Date: Sat, 7 Jul 2018 14:10:50 -0400
From: Milford Slabaugh <tommyhawk1@aol.com>
Subject: The Battle for Lonely Rock, Chapter 5

                    THE BATTLE FOR LONELY ROCK
            Chapter Five: Upon My Seeing the Elephant
                      By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
                  WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

     In the gathering darkness, I hovered as near to the group as I dared,
listening to the young blond-haired private playing the fiddle. He was
belting out a tune that had most of his comrades up dancing a high-kicking
jig. Those who weren't dancing were clapping in time and one guy was
trying, not very successfully, to play along with the fiddler on his
harmonica. They were having a blast and I wished I could join them. I
shifted on my feet, going to try that jig myself all alone, and the chains
on my feet clanked and rattled. I don't know what bothered me more at that
moment, having the chains prevent me from dancing, or my having actually
forgotten that they were there.
     I'd been a prisoner here for over two weeks. My fears of being
gang-raped were neither unfounded nor validated. Most of the men were
pleasant enough, plenty of them would not touch a Yankee prisoner with
their comrades watching, most of those who would were, if not gentlemanly
about it, at least not rough and rude.
     But there were others, men who I didn't dare be left alone with. I'd
learned the hard way about four of them, and been warned about a dozen
others. I avoided all of them, which is why I was watching these
festivities from the darkness nearby, one of those men were among the four.
     The scouts had reported the Yankees were getting nearer. I'd heard
that tomorrow, we'd break camp to go try and find the Yankees. I was again
thinking of escape. Surely they would leave me in camp, which would be so
deserted that I could break these chains from my feet and slip away.
     A rustling in the brush near me and I jumped like a startled cat. The
grey-suited figure came nearer and I relaxed. "Hello, Cotton." I said to
him. Cotton was his real name, not a nickname.
     "Howdy, Ben." Cotton said. "Didn't know you were here." Only it came
out like "Diddenoe yew wuh hee-ah." Cotton was from eastern Texas, not far
from the Arkansas line and almost alone of the soldiers here, he spoke with
a Southern drawl instead of its close neighbor, the Western drawl.
     I smiled, Cotton was one of the few men in this camp I considered
friendly. "Just watching them dance." I said. "What are you doing here?"
     "Have to irrigate this bush." he said, hitching at his trousers.
     "You're supposed to do that at the trench." I pointed out with some
righteousness, it was my job to dig and fill those things, and if anybody
left their "calling card" and the culprit couldn't be readily identified, I
was the one who got to go after it with a trowel and pail and carry it to
the trench.
     "A little piss ain't going to hurt anything." he said. "And I got to
whizz too bad to go all the way over to the trench." It was on the other
side of the camp.
     He took out his cock, a long, pale-white thing in the encroaching
darkness and let it fly. "Ahhh!" He said as the thick, yeasty smell of his
piss filled my nostrils, throwing his head back and closing his eyes with a
pleasure that was nearly sexual. Nothing feels better than letting it fly,
and he was doing just that. The stream made a wet, muddy sound where it was
landing, going from a dry pattering sound to a thicker, mushier noise. "Uh,
uh, gh, huh!" he said in his relief as the stream thinned and made now a
sound akin to rain-drops landing.
     Done, he flopped his dong back into his trousers and said, "Why don't
you come over and dance with us?" he said. "Wouldn't anybody mind dancing
with a Yankee...so long as you let them lead, that is." He chuckled noisily
at his joke.
     I laughed, too. It was easy to laugh with Cotton, he treated the world
like a game. He'd joined up to "see the elephant" and was treating
everything like a long holiday...unfortunately interrupted frequently by
some damned fools who insisted on such nonsense as drills and marches. But
he tolerated them the way you tolerate the fact that Aunt Margaret came
along on your trip to the beach and spends the time griping about the sun
and the sand and everything until you wonder why she didn't just stay home,
the old bag. But you go ahead and swim and play in the sand anyway.
