Date: Fri, 25 May 2001 14:50:51 EDT
From: SWarri1349@aol.com
Subject: No Greater Love Chapter 12/ Gay/historical

                                No Greater Love
                                   Chapter 12


   Two days had passed since the gray rider on horseback had galloped
down the drive of Holloman Plantation on May 3rd, 1862, while Johnny,
Adam, and Billy sat on the 2nd story balcony. Now on May 6th they rode
south on the dirt road headed south to Natchez once more, this time just
the two of them; Billy was back home resting and sleeping in the care of
Johnny's parents. They had left Yazoo on the 5th, picking two grays from
the stable and packing their supplies, both uniforms and civilian
clothes. The Yankees had control of Natchez and they had to meet one
Franklin Framne and another unnamed gentleman, both storekeepers. Captain
Brown had given the two young men a very important mission and there was
no room for failure. Franklin Framne wa a Jewish bookbinder who founded
the Order of the Southern Cross along with others, from wealthy
plantation owners to whorehouse madams. Only Franklin knew every detail,
the rest knew only their parts, the left hand never knew what the right
one was doing. Then there was Charles Starke, a tall thin man of 30 years
with raven black hair down to his neck and a mustache that curled on its
ends, and gray eyes. He was raised as a bastard, son of a high-ranking
Confederate cabinet member, a man he hated, so he revolted. He was also
infamous for his two pistols, he was a crack shot and the man standing on
the business end never won, he admitted that he had lost count of the men
he had killed in duels, including a woman
who laughed at the size of his penis, she died laughing as he walked out
of her bedchamber, both barrels of his pistols smoking, which he named
Alpha and Omega (Beginning and End). He played by no rules except his
own. He dealt with both sides, selling cotton to the Yanks in town and
the cotton smugglers and sold the South arms, ammunition, and medicine,
anything someone wanted he could get if the price was right and your gold
shining.

   It took Johnny and Adam over a half of a day to make it from Holloman
Plantation to Vicksburg, the fortress city on the bluffs overlooking the
Mississippi River that swept by the city in a horseshoe bend, they passed
the sentry lines, the tired men at their posts just looked and nodded
their heads at the two young men on horseback dressed in their pressed
spotless gray uniforms, they had to wonder who they were and where they
were coming from, not one mount that was worth a dime could be found in
Vicksburg and not one uniform that nice either unless you were on General
Van Dorn's personal staff. They passed the lower gun batteries hugging
the river front below Fort Hill, they looked up as they passed the
imposing 300 foot hill with wood and cotton earthworks on the crest and
behind those was 'Whistlin' Dick', the Tredeger Ironworks Parrot that
sent her shells whistling as they flew to their target, plus 6 other
heavy guns. The dirt road soon turned to smooth brick as they trotted
along toward town and the levees where a few steamboats were tied up
under the protection of the guns. The Yankee gunboats and rams every now
and then threw a shell toward the city but their limited elevation only
kicked up more dust and damaged some of the businesses that were lined
along the river front. The boys turned and started to climb the hill to
Cherry Street. As they rose higher upon the bluffs they could see the
little steam engines of the Alabama and Vicksburg Railroad shuffling
supplies and dodging the mortar shells from the Yankee gunboats as they
continued to shell the city with little success. The little Railroad was
the lifeline of the city with the Yankee Navy on the river and an
ironclad on the Red River. No supplies were coming in from the west and
prices were beginning to soar already. General Van Dorn had put a ceiling
on foodstuffs and other supplies, including paper. The local printing
press was printing the daily newspaper on wallpaper and letters and
orders were being written with ink made from mulberries and walnuts. They
trotted their horses past the Courthouse, the Confederate first national
flapping boldly from her cupola.

   Adam glanced up at the two soldiers standing high in the cupola,
waving the red and white signal flags, directing the river batteries on
their targets in the river. The Confederate high command was using the
courthouse as the command post, using the first floor as offices and the
2nd to hold enemy troops that were captured. The Yankees knew this and
were ordered not to fire upon the Courthouse Square for any reason;  many
of the churches in town were housing enemy troops in their basements to
protect them as well from enemy fire. The boys passed the open wrought
iron gates and the two guards who stood under the shade of the  magnolia
trees beside two six pound cannon guarding the courthouse square which
was surrounded by a granite wall. The wall held the hill in place on all
four sides of the courthouse proper with four cistern buildings
surrounding the two- story granite courthouse that was 32 years old. The
young oak trees and magnolias would soon grow to shade the massive
building that sat on the highest hill in Vicksburg and could be seen for
miles around, the building was capped with a clock tower and the clock
was one of the finest made in Boston, Massachusetts, custom made and
custom fit into the tower. Above the clock was the bell platform, a
massive 2000 pound bronze and gold bell covered with a dome and
weathervane, with the four compass directions marked in gold.

   Johnny and Adam continued south on Cherry Street, headed toward the
village of Warrenton which lay  five miles to the south of Vicksburg and
the southernmost anchor of the southern defenses of 'Fortress Vicksburg'.
The boys turned and headed back down the bluffs to Main Street, trotting
past the Vicksburgians as they walked along the brick sidewalks past the
shops that were still open and booming; some things like French Lace were
becoming hard to find but other things were still common and pouring in,
vegetables and fruits along with other supplies, lamp oil, and whiskey.
When matches became scarce the citizens mixed coal dust and sulfur powder
and made their own matches; when the coal supply began to run out they
mixed sawdust and coal dust to make their own lumps to burn in their
stoves. Soldiers and civilians conversed about the news of the day as
wagons and artillery caissons passed fine open carriages on the busy
streets as the Union Gunboats dueled with the Confederate gun batteries
on shore. Life continued on in Vicksburg, The Queen City high upon the
bluffs, as Johnny and Adam continued toward Warrenton and the Port Gibson
road.

   They reached Warrenton and passed the gun batteries that lined the
bluffs overlooking the river, including the only Blakely cannon in the
defenses, she was nicknamed the 'Widow Blakely' because the Yankee
prisoners captured said every time she fired, some lady at home was a
widow because her man in blue had met his fate due to the 'Widow Blakely'
of Vicksburg.

   The Widow Blakely was a 7.44 inch rifled Cannon, designed by Captain
Alexander T. Blakely of the British Army. The first rifled cannon ever
fired in this county was a 12 pound Blakely given to South Carolina in
early 1861 and it was mounted on Morris Island where it sent its
projectiles over the 1,250 yards of water to hammer Fort Sumter during
the attack, with unerring accuracy. That was the beginning of the
Blakely's rule in Southern Artillery companies. The Widow Blakely was the
most accurate gun in the Confederate defenses and  Lt. A.L. Slack was
proud that the men of Company H of the first Louisiana Heavy Artillery
were in command of her.  Johnny and Adam remembered the day she was
unloaded and put into battery in  late April, and the first test shot
engraved in everyone's mind just how accurate she really was, when Lt.
Slack spotted a set of moon shiners who were crossing the river; he knew
it was them who poisoned some of his men and he saw the chance for
revenge. The new Blakely was loaded with 5 pounds of powder and a 50
pound shell, her sights lined up with the small wooden boat in mid
channel, Slack took the lanyard and yanked and when the smoke cleared the
moon shiners and their boat had vanished from the water. The cannon had
earned her nickname, the 'Widow Blakely' or, as some would come to call
her, 'The Widow Maker'.

