Date: Mon, 27 Apr 2009 14:58:15 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: The Landing - Chapter Nine

This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting
males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations,
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Copyright 2009 by John Ellison

Additional works publish in Nifty in the Military Category:

The Phantom of Aurora
The Boys of Aurora
Aurora Tapestry
The Knights of Aurora
Aurora Crusade

The "Aurora" books are a series and should be read in sequence.

A Sailor's Tale

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The Landing

Chapter Nine


	The seasons began to change as fall became winter. School had
opened, finally, and nothing of any great import happened. The war in
Vietnam continued to dominate the news media, Crazy Betsey was coming to
terms with her ostracism and Damian Lee suffered the wrath of my father
over his drinking Papa's prize Scotch and was grounded, more or less
permanently. There were threats of permanent residency in a far away
military school, but these came to nothing, fortunately for my sex
life. Not that I wanted for sex, far from it, although certain aspects of
my sex life had changed.
	With Damian Lee confined under house arrest, so to speak, he was
always available, although we usually only spent time together after we had
gone to bed. Sinjin, although involved with his cadets, Jack and Miles,
still came around. Pendleton was a frequent visitor, and there was Tony
Ravelli, whom I continued to "tutor". I liked being with Tony, although he
was becoming decidedly wearisome. He whined and complained constantly
because I would not allow his pecker anywhere near my butt. He wanted -
desperately - to "get laid" and would not shut up about it. I loved blowing
him, but I bristled when he suggested that we go to the next stage. I was
not about to do it, period, and when I told him that unless or until he
returned the favors I gave him, a good suck was all he was going to get
from me.
	Tony, convinced that he was not queer, and refusing to even think
about sucking me off, went into an angry pout that lasted all of ten
minutes, which was usually the time it took for him to get his next
hard-on. He apologized and groveled a bit and begged forgiveness and our
relationship continued - until my parents' Silver Wedding anniversary
celebrations.
	Damian Lee was an inveterate snoop, and wheedled out of me the
details of what I was doing with my friends. He sniggered when I told him
about Tony and then, to my surprise, suggested in an off-hand way that
perhaps we might invite the Ravellis to our parents' Silver Anniversary
Ball. I cringed, not because they were planning a party, but because of the
theme of the party. Mother had been planning the thing for months, plotting
with Mam Berta to make the anniversary the most memorable event since VE
Day! Mother had decreed that her party would be fancy dress!
	Now, one might think that dressing up in a costume would appeal to
a boy barely into his teens. Well, it didn't, and never had. The thought of
dressing up in a cowboy outfit, or as Aladdin, or whatever character I (or
my mother) might choose left me cold. As a child, when Halloween rolled
around, and every kid in the country was peeing himself with excitement
over dressing up as one's dream TV or movie character and dragging home
paper shopping bags filled with candy, I could usually be found throwing a
duck-stomping fit. I don't know to this day why I acted the way I did, but
I did. Nothing could make me dress up. No amount of wheedling, or threats,
could convince me that the costume my mother had either made or purchased
from Beidermeyer's was all the rage, and guaranteed that I would drag home
enough sugared loot to last me a year.
	My mother knew full well of my feelings, but refused to budge. She
reminded me that a lot of work had gone into the planning of the party, or
rather parties, for she had, on the spur of the moment decided to hold a
monster garden party for all those not social enough to be invited to the
evening affair.
	Although much of the food to be served would be "home cooked", by
Mam Berta, and Mummy, with cooks and maids borrowed from friends and
neighbors, the sheer volume of it all necessitated outside help. Mr. Sully
was engaged to provide the barbeque meats for the garden party and a
caterer had been engaged for the formal dinner. Mr. Theophilus Monroe, the
town gardener, would supply the dance floor, and the tent to shelter the
guests in the event of rain. Mummy would provide the flowers, decorations
and whatever paraphernalia would add to the luster of the event.
	The family silver was dragged out and sent to a Charleston jeweler
for polishing and repair, as were dozens of silver trays and table
decorations. There had been a huge cat fight between Mummy and my sister,
Alva, over Grandmother Marigny's china, which had been given to Alva as a
wedding present. The set, of the finest quality bone china Royal Crown
Derby had to offer, had been one of Grandmama's wedding presents, and