     Cotton was a big man, something over six feet tall. His dark brown
hair was cut into a short pile by a fellow soldier's knife, and his
massively chiseled body had only swelled under the labors of a soldier. He
had the broadest shoulders of anybody I'd ever seen, from which his arms
depended as two large, knotted clubs. His waist was sharp and narrow, his
body curving down from his ribcage in graceful arcs to disappear at his
waist where his belt marked the line more by determination than need. His
pants were small enough to fit me in girth if not in length, for his legs
were not overly large or muscled, it left him looking powerful and somehow
majestic, the way an eagle overlooks from its perch on a rock crag while
blending into it at the same time, seeming to be part of it. He didn't look
the least top-heavy, it was more like he was built to stoop over and scoop
up heavy weights at need. His job in the company matched his build, Cotton
was a breech-loader, who shoved those heavy balls into the cannon's mouths
and rammed them in with the ramrods, then took the time while the cannon
fired to wet down the balled swab on the other end so that he could shove
it into the cannon's muzzle and extinguish any bits of burning material
left inside, so that the powder-man could shove in the next load of
gunpowder.
     "Come on, I'll let you give me the first dance." he said. I'd been
with the company long enough to be semi-trusted by the men, some even
ventured it was a damned shame that I was a prisoner when I could be home
instead, doing nobody any harm. But nobody set me free, either.
     "Not you, Cotton." I laughed. "You got wandering hands."
     "You didn't mind last time." he pointed out.
     "We were alone that time." I said. "You grope me in front of those
guys and soon it'll be a whole line of them ready to poke me." That was
what they called fucking, poking. A good enough term for it when the one
being poked didn't mean anything to the one doing the poking.
     "Only fair, seeing how they're going into battle tomorrow." Cotton
said. "Over half of them for the first time." Cotton had been in two
battles thus far, so he knew that a green soldier with minimum training had
less than a 50-50 chance of living through a nasty battle. Even less if a
charge at a barricade was called for; even veterans were on the wrong side
of 60-40 to survive one of those. Cotton's second battle had been one of
those, and when he spoke of it, it was obliquely and with a sadness in his
eyes; he had lost several friends in the space of a few minutes.
     But tonight he was joking. "I still prefer to pick and choose who I
end up being poked by." I said. "And I couldn't dance worth a damn in these
chains, I was trying just before you walked up and waggled your dick at
me."
     He hadn't buttoned up his trousers again yet, and he reached in and
pulled it out again. "You mean like this?" he said and waggled the head at
me.
     "Yeah, something like that." I said.
     His voice was soft as he said, "Go ahead."
     "What will you give me for it?" I asked him.
     "Couple of hoe-cakes in my pack." He offered. "Made them up a couple
days ago, they're still fresh enough."
     "Done." I said. This may sound astonishing to you, that I would first
be selling my body, then selling it so cheaply. But they weren't feeding me
very well, I had to do what I could to eat. And as for the price...I liked
Cotton. I would have done it for nothing with him, if he'd not offered.
     "Go ahead." He repeated, and now his cock, instead of being a soft
sock-looking thing in his hand, was firmed up into a thick eight-inch
coat-hook shaped arc of man-flesh, his cock having a sharp bend in it close
to his balls so that it nearly pointed upright of its own.
     I knelt down and took his cock in my hand, feeling the powerful warmth
of it, the heat that warmed my palm, guided its head into my mouth and felt
it like a large soft spongy bulb pressing against the roof of my mouth. The
only way to suck Cotton's prick was to practically dive onto it from above,
and I did that, kneeling up close to him, my head bent over to where my
chin pressed against my neck. I pulled up on it, and my motion sent me away
from Cotton's body and pressed the cockhead up against my right cheek. I
scooted around so that I was almost beside Cotton instead of in front of
him, and this let me attack his dong more directly, now I could suckle that
turgid meat, feel the hot shaft burning across my tongue, my saliva
bubbling around it in my mouth, nursing his dick, loving his dong, I closed
my eyes in bliss and my hand went down and into my prison fatigues, I found
my own cock and it was hard and waiting for me, it was steel beneath velvet
in my hand, hot steel, warm velvet.