   Johnny and Adam passed the village of Warrenton and the sentry posts
as they headed down Port Gibson Road, their horses kicking up the dust as
they rode along under the sprawling oak trees past Jefferson Davis'
plantation, Briarfield, which sat on the banks of the river. They reached
the small sleepy village of Allen late in the afternoon of May 5th and
they rode down the dusty dirt street to a boarding house, passing the
townspeople as they stared at the young men on horseback, men nodded
their heads in greeting and young girls tried to get their attention as
they rode along to the unpainted rambling three story building. Johnny
swung down off his mount and tied it to the hitching rail in front of the
building as Adam hopped down off his and tied his to the rail as well,
letting the horses cool down and sip from the water trough, while looking
for a stable boy to come along. They returned greetings from the men who
walked along the wooden sidewalks, smoking cigars or clay pipes, with
their homemade straw hats pulled down over their brows and their homespun
woolen shirts and trousers covered in dust and sweat from working in the
fields or in the woods; these humble people were the true backbone of the
Southern Armies and not the rich plantation owners. The people who lived
in dog trot houses with wooden or dirt floors, who tilled the rich earth
to plant crops or cut down the hardwood forests to clear more land and to
build homes and now gun carriages and ships; the food they grew fed the
men on the fields of war. Johnny respected these people, unlike a lot of
the rich people who looked down upon them. Adam knew their plight all too
well. Adam saw the stable boy first and hailed the young skinny boy; he
approached Adam and Johnny, looking at their uniforms and fancy horses.

   "How may I help you, sirs?" the stable boy asked, never letting his
eyes wander from the two soldiers in front of him.

   "I would like for you to care for our horses for tonight, my good man.
We have traveled far and they need to be rubbed down and fed and cared
for, what does your boss charge?"

   "My father charges two dollars per night, sir, we'll feed them and
water them and give them a good stall in the livery."

   Adam dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out four gold coins and
handed them to the boy. "Here you go! I think my partner, Mr. Kingston,
has your tip!" Adam looked over to Johnny who reached out and passed the
boy another gold dollar.

   "Thank you, Mr.!"  The boy smiled as he grabbed the reins of the two
horses and began to lead them away to the stable.

   Adam noticed the pleased and surprised  looks from some of the
gentlemen on the porch of the boarding house as they passed them and
walked through the door; most soldiers wouldn't have given the boy an
extra penny, much less a dollar. The gentlemen knew these boys were not
common soldiers but from the privileged section made up of plantation
owners' sons, a class most hated to look up to, but the simple gesture of
tipping a young boy and respecting him, told the watchers that these
young men were above all others of their class, they were true Southern
Gentlemen.

   "Afternoon, gentlemen, how may I help you today?" the thin clerk
asked, standing behind the scarred desk as he pushed his wire rimmed
glasses back up on his slender nose.

   "We need a room for the night, sir," Johnny replied.

   "Very well, I have one on the 2nd floor but it only has one bed in it,
will that be a'right?"

   "It will be fine, sir."

   "Two dollars, please sir," and the clerk turned the register around
and dipped the quill into the ink pot.

   Johnny fished out two more gold US dollars and placed them on the
desk, there was very little if any Confederate gold money in the area and
the gold spent and was worth more than the Confederate currency in the
first place.

   The clerk brushed the coins into the cash drawer and watched the two
sign their names in clear broad strokes. 'High Society boys', the clerk
thought as he watched. "Go up the stairs, third door on the right, here
is the key, there is fresh water and towels in the room and supper is at
7 pm sharp."

   "Thank you, sir," Johnny and Adam replied as Adam took the brass key
and they headed for the narrow stairway that led to the upper floors of
the building, they climbed the squeaking wood stairs to the second floor
that felt like it was in a blast oven, the windows on each end of the
narrow hall were cast open to catch any breeze, if it chose to blow, but
all was still as the blazing western sun baked the Mississippi landscape
and her people, giving no shelter to anyone of any race wearing blue or
gray, it did not matter. The hallway was clean and tidy, lined with tin
candle holders, each with a tallow candle in place but not yet lit. The
boys stopped in front of the 3rd door on the right side of the hall and
Adam inserted the worn key and the lock clicked open. They entered the
small room and it, like most in boarding houses, had the necessities but
not much comfort. The narrow bed was against the wall with the single
window; it too was cast open but the plain cotton curtains were still. A
night stand was next to the bed, with a tin candle holder and its wax
candle. Against the other wall was a small dresser with two drawers for
items of the weary traveler, a mirror hung above it on the whitewashed
wall that had once been white, now it was a dirty pale yellow from
countless pipes and cigars. The pewter pitcher sat in a clay bowl upon
the dresser and two towels lay beside it, they were clean and neatly
folded, which showed there was a woman's touch. Johnny continued to scan
the small room as Adam sat down on the narrow bed, the rope springs
moaned  as he sat down onto the goose down mattress which was covered in
white sheets and a homemade cover.

   "How does it feel, my sweet?" Johnny asked as he looked over to his
love.

   "Fit enouf' for a gener'l!" Adam replied as he pulled off his boots
and wiggled his sock clad toes.

   Johnny looked into Adam's eyes, "If Momma had heard you speak like
that she would tan your hide."

   "Well, Momma Sarah is not here, now is she, and besides if she hear'd
some of the words you use you couldn't sit down for the rest of your
life. What time is it? I am hungry for some vittles."

   "Well, my little fiery redhead Secessionist, it is..." Johnny pulled
out his silver pocket watch and looked at the face, "5:30, so you have a
hour to wait, I could use a dose of brandy and a cigar, also I could use
a scrubbin' to get half of Mississippi off my skin, I bet I could grow
cotton in some areas!"

   Adam laughed and then moaned as his stomach growled, "Hehehehe,
Johnny, you do grow cotton in some areas but most people use a field,
hehehehe!"

   "Why, you little devil! You sure don't smell like a bed of roses, more
like a bitter weed or horse turds!" Johnny let out his own laugh as the
smile dropped to a frown.

   "Oh, I see, you must'a set your eyes upon that stable boy, givin' him
such a handsome tip, I bet it was more than you gave me the day we met!"
Adam smirked.

   "Well...."

   "Well, what?" Adam asked, never taking his eyes off of Johnny.

   "Well, he was cute, that brown hair just a tad long, curling below his
cap, nice blue eyes and those cute freckled cheeks...."

   "Enough, Johnny Lee Kingston! If you want him, then damnit, go get
him!" Adam stood up and began walking toward the door but was stopped by
Johnny.

   "Adam, my sweet, what have I done to upset you so? I was only picking
and besides I saw you looking him over as well, at this moment in time I
have only one love and he is upset with me, that Irish temper has no
fuse, we're tired and covered in road dust and you, my fiery redheaded
sweetheart, is my only love at this moment."

   "I'm sorry, Johnny, forgive me for that outburst, I... don't know what
set it off."