highly prized. The pattern was Edwardian and very formal and there were
enough place settings for one hundred people.
	Why mother wanted that particular service I never knew, for the
Lord knew she had plenty of plates and bowls stuffed into the china room in
the basement, including an apple green and gold Minton dessert service with
hand painted, fruit and flower decorated panels. It was considered
priceless, and had once been owned by the Prince Regent, who later became
George IV. This service would be used for the pudding course, but Mummy was
determined that all the family treasures would be on display, or else.
	While the cat fight raged the telephone lines between the Landing
and Charleston glowed red with threats and words that would have been best
not said, I continued to dig in my heels. I would, I declared, wear my
Sunday suit, with a black bow tie. I also looked to Damian Lee and Philip
Charles for support.
	Fat chance of that! They were looking forward to the party, and
were already exploring trunks, boxes, and wardrobes in the dusty treasure
house we called an attic, trying to determine what best to wear. And there
was a lot to explore!
	 My brothers, as excited as kids, supported Mummy, and the three of
them rummaged away, emerging covered in the dust of ages. As I said, there
was a lot to rummage through. Being Southerners, my parents never threw
anything away, and hidden away in the leather trunks, wrapped in tissue
paper, were ball gowns, street dresses, wedding gowns, and articles of
clothing fashionable for the past two hundred years. There were French
gowns, complete with panniers, by the finest seamstresses of the day. There
was a gold lace and brocaded Worth creation worn by my grandmother Marigny
at Edward VII's Coronation Ball. There were pantaloons and hoops, lace
berthas and collars, even a trunk full of homespun shirtwaists and skirts,
all dyed black and worn throughout the War of Northern Aggression and
Reconstruction. There were corsets and hair ornaments, ribbons and bows,
two hundred years of feminine furbelows and flub dubs!
	For the males, there were uniforms of every description, from
coatees in blue and red, and worn by my ancestors during the Revolutionary
War, Confederate gray uniforms rich with gold braid and gilt buttons. There
were suits of clothing, shirts collars, buttons and shoes. There were
embroidered waistcoats and wigs! You name it, our attic had it!
	In a way, my conscience bothered me because of Damian Lee. I knew
how much he was looking forward to the parties and dinner, looking forward
to actually seeing people other than his family members and Mam
Berta. Papa's wrath over Damian Lee's drinking up his prized Scotch was
monumental, and unforgiving. Not only was Damian Lee's allowance stopped,
he was forbidden to leave the house except to go to school or church, and
forbidden to see his friends, and he was so desperate he would have agreed
if the partygoers had been asked to come nude!
	At times he seemed a lost soul, wandering around the house, looking
lost, and standing in front of the windows, staring out and sighing. He
took up playing the piano again and spent hours in the drawing room, first
just picking out random notes and short segments of music. Then he would
demonstrate his real talent and pound out the most dreadful funeral dirges
I ever heard. This set Mam Berta to grumbling and observing that he should
go to work for Mr. van Lews, who would appreciate the music. She also
observed that Damian Lee was looking "right peaked" and dosed him with
castor oil!
	Mummy spoke with Papa, but to no avail. Damian Lee was being
punished, and he would remain in durance vile until Papa decided otherwise.
	Another factor that drove Damian Lee close to the edge of despair
was his lack of sex. He was a lusty teenage male and had never wanted for
companionship. His only outlet was me, and while I enjoyed our times
together, let's face it, variety is the spice of life, and while I was as
lusty as my brother, I knew I was a poor substitute for the strapping jocks
that usually shared Damian Lee's bed. I did my best, but I had to face the
very real fact that I could never match the endowments of Damian Lee's
friends and I admitted frankly that barring a miracle, a massive growth
spurt or a penis transplant, I would never set a size queen's eyes to
fluttering!
	Damian Lee was frustrated, and hornier than hell at the best of
times, and I had forgotten his amusement and interest when I had told him
about my involvement with Tony Ravelli, so I more or less dismissed his
suggestion from my mind.
	Defeated at home, I decided to look for support elsewhere, notably
at school, where the cadets would be heavily involved in the preparations
and conduct of her galas. She had engaged a work party of cadets to help
with the set-up for the garden party, and hired the academy band to
play. Invitations to the garden party were extended to all the cadets, and
the superintendent and commandant, and their ladies were invited to the
dinner, as were Pendleton, Miles and Jack (Damian Lee and I had been