     "Ah, damn, you're good at that, Yankee." Cotton said to me. His hand
came down and caught my head, not hard, but touching me, urging me to speed
my task. His lips made soft, warm noises as I sucked him, then he was
panting. There were too many men around for us to do this as anything but a
frantic, urgent release. I didn't try to prolong it, I took every ounce of
his increased desire and inflamed it the more, he was moaning now with his
panting sounds, still softly, softly, so others would not hear. We were
wrapped in darkness that was total now, sheathed in the dark brush that was
lit only on one side by the campfires around which men capered, the fiddle
adding its now-eerie sound to the night, a contretemps to Cotton's moans
and shuddering gasps of air.
     "Going to come." Cotton hissed at me. "Going to shoot it." I
appreciated his warning, he was letting me release him if I chose to, and
that made me more willing to hold on, I did take my hand and pump his lower
shaft while I continued to suckle and stroke his glans with my lips, Cotton
moaned, a low, soft sound that caught, jerked, came out louder, ending with
an "ooooh!" sound as he reached his climax and his hot seed poured into my
mouth.
     "Huh, uh, guh, huh!" Cotton panted out as he shot his wad and I gulped
in the rich, thick, creamy load, feeling the masculine heat from it, the
totally male flavor of it, and my cock heated in the ecstasy of that taste
and I reached my own climax, my pants still up and my hand inside them, and
my jizz splashed the thin fabric, soaking it, splashing out through it in
enfeebled bursts that could only expire as they broke the surface, and drip
down the outside of my trousers, a slimy stain that shone faintly, one dot
there like a tiny, captured star.
     Cotton finished and I sucked my own saliva from his cock as well as
the last morsel of come from his prick, and then I let him go and he stood
above me, breathing heavily, then the sound of boots caused him to jerk and
he quickly tucked his cock back into his trousers and I stood up and he was
buttoning his pants when the next soldier came into the bushes.
     I followed Cotton out into the light, red dancing on the gray of his
uniform. "You wait here and I'll fetch you the hoe-cakes." he said.
     "All right." I agreed. They'd taste mighty good for my breakfast. He
was back in no time and handed me the cakes.
     "Nice doing business with you." he said.
     "The pleasure was all mine." I said.
     "Next time you crave some hoe-cakes, come look me up." Cotton said. "I
got a few more of them." And he walked back to rejoin his comrades, dancing
about the fire, living their life now because tomorrow there would be
battle, and perhaps an end to life.
     "Hey, Yankee." came the hiss from the bushes. "You want a nice big
piece of salt pork to go with them hoe-cakes?" It was the soldier who'd
entered when Cotton and I left.
     "Sure." I said and went back into the bushes. It wasn't a dignified
life-choice, but it was better than being rap ed. And they really didn't
feed me very much as a prisoner; the meat would be a welcome addition to my
menu.
     I had expected to be left behind, but instead they came for me early
the next morning. I was forced to help them load their wagons, then made to
climb up on one and perch there uncomfortably high. At that, my seat was
more comfortable than the saddle, for we rode the entire morning at a fair
clip.
     They put me to helping with the cannons again, four of them, and a
fair supply of shot and powder, I was carrying sacks of powder after I
fagged out from carrying the heavy balls. Cotton was with me part of the
time. "Hope we ain't going to kill any of your kinfolk." he told me at one
time. That's an Illinois regiment we're facing, out of Chicago." He said it
with three discrete, scornful syllables. Chi. Ca. Go.
     "I don't know anyone in Chicago." I assured him. "But you'll forgive
me for saying I hope they whip you today."
     "Least you're an honest Yankee." Cotton said.
     At least they didn't expect me to help do the fighting. When the
troops were seen, as a dust cloud rising above the next hill, I was
motioned aside. I saw the clump of brush and small trees and headed for it
gratefully, it would both shelter me from the sun and screen me from
gunfire. I spent some time digging in the soft sand at one point,
determined to increase my safety by making a small nest in the sand.
     "You turning into a mole, Yankee?" came the voice behind me. I turned
and looked up. "Captain Farrell?" I said in surprise.
     "Drop your trousers and bend over." he ordered.
     I gulped. None of the officers had laid hands on me up until then. I
was surprised one was now, the battle was nearly upon us, after
all. Shouldn't he be out checking on his men?
     A small tree let me grab hold of it as his hands grabbed my buttocks
and pulled back on me. I closed my eyes and moaned. Was this how I would
die today, being fucked by a Confederate officer, and killed by a Union
bullet? I could hear the horse's hooves as the troops rode towards us. A
cavalry regiment, then.