   "It is ok, my love." Johnny pulled Adam close and kissed his forehead.
"I like short fuses on my shot and shell, but some things I likes a
little longer." He brushed the long curling red hair back and gazed into
Adam's eyes, "You're still the most handsome lad in gray I know and the
only one I dare to do this to." Johnny began to unbutton the brass double
eagle buttons on Adam's uniform.

____________________________________________________________________________


  His heavy boots echoed across the oiled hardwood floors of Rosalie. The
large antebellum plantation house was quiet this afternoon. He brushed
his black hair from his eyes as he slammed his hat onto the small table
right inside the double maple doors, the crystal cut glass trembled as
the heavy door was slammed shut. He continued down the long hall to his
library and walked briskly to the cabinet that held his bourbon and
glasses. He needed a drink and he wanted it. He pulled the key from his
duck trousers and opened the cabinet doors, removing the flask and the
glass, and walked to his desk and plumped down in the big leather chair.
He pulled the stopper from the flask and filled the glass, then he lifted
it and downed it with one swallow. The fiery liquid hit his gut as he
leaned back and thought about the problem on his hands. How do you hide
from a Man of War sitting at anchor on your back doorstep? He turned and
looked out the high arched window at the Mississippi River floating past
and the dark looming shadow of the sloop of war sitting with wisps of
steam floating from her stack, her masts and spars bare of canvas sails,
her anchor chains vanishing below the water line, passing through the
muddy waters to her anchors, and that damned rag flapping in the breeze.
He heard the 5 O'Clock bell chime and then the bigger bolder rings coming
from the churches in town. The Yank steam sloop was changing watches. He
continued to stare out the window, his anger boiling. The more he stared,
the hotter he became, how dare they come and demand him to pay taxes on
his own cotton! 'The sorry Bastards would pay dearly for fooling with
him.' He reached into his holsters and removed his two pistols, feeling
the metal and the weight. He slowly began to calm himself, he could not
let that little Jew see him this angry. He didn't mind one bit trading
with the Yanks, in fact he quite enjoyed it, raking in the gold coins as
his cotton was smuggled north up the Mississippi or south to New Orleans,
headed to the cotton mills of the north, but no one stabbed him in the
back and got away with it, even if you were the Federal Commander of the
USS IROQUOIS. He continued to stare out the library window at the steam
sloop and her squat ugly mortar boat tied to her side. The maw of the
stubby 13 inch mortar looked like a dead volcano pointing skyward from
the flat bottomed barge, surrounded by low wooden walls and no roof, the
clumsy craft had to be towed into position. He drew the shades closed as
he stood up from the big oiled cypress wood desk, and walked over to the
fireplace, it was cold, but he looked up above it; hanging there on the
wall was the musket his uncle carried during the Mexican War, the 1842
Mississippi Rifle, the barrel was blued and the stock polished to a
shine. He wasn't a rifleman but he was deadly with his pistols. He walked
back over to the desk and poured another drink. He would leave in an hour
for King's Tavern and to meet with his Southern contact. He smiled, as he
thought, the house that was built on top of  a French Fort served very
well as his own fortress 'Rosalie'.

____________________________________________________________________________


   The same day, another man was watching the USS IROQUOIS, he sat close
to the banks of the mighty river in the cool shade of a magnolia tree as
the sun rose, that morning, everything was still, not a leaf moved to
signal a breeze. He hated this area of the state, nothing ever seemed to
change. The heat was already stifling and clammy, he ran his hand over
his forehead and face, then peered into the rising mist boiling up from
the Mississippi. Natchez lay behind him and to the east high on the brown
scarred bluff that separated her and the river, the town lay panting in
her sweat and perfume.  There should have been a breeze born way up in
Tennessee hundreds of miles away but there was none. He wiped his brow as
he continued to sit and watch the steam sloop. Sea gulls had followed her
up from the coast and they now circled the ship high above or roosted on
her yardarms and masts. The Union banner lay limp against her jackstaff
as men moved back and forth on her decks.

   He didn't like the Natchez Country, in this bloated valley where life
was too easy for some and too hard for others. The rivers were too big
and the land too green and it never changed.

   It got hot up in Missouri, where he was born, but things changed, it
got cold up there too, nobody had much, but everyone had something. He
had seen it change during the twenty-four years of his life. Natchez, on
the other hand, looked and behaved exactly the same as she did when he
first saw her that time his father brought him  there to meet his old
friend Sam Dabney. Well, Sam Dabney was dead now and so was his father
and the Union they helped to build was on its death bed, for it was the
summer of 1862 and the Confederacy was in its prime, defiant and
apparently unconquerable.

   The leaves fluttered slightly and swayed. The breeze was coming. He
turned his face to the northeast. The breeze cut a path through the mist
and the spire of St. Mary's Cathedral was visible for a second and then
the mist closed again around it. He felt the wind on his cheeks and faced
the river. Dogs barked across the river on the Louisiana side where the
flat gumbo land poured out her wealth for the Natchez planters. A bell
tolled over there and his pulse quickened. The sound, however, was too
heavy and melancholy for a ship's bell and he realized it was a
plantation bell calling the hands to the fields. God! what a day to work
men and mules.

   The plantation bell was still ringing when the cheerful ring of
another bell chimed in, he straightened and leaned over the bluff. All
the leaves were rustling, dancing a welcome to the strong breeze, that
lifted the mist from the river and revealed the steam sloop once more.

   He saw the ship then, riding at anchor near the bluff, and the muscles
in his stomach tightened. Her guns were run in and only a wisp of smoke
escaped from her stubby stack. By her lines he knew she was the USS
IROQUOIS, the steam sloop that had conquered Natchez without hurling a
shot. Her fires were banked, her commander, J.S. Palmer, wasn't wasting
coal, not a single lump. He was 200 miles north of New Orleans and over
100 from the mouth of the Yazoo River, just north of Vicksburg, where
Flag Officer Farragut's squadron of six ships of line was rendezvousing
with Commander Dave Porter's mortar flotilla and Davis' Upper River Fleet
of rams and Ironclads.

   The steam sloop had her nose pointed upstream. To her starboard,
between her and the bluff, was a mortar boat, whose huge fat gun was
pointed toward town. He paid no attention to the mortar boat, like all
the others it was a clumsy thing that had to be towed. The IROQUOIS
fascinated him, for he was a sailor without a ship, a gunner's mate of
the Confederacy, fighting for a nation that had no fleet except a few
tubs and privateers.

   The IROQUOIS was changing her watch and he saw men in fresh blue
uniforms salute the quarterdeck and go to the relief of their sleepy
comrades. He glanced down at his own muddy boots and tapped his feet
against the trunk of a water oak, dislodging some of the red mud that
fell off in clumps. He was wearing black broadcloth trousers and a black
coat, a gift from a Southern sympathizer in Vicksburg where he had
changed his light grayish blue uniform for civilian clothes, a change
that meant death if he were captured and identified in enemy territory.
And the presence of the IROQUOIS meant the Yanks were still in Natchez.