allowed guests and we had invited them.)
	I met with Pendleton every day after lunch, as this was the most
convenient time. We had no classes together and lunch was out of the
question. The cadets ate together, at long tables set up in neat regimental
rows on the main level of the cavernous mess hall, ten to a table. The day
boys ate at round tables set up in the second floor balcony. The food was
typical boarding school, plain, simple, and heavy on the starch. It was
well-cooked, however, and while a far cry from Momma's home cookin', it was
filling.
	We would meet in front of Pendleton's barracks, and sit under a
huge, moss hung live oak and talk and joke, sometimes alone, sometimes with
Sinjin or Miles or Jack, or all three. It was a pleasant way to spend the
half hour before the bugle sounded and the fifes and drums began tootling
and banging, calling us to afternoon classes.
	When I first complained to Pendleton, he was decidedly lacking in
sympathy. We both knew that social activities, from family picnics to
St. Cecelia, played an inordinately important part in our
lives. Southerners love to entertain. They always have, and being
Southerners never skimped if they could help it, keeping in mind certain
rules however. Everything had to be "just so" lest you be accused of
"putting on airs!"
	Good manners played an important part as well. Good manners
included never arriving early, or late. In our world guests arrived at the
appointed time for any function, not five minutes before, and it was a
common sight to see guests idling on the sidewalk in front of a house,
waiting for the front door to open.
	Everybody loved to dress properly, and everybody pretended not to
notice that the ladies frocks were years out of fashion, or that the
gentlemen's suits were shiny with age and ironed at home, a little frayed
at the cuffs, or that their shoes, shined to brilliance, had been in the
cobbler's shop on more the one occasion.
	It was also quite common to "dress down", wearing a frock or suit
that had seen duty for years, or a hat that had been new the year before
the Old King died, and always seemed to be decorated with stuffed birds
that left molted feathers all over the drawing room.
	My grandmother de Marigny, while hardly poor, and able to afford
something grander, would never have dreamed of embarrassing her less
fortunate guests by putting out a baron of Aberdeen Angus to feed them at
her "at homes". She served tea, home made cake, scones, and shrimp paste
and cucumber sandwiches. Her only extravagance was that she never served
margarine. Everybody knew she had a little money, which meant she could
afford real butter, so she served real butter.
	Nor would Grandmama have humiliated her hostess by showing up at a
tea dance, or a dinner, or an at home, sashaying around in a dress that
might in any way broadcast her ability to buy a new one. She dressed in
muted grays and lilacs, her skirt reaching down to her ankles, and wore
elderly toque-style hats, usually with a ptarmigan feather decoration. She
always carried a tightly furled umbrella, which in her later years she used
as a walking stick, or to poke her grandsons with when they proved
obstreperous.
	Always dressed properly for the occasion, Grandmama only "dressed
up" once a year, for the St. Cecelia, which she always attended. Her idea
of dressing up was to visit the hairdresser and put on the same ball gown
she had worn as a newly married "matron", and a string of pearls. That the
gown showed signs of age, the lace edged décolletage having turned a pale
yellow, and the skirt slightly pinched here and there where it had been
expertly repaired. Almost all the ladies followed her example, enjoyed the
evening and smiled as they consumed the meager buffet and drank domestic
champagne (all that was offered). Nobody noticed the little signs of
poverty that plagued their lives.
	One never complained, but accepted with grace and good manners
whatever refreshments were offered, be they tiny sandwiches made with
store-bought bread and shrimp paste and weak tea. One did not entertain to
impress, but to welcome friends. It did not matter if supper consisted of
the scrawniest chicken in the Charleston Market, collard greens and grits,
and the portions skimpy, one never, ever commented or complained.
	What many non-Southerners did not realize was that there was no
reason to impress or awe. We lived in a small circle, closed to outsiders,
and everybody knew - more or less - everybody else's financial position and
nobody would dream of blowing the family fortune and showing up the
neighbors in a gown that cost a year's income. Therefore my mother had to
walk a fine line to avoid any hint of "putting on airs". Dragging out the
family treasures was permissible, serving caviar and vintage wines was not,
because everybody knew one couldn't afford it in the first place, and
nobody really like imported caviar. The salted roe of the humble shad was
good enough, thank you.
	Mummy had plotted well. She well knew what she could do, and what
she couldn't do. The food for the barbeque was readily available in the
