Orleans glass is still intact and
those navigation lights are still burning brighty green."

 "Yeah, Matt, how about a blast on the whistle just to let everyone know we
still awake up here!"

 "Wasting Steam, Matt, how unlike you!" Pete laughed.

 "Why not, it not every night we cross this here lake in a hurricane and
the WATER WITCH is earning her keep!"

 Matt yanked the whistle cord, giving five long blasts on the powerful
three chime whistle on top of the pilothouse.

 Bo smiled as he stepped back inside the captain's cabin. "Job finished,
Capt'n, our passenger is in his new stateroom."

 Blackbeard burst out into laughter, "Very good of you, Bo, I hope he
enjoys it."

 "I believe he will, sir, and I gave him Ryan's regards, a good quick kick
in the family jewels."

 Ryan smiled from his spot between Jack's legs and without thinking brought
his free hand down onto Jack's ass, causing Jack to jump.

 "OW, you little shit! Oops, sorry, Capt'n!" Blackbeard laughed as Jack
spoke.

 "Ryan, I think he needs more spanking but from you! Here, I will hold him
down." Blackbeard shuffled in his chair, raising his left knee to bring
Jack's ass up into a higher arch and then grabbed the boy and held him
down. "Go to it, Ryan, pretend it is O'Neal!"

 "Oh, God no, no, I am not O'Neal!" Jack pleaded. Thunder rumbled, causing
the cabin the shake and they all were silent, brought back to the situation
on the outside as one of the window panes cracked and the wind whistled
through it.

 "Quick, Bo, close the shutters on the outside of it, hell, hop up, Ryan,
and Jack, I will help you!" Jack and Ryan scrambled to get out of the big
man's way; as they stepped back, he grabbed his hat and jacket along with a
large hammer. "You two, go to Jack's cabin, enough fun with me involved. I
need to check on the pilots after this! Now GO!"

 "Yes, Sir, Capt'n, we'll help with the shutters first!" Jack said as he
headed for the door with Ryan under his right arm, "I am not letting you go
either, Ryan, hang on to me!"

 "NO, JACK, TO YOUR CABIN AND CLOSE YOUR OWN SHUTTERS, KEEP RYAN SAFE, The
wind is changing, can't you bloody feel it? It is coming out of the
southwest now, not the southeast", the wind hit the boat again and it
shuddered under the pressure of the wind and rain as it grew fierce, once
again another pane cracked, "God damn it, go now!" Blackbeard ordered. as
he stormed out of the cabin, his jacket buttoned and his hat pulled down as
far as he could pull it.

 The wind gusted just as Ryan and Jack made it to the cabin door and the
jackstaff that held Old Glory was snapped off like a twig as Jack pulled
Ryan closer to his body, Ryan's bare feet tried to slip on the slicky deck
as Jack held him close and pulled them towards his cabin as the rain pelted
their bodies. They rounded the side and looked up at the pilothouse far
ahead and could see the dim light inside as one of the green navigation
lights winked and then went dark. Sheet lightning flashed in front of their
eyes as the thunder rumbled again like a barrage of artillery fire as the
two struggled against the wind. While Blackbeard and Bo hammered away at
securing the shutters on the cabin.  The rain stug their naked bodies like
mad hornets as they continued to fight their way forward, "Come on, Ryan,
it is not that much further, hang on to me, laddy, hang on!!" They reached
the cabin door and Jack yanked it open and shoved Ryan in so hard he almost
lost his balance as Jack, instead of following Ryan, shut the door and
began slamming the shutters on his own cabin closed. "FUCK!" Jack screamed
as the wind hit him, causing him to slide down the deck five feet. He
scrambled back to the window and finished latching it shut before opening
the door and sighing relief as he stepped into the warmth and dryness of
his own cabin. Ryan jumped off the bunk and ran to him. "You OK?"

 "Yes, I am OK, little one." and he tousled Ryan's wet blond hair while
reaching for a dry towel he kept on a hook on the far wall. "I think we
should dry off before we catch a cold," Jack said as he began to wipe off
the cold rain water that was running down his body.

 "OK, but there is only one towel." Ryan looked down at Jack's jockeys that
now hid nothing after being soaked through with rain water and blushed.

 "Aww, it's ok, little one, you're not hiding nothing either now."  Jack
smiled as Ryan turned crimson. "Come here." Ryan walked over and Jack
wrapped the boy in his arms, hugging him close to his chest.  "Welcome
Home, little one," Jack whispered in Ryan's ear as he felt the boy's arms
grow tighter around his waist.

________________________________________________________________________________

Well, Dear Readers, here is the first installment of what looks to be a
very interesting section of chapters as we learn more about this boy
sleeping on the docks at Vicksburg, Mississippi. We have stepped into his
world through a door that he never thought he would leave open his mind.
What's next is a good question, who will surivive the hurricane besides our
little Ryan, that I do not know. Well, as I add the final notes to this
chapter I recieved word that my own Railroad may be doomed to the economy
and the fact that two of our papermills no longer need short pulpwood, we
have 14 days to see if we can save it, 14 days to save four long bloody
years of hard work, sweat, and toil.

 June the 11th I head for Europe - Paris, then London via the TGV and the
Chunnel, thanks to my dear friend Michael in England. I will drink a toast
to Old Glory on English soil and maybe if I am lucky spot a cute English
lad or two, so heads up, dear readers, if you know of some while on my
journey. May 15th I turn 27, damn I am getting old.

 Well, Dear ones, enough for now and I hope you enjoy this chapter as it
was a pleasure again to to write it. As always, my E mail is
Swarri1349@aol.com so please don't be shy and write me.


 http://swarri1349.tripod.com/


 OK, the End Notes: The WATER WITCH is based on an actual lake steamer that
ferried goods and people from the North End of the lake to the city or the
other way around. The lake on average is no more than six feet deep in many
places for such a large lake. Lake Pontchartrain is supplied from the North
by several small lakes and rivers that flow from the Mississippi into the
lake and it empties through lake Borgne into the Gulf of Mexico. The little
short line Railroad that connected the Southern shore of the lake to New
Orleans did actually exist, chartered in 1832; its first locomotive MARS
was the 10th locomotive to be built by Baldwin Locomotive Works. Well, the
rest is history.

Until next time,

Stephen