   He straightened up, and began to climb the bluff to the muddy road
that ran from the bluff into Natchez. The recent rains had turned the
road into mud. He inhaled the clean fresh air up on the bluff as he took
a departing look at the ship, then started walking toward the town.

   Once he neared town, he took the lower fork that led to Silver Street
and Natchez Under The Hill,.the area of town that High Society scorned
and refused to go. Even the mud stunk as a blast of rotten air hit him as
he passed the first unpainted building. He understood the name of the
street, almost every building along this single narrow street that hugged
the bluffs had either gambling or prostitution for sale. The blinds on
the windows were closed as a girl from a shack across the street called
to him. She was standing by the blinds and when he looked at her she
opened them, showing him her naked body for sale. He shook his head and
walked on, she spit and cursed him, then forgot him.

   There was no reason for her to remember him, for there was nothing
remarkable about him. He was of medium height, thin and wiry. The
dampness of the air made his chestnut hair to curl, but in dry weather it
was straight and almost coarse. His
eyebrows were busy and most people noticed them and not his blue-gray
eyes. His Commander, Captain Isaac Brown, said he had the best eyes in
the Confederate Navy and could see a minie ball coming. That was
exaggeration, but his eyes and scar on his face were the only two things
that set him apart from the thousands of other men born on the Missouri
frontier.

   There was a story in itself about the scar that ran from his left jaw
bone to the cleft in his chin, the scar was not noticeable except when
blood rushed to his face, then it became white and livid against his
skin. High in the Dakota country in Nebraska Territory, people said he
got the scar from a fight over an Indian squaw. That was not true, squaws
were plentiful. He had killed a man for stealing pelts because they were
valuable. The scar was the aftereffect of an accident when he was 14,
when his father's little sternwheeler hit a sand bar in the Missouri
River and he was pitched against the capstan. He hated his scar, because
it betrayed his emotions, glowing white when he was angry and it
prevented him from growing a beard, hair just would not grow over the
scar and he was ashamed of his beardless face.

   He reached the landing at Natchez Under the Hill and looked back up
the towering bluffs behind him. The mist was vanishing rapidly and he
felt the rays of the morning sun hit his back through the mist. Even at
that early hour the sweltering heat made him dizzy. The sun sharpened the
odors of the filthy village that sprawled under the bluff, a haven for
harlots and gamblers, a nest of the vilest dives between Quebec and
Texas.

   The IIROQUOIS stood out in the sunlight and he wondered how many of
her crew had shore leave. Then he turned up a narrow path that ran along
the river, walking slowly till he came to the house he was seeking, a two
story unpainted dwelling that had a second story gallery and worn
banisters. He knew that the lookout on the IROQUOIS was watching him so
he didn't stall, but stepped quickly up to the door as if he knew his
way. The door was locked so he rattled the knob. A mulatto boy of about
16 opened the door and he stepped into the dark, dank, gloomy hall.

   "Your Mistress, please," he said to the boy.

   "She's in the back, I'll show you, sir."

   He followed the boy to the tap room. Standing near a window was a tall
woman, wearing black silk. Her clothes didn't surprise him, for most
Southern women were down to their Sunday best because their everyday
clothes had long since worn out and couldn't be replaced. She turned
slowly and looked at him and he remembered what Ves had told him, "You'll
know her. Don't worry about that. When you see those coal-black eyes and
that yellow hair, you'll know her. Even if she is my cousin, she's as
pretty as a sunset in a snowstorm and just as unusual." That's what Ves
had said, Vespasian Gillivray, the Cajan who had followed traplines with
him from Lake Superior to the far reaches of the Dakota country.

   He would have known she was a  Cajan even if he hadn't known Ves, only
Cajans could have produced such a woman. Her eyes proclaimed her Indian
blood, her skin showed her Spanish strain, maybe Portuguese, or African
Moorish. Her hair was her Scottish heritage, for she traced her line back
to old Lachlan MacGillivray, the Scottish Merchant who settled among the
Creeks a hundred years before, made his fortune, married and bred as a
proper gentleman should.

   No one knew all the blood lines of the Cajans, they had no connections
whatsoever with the French Cajuns of Louisiana. No one knew exactly
whence came the swamp Cajuns, they were an isolated people who lived in
clans along the rivers of South Alabama and Mississippi. Some thought
they sprang from shipwrecked sailors, or from Buccaneers, who fled the
Spanish Main. However, the Cajans enjoyed a medley of breeding and
freedom, and every so often a brown child appeared. They were never
accepted into Southern Society, and never wanted to be.

   The melting pot really had melted to produce this woman. He assumed
she was a lady and was determined to treat her as such, although she was
not a lady by the inflexible standards and castes of age. He knew she
didn't belong in Natchez Under the Hill and that only devotion for her
native land could have driven her to operate a tavern in the Sodom of the
South.

   Her skin was olive, and her hair was like burnished copper. She was
casually watching him and there was a suggestion of a frown on her lips
and let her eyes guide him to a table where two men sat. He quickly sized
up the two men as cotton speculators, for now the Northern blood
controlled the lower Mississippi Valley, the leeches were coming, Yankee
buyers and Southern sellers. What they couldn't buy, they stole, and they
were swarming over the valley like locusts, stripping it bare.

   He scraped his boots on a chair leg and mumbled, "I haven't seen any
cotton yet that is worth tramping through mud for. I'm going back home."

   The men assumed he was one of them, a cotton speculator too, and one
asked. "Where's home?"

   "Missouri, now laugh, damn you."

   They did, and so did he. The woman moved from near the window and
walked behind the bar.

   "Any luck?" one of the men asked.

   "Twenty bales," he said. "The Yanks burned out a planter north of
town, it seems he fired or threw a brick at the IROQUOIS or something of
the sort."

   "How much?"

   "I gave the lieutenant a quart. He approved the papers consigning all
the cotton to me and I agreed to handle a few bales for him."

   "What about the government stamp? Uncle Sam is supposed to get that
cotton."

   He laughed and the other men joined in.

   The woman moved toward the end of the bar and approached him. "What is
your pleasure, Sir?"

   The men at the table winked at him and of them said, "Tell her,
Missouri. Tell her what is on your mind."

   He looked over at the woman, then cast a glance over at the men and
spoke, "If these men are bothering you, Miss..."

   She shrugged her shoulders and he saw the light frown again and
checked his temper. "They are drunk," she said.

   He watched her eyes. "You are up early. You are much too pretty to
have been up all night as I have."

   "Sleep is a thing I have not enjoyed much since the war has started. I
see the stars fade every morning." The words came slowly. "But if you
have been up all night you must be thirsty."

   "Yes," he said, "Brandy," he caught her look. "Grape Brandy. Grapes
from the valley of Sharon."

   She put her hands on the bar and he noticed her long fingers. Quickly,
he put his left hand on the bar. "I am sorry, sir," she said loud enough
for the other men to hear. "I have never heard of such a brandy before."
But she now understood this dashing young man was her contact from
Vicksburg and the fabled brandy was the code...

   She moved her hands and he followed them and she pointed under the bar
to a pistol and a long knife.

   "I see," he said, and nodded slowly. "Then any good Brandy will be
fine." He turned to face the men at the round table. "If I spoke hastily
a minute ago, I ask y'all's pardon."