     "Sir, your men." I gasped as he undid his belt.
     "This will take but a moment." He said. "Spread your legs wider."
     "Sir, I can't." I gasped out. "The chains."
     A clink and then he was kneeling by my foot. "There, that's freed one
foot." he said to me. He yanked my trousers down hard. "Step out of them."
he commanded.
     I did and the next thing I felt was his hard cock pushing into
me. There was no lubricant, no gentleness. How could there be, in this
moment, at this time?
     I heard the order to fire and the cannon's roar, and I moaned, in fear
not in pleasure, and that was when he began to fuck at my ass. Hard, rough
strokes, his prick was a thick wooden pole in my ass and it hurt, hurt like
hell, and I yelled out in pain and fear. Waiting for the bullet that would
take my life, and as if the thought brought the word, the cannon's fire was
punctuated with the sound of small arms fire.
     The captain groaned, I suppose the battle's roar ignited his passion
in some unknown, perverse way. He groaned, he rabbit-hunched me speedily,
and then his jizz flooded into me, he groaned and gasped and as soon as the
last dreg of jism was spurted out of his cock, he slapped me hard on my
left buttocks, hard enough to knock me over and I fell to the ground.
     "Now stay there, you damned worthless Yankee!" he roared. Hitching at
his pants, he got them up and was running out to join the fray.
     As for me, I didn't even pull up my pants, I dove into my tiny
depression and from there, I watched the battle. I saw the elephant that
day, and it was a bloody sight indeed.
     Bodies around on the ground on the slope of the other hill, the riders
still cresting and coming over the hill. Less time had elapsed than I'd
thought during my interlude with the horny captain. Gunshots rang out from
my side (the Confederate side, I should say, the force nearest me) and I
watched as men fell, as men screamed with pain, as horses tumbled, kicked,
jerked. A cannon fired and I saw how it plowed a straight path through the
massed men, cutting down one man entirely, slicing him into unequal bloody
halves, maiming his horse by taking away one of its flanks and then capping
this by landing upon a fallen soldier, wounded or dead, he was smashed by
the cannonball with a spray of red into the air.
     While the cannon worked its mischief on the bulk of the force coming
towards us, the Confederate soldiers were firing at the leading
riders. This was death more personal, but not by much, a soldier firing
must know if the man he shot fell, though the man who fell may not know who
had delivered his death-strike. A man who is shot looks surprised, every
time I noticed it, I saw surprise, shock, fear. Only when they fell, after
a pause, did they scream.
     But the Union forces weren't being idle during this charge, they were
all firing as they rode, a heavier but less-aimed enfilade that tore into
the masses of gray-clad soldiers near me, and I saw that, too, saw how they
lost their faces as a Minie ball plowed into it, lost their arms or lives
as red flowers of blood erupted on their clothes or their skin, and they
fell and others stepped up to take their place. And I, either cowardly or
sensible (I leave it to you my reader to decide which I was, in my
position), lay there in my miniscule cover and naked body and ravaged butt,
and I counted myself lucky, very lucky indeed, to be here in the brush,
naked but safe, instead of clad in blue or gray uniforms, standing up
bravely and foolishly to the enfilade of fire pouring in both directions.
     The trees and brushes near me were chopped to pieces. No shot pierced
my skin though I heard the "whing" of bullets more times than I care to
remember clearly now, and I waited for the battle to be done.
     The forces closed, the men on horseback, now closed with the soldiers,
were using their blades to hack at the Confederates who were unable at this
close range to bring their rifles to effective bear, and many men were
turning them in their hands and wielding the stocks as clubs.
     I stayed as I was as the superior numbers drove the Confederates away,
and they fled leaving their cannon and their dead and their wounded, to the
Union forces that were now riding their horses about in tight circles,
looking for someone else to strike, while others pursued the rebel forces.
     A man, a Union officer, rode up to me and looked down. "Well, well,
look who we found over here." he said.
     I looked up into his face, black hair, black eyes, mustache, and I
said only one word in that moment.
     "Hunter!" For it was he, my friend Hunter, who had returned to Lonely
Rock.
     And this is how I ended my term as a prisoner of the Confederates.

                             THE END
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