   "Aw, forget it, but just where is this place that was burnt out last
night?"

   "Out on the Natchez Trace about six miles. I hope you're not going out
there today, it will be too hot to move in a hour or so. It was hot last
night, even the stars seemed to throw out heat."

   "There may be a thunderstorm this afternoon," the woman quickly added.

   The men pressed him for exact directions and he told them. He had seen
the place burning as he rode in last night and knew what had happened.
They rushed out and he was alone with the woman.

   She sat a bottle of Brandy on the bar and smiled at him. I'm Sharon
Weatherford. You are Wyeth Woodward. I have been expecting you."

   "Is he here?" Wyeth snapped, forgetting his manners, a thing he seldom
did..

   "Who?" she asked.

   Wyeth's temper, usually calm and placid, surged forward as the blood
rushed to his face and the scar began to pulse. "Do not play games with
me, Miss Weatherford. You know very well who I mean..."

   She realized immediately just how silly her question was, "Mr.
Granville?"

   "Mr. Simeon St. Leger Granville." There was a trace of sarcasm in his
voice as the words rolled off his tongue.

   She looked out the dirty window where the heat was baking the earth as
it simmered and danced. Then she looked back at him and spoke softly,
"Yes, he is here upstairs. How is Ves?"

   "Ves is all right," he said, his voice impatient. "He is up at
Greenwood waiting for me and Mr. Granville to return and get along with
our business at hand. Now, will you please show me upstairs..."

   "He is asleep and he needs the sleep."

   Wyeth felt his temper rising again. "How long has he been drunk?"

   "A week."

   "Is that all? Just how drunk is he?"

   "I don't know." She let out a sigh and there was compassion in her
eyes. Wyeth was annoyed and a bit alarmed. He didn't like the look of
things. When a woman shows compassion for a drunk man it usually means an
affection that is deep enough to even tolerate his errors. He cursed
Granville under his breath.

   "I can't tell how drunk he is, because I can't tell much about him. He
has been here a week and I know less about him now than I did when he
first made it here," Sharon said. Wyeth smiled. Then he realized she was
looking at the cleft in his chin, the dimple, and he blushed. The blush
brought out the scar. He drank his brandy to hide  his confusion.

   "You will never know anything about him. Ves and I have been with him
for three years and he is still a mystery to me. But you're right, if he
is asleep, let him sleep. We've got to get him sober."

   Sharon called the slave boy who had opened the door for him and the
boy set the table and brought corn fritters, bacon, and coffee. He ate
slowly, enjoying the food to its full measure, it was the first good
coffee he had tasted in months. Already, coffee and salt were at a
premium in the South. He nodded toward the river where the IROQUOIS was
anchored. Her gesture told him that the coffee came from the Yankees. She
put the brandy bottle on the table and sat down.

   "I will give you coffee to carry to Ves."

   "You're very kind."

   "Why does Mr. Granville fight for us?"

   Wyeth pushed the brandy bottle to the side and sent the slave boy for
another cup of coffee. "Oh, I don't know why he does it. Maybe because
Ves and I are fighting and we are friends, Maybe because he thinks the
South is the underdog. Maybe he just likes to fight." He shrugged his
shoulders and accepted a cheroot from the slave boy and watched him move
about, doing his other chores.

   "He hates slavery," Sharon said, trying to attract his attention away
from what the slave boy was doing. "I heard him say so."

   "Many  Confederates hates slavery," Wyeth said. "Mr. Granville says
slavery has produced a barren culture down here. But he hates most
Abolitionists as much as he does slavers. He says this is a war between
Yankee money and Southern money and that most Yankees care nothing for
the Negroes, but use their bondage for a crusade to arouse the Northern
people."

   Sharon didn't understand such talk. She owned a slave and thought
nothing about it. Wyeth never had before, although he had heard his
father rail against the peculiar institution. Wyeth was born near the
border of free territory, was fighting for the South because she was
invaded. So were most of the Southerners, poor men who hated planters and
had no stake in slavery.

   "Where did you meet him?"

   Wyeth really was annoyed with all her questions. Had she not been Ves'
cousin he might have told her to mind her tongue and stop pestering him
with questions. However, he puffed the cheroot, then said, "In Dakota
country. Ves and I were running some traps near the Canadian line and
found him a squaw's lodge. He was drunker than a lord, which some folks
think he is. He went back to the post with us only for more rum." Wyeth
began to smile as he recalled the incident.

   Sharon was leaning forward, hanging on to every word he spoke. "Yes.
Go on."

   "That is about all. We knew he was an Englishman. He blabbers about
England when he is drunk. Ves and I finally got him sober and he worked
up to be the bourgeois, overseer of the post. Ves and I were Voyageurs ,
and often he ran our lines with us. We were on Shonkin Creek and there
was a Chantier, a shipyard, at the post. That's when I learned that he
knows just about all that's to be known about ships, guns too."

   He drank the last swallow of his coffee and looked up toward the
stairs that led to the second floor.

   "But that is not all," she said eagerly.

   "Why are you so interested? I am indebted to you because you are
working with us, but must you pry?"

   Her smile was her best visible weapon. "I could be a silly woman and
say I'm interested because he is a friend of my cousin."

   "That would be silly." He crossed his legs and yawned and begged her
pardon. "I rode all last night and am sort of tired. Well, anyhow, when
the war started, Ves and I decided to fight for the South. Mr. Granville
said he would too, if we joined the Navy. That was all right, so we did."

   "You were at Memphis?"

   "Yes, and at Island number 10. We were on the Jeff Thompson at
Memphis;  the Yanks beat us, you know. We lost our ship. The QUEEN of the
WEST hit us." A heavy frown passed over his face and the white scar
showed again. Then he began smiling "That's when Ves flagged a Minie. He
was bending over the breech sight of our gun. Mr. Granville wanted a
curved ricochet. The distance was 220 yards and our elevation 7 degrees,
30 minutes." His eyes began to dance and he used his arm to show the
elevation  Anyway, his right cheek caught the ball and he has been
sleeping on his stomach since then. Got in the habit, I reckon."

   "He sent me word that he was all right. Then what happened?"

   "We signed on the Arkansas. There was no Arkansas then, only a keel.
But there will be one if we can get the metal to build her."

   She leaned over and put her hand on his. Her hand was warm, it was a
friendly gesture and nothing more. "You will build her. Come with me."

   He followed her to a back room and she unlocked the door. When he
stepped into the room his heart began to pound. There were nine kegs of
bolts in the room and the floor covered with railroad iron. Iron was
selling for $1300 per ton in the South where there were only a few
rolling mills capable of rolling 2 1/2 inch iron plate.

   "My God!" He said it reverently.

   She pointed toward six more kegs and whispered, "Powder. And I have
500 percussion caps. You will build  the Arkansas and she will fight."

   Powder was selling at $1.50 per pound and percussion caps worth their
weight in gold.

   Wyeth stared at the valuables. Then impulsively, he took her hand and
kissed it. She laughed and offered her cheek and he kissed that too. "For
Ves," he said. "But how we going to get this stuff to Yazoo City? That's
where she is being towed to as we speak."

   "That will be arranged. The Yankees will haul it for you. And back to
Mr. Granville."

   "I've told you all I know. He never talks about himself."

   "Who is Dolly?" She didn't look at him when she asked.

   Wyeth's eyes lit up and he arched his bushy brows. She glanced at him
and realized then just how piercing his eyes were. "Oh," he said. "So you
know about Dolly."

   Red showed on her olive cheeks and her lips, naturally red and full,
were suddenly white. "He mentioned her several times during the spree. He
drank a toast to her the other night. Is she beautiful?"

   "Very."

   "Has he known her long?"

   "Less than a year. But he loves her very much. You must know that."

   The pupils in Sharon's eyes came to a pinpoint and she compressed her
lips. Wyeth had seen Ves' eyes do the same thing. His eyes always looked
that way when he was fightin'. These Cajans. They laughed most of the
time, but their anger was a cold thing and their hatred was deadly.

   "What does she look like?" Sharon asked. "And does she love him?"

   "She must. She does everything he expects her to do."

   "ENOUGH OF THAT!" She turned on him fiercely and Wyeth thought she was
going to scratch him. "Answer my Question. What does she look like?"

   He went over to one of the kegs and looked at the bolts, teasing her
by the delay. "Yes, she is very beautiful. I love her too. She weighs
9,200 pounds." He glanced her way and saw that she was amazed. He was
enjoying himself immensely. "She is a deadly old lady and gulps 13 pounds
of powder when she's hungry and throws a 93-pound shot or a 70-pound
shell. Her bore is 107 inches..."

   "A rifle!" Sharon exclaimed.

   "A gun, madam. Dolly is a Dahlgren gun. She was cooled from the
outside when they cast her and the metal around her seat is a little
larger than the diameter of her bore. Her chase tapers rapidly and her
chamber is of the Gomer form..."

   "Stop it." Sharon was laughing. "What a dunce I was."

   But Wyeth was very serious, "Mr. Granville and Ves and I often sleep
near her. Ves was leaning over her breech when that minie hit him in the
breech."

   "Stop it, I say..."

   "She was on the Jeff Thompson  and we saved her. She will be on the
Arkansas. We will use these bolts to hold her down and to fasten the
plates that will protect her. And all we don't use we will throw down her
mouth and let her spit at the Yankees."

   Sharon was still laughing as they left the room and went to the front
door of the house. The day was well underway. Wyeth opened the door and
peered outside at the IROQUOIS. A few men were standing on deck and her
fires were still banked. The river was steaming and the muddy water was
throwing off blankets of heat. He was sweating, he felt the sweat seep
into his clothes as he shut the door and looked once more at the stairs.
And from above, in thick chants he heard the chant. A boot was being
pounded on the floor in time with the song.

   Sharon was suddenly excited and Wyeth said, "A song of the voyageurs.
Mr. Granville is awake, I'll go up now."

   "Just a minute, please." She called the slave boy. "Get some water and
fresh towels and take them to our guest. And mind you not to stay in
there too long."

   The slave boy giggled.

   "Give him time to collect his thoughts," Sharon said to Wyeth. "Then I
will go up with you."

   "No, I will go alone."

   "You won't be too harsh on him? He can't help it. I know he had a duty
here. It was my fault. I gave him a drink the night he called. It was
raining that night and when he saw me he said he wanted wine from the
valley of Sharon, but he much preferred a kiss."

   "I assume he got only the brandy." Wyeth was walking toward the
stairs. "But don't worry, I won't be harsh on him. Sometimes I just want
to break his neck, but if I raise my voice to him he will throw me down
the stairs head first."

   The slave boy came out of the room just as Wyeth reached the door. He
was giggling again and Wyeth slapped his butt as he passed. Then he
opened the door and tiptoed into the presence of Simeon St. Leger
Granville, once a lieutenant of the Royal Navy and now a master gunner
for the Confederacy.

   The Englishman, a bit taller than Wyeth and just as thin, was standing
by the window, watching the IROQUOIS. His back was toward the door and
Wyeth started to speak to attract his attention. Then he assumed that
Granville was in deep thought and did not want to interrupt him, so he
leaned against the door and waited. He had expected to find his friend a
mess, as he usually was during a prolonged drunk. Granville, however, was
neat and trim, evidence that he hadn't been as drunk as Wyeth had feared.

   Always a dandy, the Englishman was wearing Wellington boots over which
his gray trousers fit tightly. His waistcoat was of cream colored silk,
lined with white, short in the waist and snug, his cravat was a piece of
gray silk tied loosely at his throat. He was one of the few men in the
South that still owned silk and linen. His white beaver hat was in the
chair by the door.

   Wyeth studied his friend's back for a second, wondering how a man
could live such a life and keep his strength. Granville always reminded
him of a polished silver spring, tightly wound. His hair was black with
traces of white that showed through the heavy mat that fell over his neck
and over the collar of his waistcoat. Granville's hair was deceiving. The
white strands usually led strangers to think he was older than he really
was. Wyeth didn't know his age and had guessed it variously from 35 - 45.
Once, Granville, in his cups, told Wyeth that he was an apprentice in the
British Navy when the Great Western sailed from Bristol  on the voyage
that revolutionized ocean travel. That was in 1838. British apprentices
were often as young as 14. Wyeth used that date to estimate that
Granville was born in '24. So he must be at least 38. He heard him speak
of the potato famine in Ireland in '47 when 200,000 people  starved to
death. He was in the Royal Navy then and helped take relief to the
730,000 families that lived only by government help. Why he had left the
service of the Crown he did not know and never thought to ask.

   He turned around then, twirling the silver chain, and his face showed
no surprise when he saw Wyeth. "Hello," he said casually. "Have a drink?"

   "Is there any left?"

   Granville adjusted his chain and straightened his waistcoat. "Only a
wise man can afford to be sarcastic. Where's your horse?"

   Wyeth walked to the center of the room and sat down on the bed, taking
his time. Granville's eyes were red, the only sign that he had been
drinking. His beard was a tribute to his vanity and was neatly trimmed.
The beard was the envy of the Confederate Navy. His mustache turned up
and the beard began at the corners of his mouth  and grew to a sharp
point, leaving his cheeks bare;. the smooth  black hair was sprinkled
with white. His sideburns were bushy and the hair just over his ears was
almost wholly white.

   "I ate my horse." He knew that would annoy Granville and it did. The
Englishman's eyes flashed and Wyeth was delighted.

   "I warrant that it was the best meal you had since the war started.."
Granville took one more look at the IROQUOIS and then sat down facing
Wyeth. "But I am serious, unfortunately, war is a serious business and
inasmuch my life depends on you, I need to be sure you have not been
foolish."

   "I killed my horse, there was nothing else to do. They might have
traced me through the horse. But now that we are safe, Mr. Granville, so
far, so good."

   Granville laughed and it was always good to hear him laugh for he had
a way of laughing  as though he enjoyed it. He went over to the
washstand, reached into the water pitcher and pulled out his field
glasses wrapped in India rubber. He handed the glasses to Wyeth and
nodded toward the ship. "Take a look."

   "I've seen her, this morning."

   "She has been out there a week and I've been cooped up here in this
room, not daring to show myself. The United States Navy employed me once
to design a gun carriage. Then I got drunk, but not before I argued with
half the officers at the shipyard and drank with all the men, half of her
crew probably knows me. We are in civilian clothes, Wyeth. When I hang I
want to hang to a yardarm and not to one of those trees down there."

   "If you shaved that field of grass from your face they might not know
you."

   Granville looked at him and did not reply to such a statement. "You
must take some information back to Captain Brown. In your head, Wyeth,
can you remember what I tell you?"

   "Of course."

   "Tell Captain Brown that Farragut, Davis, and Dave Porter have joined
their fleets at Vicksburg. Now don't confuse Dave Porter with his
brother, Bill Porter, who is on the ironclad Essex, Bill Porter is a fool
and a blowhard..."

____________________________________________________________________________


   The clock struck six PM, as he walked out of the double doors and to
the brick street where the carriage waited along with the black driver
who stood at the door and held it open. He stepped into the open carriage
and the servant closed the door and mounted the box seat. "To King's
Tavern!" and he rapped his cane on the floor.

   The driver snapped his reins and the horses were off in a trot down
the brick street toward the tavern on Commerce Street. His contact better
not be late tonight for he had other business to attend to. He checked
his pistols that were holstered under his waistcoat and adjusted the
ivory handles. His Starr revolver rested against his side and the dagger
was firmly seated in the bottom of the cane. He took no chances with his
life and he gave his opponents no chance with theirs. No one crossed him
and lived to tell about it.

   The air was hot and still nothing seemed to move. The matched pair of
horses trotted along the street past wagons and other carriages to which
he paid no mind, his thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking of revenge
and of Morna Danby, the sweet beautiful woman and sister of his deceased
wife Linda, soon he would free her from that bastard John Starke and she
would be his wife. The son of a bitch had even named his own set of
pistols Alpha and Omega and there could be no two beginnings or endings
and there needed to be no John Starke, just his memory as his bloated
corpse floated in the muddy waters of the Mississippi. The carriage
pulled up to the two-story wooden tavern that was built long before
Mississippi was even part of the United States. It was here that first
United States flag was ever hoisted in the Mississippi territory. The
tavern hosted to all people; when it was first built it played host to
the flatboatmen returning home via the Natchez Trace and to all
travelers, it still plied its trade to all, from the wealthy plantation
owners to the lower classes of wanderers passing through Natchez.

   He stepped down out of the carriage and walked to the heavy wooden
door that was cast open to catch the evening air as a piano player
hammered out tunes. The place was booming as always, even if some of the
men didn't make enough money to feed their starving families but there
was always money for rum and the rotgut whiskey and the whores that
danced the night away on tables or sat in patrons' laps, while cards were
dealt and bets wagered and the Roulette wheel spun.

   He wanted none of it. He had a business deal to make and that was all.
He cared nothing for the two-cent whores or the crooked dice games or
underhanded dealings at poker and blackjack. He walked up to the polished
bar and the barman looked up and smiled. "Good Evening, Mr. Alexander."

   "Evenin', Davis." Alexander spoke in a loud mellow voice, "is he
here?"

   "Yes, he is upstairs in private quarters."

   "Send a servant up with Brandy and cigars, none of that cheap shit,
remember what happened last time you tried to pull such a stunt!"

   "Yes, I remember, Mr. Alexander, he was a fine boy until you got ahold
of him for him following my orders."

   "Well, good, no need to bring up bad business deals then, is it, Mr.
Davis?"

   "No sir, Mr. Alexander." Davis mumbled. as he watched the man head
toward the dim stairs and his fancy boots echoing up them to the second
floor. He didn't care to lose another boy. He lost his best one in the
summer of '58, Adam was such a fine lad and the guests always paid more
for him than anyone else. Till the day the young cadet threw him three
gold dollars and that was the last he saw of Adam. Davis vowed if he ever
ran into that boy he would make him pay for stealing his boy. His
knuckles had turned white around the glass he was holding. "Paul!, get
your ass in here, boy!"

   The thin boy ran to his master's angry calling. "Yes, sir?"

   "Take this bottle of Brandy upstairs to Mr. Alexander and these
cigars. You obey him until he dismisses you, understand, you remember
what happened to your brother Walter, don't you?'

   Paul nodded his head as he grasped the bottle and the two glasses
along with the cigars, he headed for the stairs, the fear and memory of
Walt still in his young mind.

   The 14 year old's bare feet echoed up the stairs to the private
sitting room that was reserved for the tavern's most important guests,
gentlemen who liked to take care of business or pleasure in privacy. He
missed Walt, it happened when he was 12 and Walt 14, the night the
bastard slipped cheap whiskey in a good bottle and sent them upstairs on
that cold night. After that night he slept alone after he was forced to
bury his own brother outside of town in an unmarked grave with Alexander
standing over him with a horse whip. He would not fail the man this time.
He waited and lingered for a chance to escape. Maybe it would be soon,
his body ached that night after digging the grave wearing only a tattered
pair of linen underclothes, his skin exposed to the cold night air, his
body aching from the numbness and blisters that formed on his hands and
feet. There was no mercy, only hope that was given to him in a story by
one of the whores about the sweet redhead that walked right out the front
door in full daylight with a cadet from Washington College. He never
thought that the boy would be returning to Natchez as a seaman  on the
CSS Arkansas.

   He made it to the closed door and gently knocked and then waited for
the reply for him to enter the room. "Who is it?" came the voice from the
other side of the locked door.

   "It is me, Paul, Sirs, with your refreshments."

   "Enter, boy." came the voice again.

   Paul heard one of the men get up and unfasten the lock on the door and
it was opened, "Enter."

   He walked in the room where candles burned on the tables surrounding
the bed and mirrors on the wall, the yellow light reflecting back off the
brass holders. He sat the bottle and glasses down on the table between
the two men and pulled the cork stopper and slowly began to pour the dark
liquor into the glasses, then handed each one of the cigars. He then
carefully removed one of the lit candles and held it steady as each man
lit his cigar and sucked in the strong tobacco smoke. He was about to
exit the room when he was grasped by his wrist and jerked back to the
table. "You're not going anywhere yet, Paulie, as you now know who the
other man is, and he doesn't want it to be known that he was here with
me, understand, so you will sit here." Alexander pulled the frightened
teen down onto his lap. "Now, Paul, my good little white boy, you
remember little Walter, I am sure, now here are your orders. If you want
to continue to stand up and piss from this little cockle between your
legs, you are to speak to no one about Mr. Framne here. He is a good
Christian man and has a store and daughter to care for and it would be
most unfortunate for word to leak out that he was seen with me."
Alexander grabbed Paul's crotch and squeezed it.

   "Yes, Sir." Paul managed to whisper, he was shaking like a leaf in a
summer storm and goose bumps covered his pale skin.

   "Now, Franklin, a toast to the South and to the iron for the CSS
Arkansas.." Alexander raised his glass and drank the liquid down like it
was water, he smiled. "So Davis did send the good stuff, smart man for
your sake, little one."

   "Yes, he did, Keith, a very fine Kentucky Brandy is hard to get these
days. So tell me, Keith, when does that shipment arrive from Kentucky?"

   "It should arrive any day now at Bruinsburg, guns, ammo, and iron for
the fightin' men, fine brandy for us Gentlemen. I must say, we are making
a fine profit on our cotton this year. Too bad we can't tell the
Confederate Government about it so they can tax it!" Keith let out a
laugh as he refilled their glasses.

   "Such  a pity for King Jeff and his jesters in Richmond. We have a
just cause but a damned fool for a president." Franklin smiled. "Keith, I
think the lad needs a topper, he is shaking like a leaf."

   "So he is, Franklin, always looking after the underdogs of war. Here,
Paulie, take a sip." Keith placed the glass against the boy's lips and
poured some of the fiery liquid down his throat. He gasped at the fire as
it burned its way to his stomach. "Shall we now get back to the business
at hand?" He puffed his cigar and leaned back in the horsehair chair, his
right hand on the table with lit cigar, the left in Paul's lap, stroking
the boy.

   "Yes, Keith, I must soon return to my daughter before she begins to
worry and I do have an early start in the morning with the store, you
know."

   "So do I, Franklin, I have some business to handle. I understand
Sharon has some more iron she is keeping under the hill at her tavern on
Silver Street. I also got word that Mr. Granville's comrade has made it
in town, so two of our contacts are now safe in Natchez right under the
Damned Yankee's gun ports. Has the shop been set up in the Devil's Punch
Bowl as planned....?."

____________________________________________________________________________


   Adam tossed in his sleep, haunted by dreams of the past and his return
to Natchez. He didn't want to make this trip, too many memories of his
own hell before he was saved by Johnny and Billy. He was making this
return by orders from Captain Brown and to keep Johnny company, but it
was hell.  The afternoon sun continued to pour into the stuffy room as
Johnny watched over Adam's troubled sleep.  He sat near the open window,
thumping cigar ashes from his cigar, Adam had stripped down to nothing
and the handsome lad slept on his back. He scanned the boy as if it was
that first day all over again, the pale skin that refused to tan, the red
hair on his head that curled and flowed down over his uniform jacket, and
the fiery red bush right above the handsome cock to the lightly covered
legs. He knew why Adam was having his troubled sleep, memories of the
past that would forever haunt the boy. Johnny had mind to visit King's
Tavern and pay back Davis for all of Adam's haunted memories. A pistol
ball through the heart and forever in hell was still too easy for the
bastard. Johnny pitched the cigar out the window and opened his Journal.
Then, reaching for the bottled ink and quill, dated the page.

May 5th,1862 Allen, Miss.
We're 60 or so miles from home and about the same from Natchez. Adam is
having the dreams again of his past as we draw closer. He refuses to
admit that they still haunt him but he can not hide that lie to me. I
have known him for too long. I worry about him too much as always and
always will until the last breath escapes my tired lungs or Yankee steel
and shot takes it away from me. I can not choose how I will die, that is
in my Lord's hands. He gives us Life and he shall take it away when he
sees fit. I pray it shall be many a year to pass before Judgment Day and
the angels call me home. My boy continues to dream as I sit here in this
drab window, looking at the people of this little town, most so poor that
they do not know what a toll some have taken on our dear South and what
we all must sacrifice to save her from the invaders who stomps our crops
and burns our homes and they do not understand. How many more must die by
my hand or Adam's and the thousands of others, before this cruel war is
over? If only it would be over soon, but we know it will not be. I think
it is time to let this ink dry and for me to comfort my love for it will
soon be time for supper and we're both tired and hungry. I wished I was
at home sitting down with mother and father and Billy. It was so sweet of
Billy to stand on the balcony and watch us ride off this gray morning,
wishing he could join us in gray.
He signed the page.
Johnny Lee Kingston

   Johnny lay down beside Adam after slipping out of his hot uniform and
pulled the sleeping form close to his chest. Adam calmed down and his
sleep grew deeper as his sleeping mind felt the warm radiance of Johnny
close by. The silky red hair sprayed across his chest like a velvet
shroud. They both slept their needed sleep and the haunting memories once
more were dispelled by love.

____________________________________________________________________________


   "Mother Sarah, may I please borrow a quill and paper?"

   "Why, sure you may, Billy. I will gather them for you and get you a
writing stand as well."

   "Thank you, Mother Sarah, but before you go to all the trouble, how
will I ever mail it to Baltimore?" Billy cast his eyes toward his 2nd
mother, one who he loved just as much as his real mother back home.

   "John can hire a courier for it, now let me get you the paper and
quill."

   "Thank you, mother." Billy smiled, his face still pale and the rest of
his naked form was buried under the linen sheets of the large four post
bed.

   Sarah soon returned with the creamy paper and bottle of blue ink and
the goose quill. She arranged the tray across Billy's lap and helped him
to sit upright, then she quietly walked out the door to leave Billy to
write home to his family on the Blue side of the Gray.

  May 6th, 1862, Holloman plantation, Yazoo County, MS, CSA

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  I write to you to let you know the events since I last wrote following
the battle of Shiloh Hill in Tennessee. A month has passed since then and
much has happened. We marched South from Shiloh into Mississippi, headed
towards Vicksburg. I am sure you and father still remember it as you
called it a rose of a city just like Baltimore. My unit along with 10,000
other brave men and boys were ordered to attack north of town, a place I
learned was named Chickasaw Bluff six or so miles north of the city
proper. The Southerners were waiting on the high bluffs as our transports
came into range of their deadly cannon and as we rushed forward our lines
were cut to ribbons by their musket fire and grapeshot and shell. I lost
Davie, mother, I lost him. He was shot down as we bravely charged up that
bluff. I too was wounded in the chest but not badly, so please don't
worry. Johnny and Adam found me on the battlefield and I was rushed to
the hospital in town. The doctors treated me nicely but they could not
remove the bullet so Johnny and Adam brought me home to Holloman house to
heal and rest and Doctor Hancock removed the ball and you know, mother,
Johnny refused to leave my side. Mother Sarah and Father John both are
well and things are tight due to our blockade on their ports, but you
know they are strong people just like us. I must close this short letter,
please hug father for me and Jamey.

Your loving son ,
Billy

____________________________________________________________________________


So, my dear readers, we once more find ourselves in the Spring of 1862.
With Johnny, Adam, and Billy, plus all the others we now have met or
heard about, some good, some evil, but all have a part in the lives of
our boys in Gray and Blue.

Several Historical notes on this chapter: The Battle of Memphis actually
took place in June 1862, but I moved the event forward in time to better
fit my storyline. All of the ships are real including the USS IROQUOIS
and her lone watch over Natchez during this time.
I have been busy in Dixie, working the rails and chasing history during
this wonderful spring month and since my last chapter I have grown a year
older, I am no longer 25 but now 26. As this night grows older I must
close this chapter, as always I love hearing from my readers.

Stephen

A grateful thanks to Ed for his masterful work with my stories.

As Always, my E mail is: Swarri1349@aol.com

and my web site is: http://swarri1349.tripod.com/