local market, home grown, or brought up from Charleston on the tourist
steamer. The food was nothing special, really, except for one extravagant
seafood: lobster salad. My father adored this, and it was rarely served
simply because the cost of Maine lobster was prohibitive. Of course Mummy
would never dream of fresh lobster, so she fell back on the next best
thing: canned, and with half the maids and cooks in town in and out of our
kitchen the word would get out that she was a frugal woman who, while she
wanted the best for her guests, really did not have the money to do and
therefore provided the next best thing she could.
	As for the rest of the food, there was nothing that could not be
found on any Southern table. There would be shrimp and oysters, duck,
roasted turkey, sweet corn pudding, smoked ham, steamed vegetables,
fresh-baked rolls, `Hoppin' John, sausage dressing, collard greens, roasted
red potatoes, green bean casserole, okra gumbo, sweet potato casserole,
mixed green salad with homemade dressings, and grits. There would be corn
bread, biscuits and pecan pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate pie, cakes and, my
grandmother's contribution, pumpkin scone, her signature dish being not
deemed suitable. This was "Quail Pudding", a very expensive dish to
make. As there were no quails so late in the season the pumpkin scones
would do.
	Everything was low key in the extreme, not exactly luncheon in the
work house, plentiful, but not too plentiful, very genteel, and very
Southern.
	Pendleton knew this of course, which is why he gave me short
shrift. He was completely unsympathetic and accused me of having the soul
of a Massachusetts Abolitionist. "Cooper, you are the most selfish brat
I've ever seen!" he accused.
	Insulted, I made to rise but he pushed me down. "Listen to me,
Cooper Marigny," he ordered, "or else you'll be meetin' Mrs. Fist for the
next six months," he threatened.
	Scowling, I sat down.
	"Cooper, this shindig is real important to your Momma, right?"
	"Well, yes," I admitted. "She's been planning it since last year
and I know she's been saving her housekeeping to pay for it and . . ."
	"And you want to screw everything up because you don't like a small
part of what she wants!"
	"How am I screwing things up? Is it so bad that I don't like
dressing up in silly clothes?" I growled. "I look a fool and . . ."
	"As opposed to the rest of us?" Pendleton asked. He ran his hands
down his uniform. "I look foolish every day!" He waved his hand toward a
group of uniformed cadets. "We all do! How would you like to wear this
outfit every day?"
	"I think you look sharp!" I returned. He did, of course look sharp,
dressed as he was in his uniform, tight and gray, the Dolman jacket adorned
with the black stripes of his rank.
	He gave me a dark look. "If I look so sharp why is it you're always
trying to get me out of it?" he mock-demanded.
	 I looked pointedly at the impressive bulge in his crotch. "Hidden
treasures?" I offered.
	Pendleton snorted, and then grinned. "Not so hidden when you come
sniffin' around."
	I giggled. "Yeah." What else could I say?
	Ignoring my giggling, Pendleton continued soberly. "Cooper, it just
ain't good manners! Your Momma wants this, she's been working on it for
months, she's been planning on what to serve, she's been scraping and
saving to pay for it, and she's worked hard at it."
	"But Pendleton . . ."
	"Shut up and listen, Cooper," Pendleton snapped. "When you're asked
to a party, you don't go and then look for something that isn't there!
You're like some rich Yankee debutante . . ." he pronounced the word
"day-bu-tent" - drawing out every syllable . . . "That's spoiled rotten who
thinks her shit don't stink, and who's so used to being pandered to that
she doesn't know how to be a good guest."
	"Huh?"
	"Cooper, what's the one dish you really don't like, but is always
on the table, and something you always eat?"
	I thought a moment, and then answered. "Uh, grits."
	Pendleton nodded his head. "Grits are a part of Southern
tradition. We might not like 'em but we eat 'em because they're offered."
	"Okay."
	"It's considered rude and bad mannered not to at least take a
spoonful, if only for appearances sake," Pendleton continued. "People go to
whole lot of trouble to make their guests feel welcome. They give the best
they have, and okay, maybe it's not a whole lot, but they go out of their
way to do it! Your Momma's been married to your Daddy for twenty-five
years, and it's special to her, and she wants to make it special to her
friends. She wants a costume party, and what's the harm in that?"
	I thought a moment. "Well, none really."
	Nodding, Pendleton said, "I'm not especially pleased that I have to
dress up in my full dress uniform, Cooper, but I'll do it because I'm going
to be a guest."
	"You look good in it," I said with a smile.
	Pendleton snorted. "Well you wear it!" He shook his head. "It's so
damned tight I can't hardly breathe, and I have to wear starched white
boxers under it, and Cooper those damned things scratch the hair off my
balls!"
	I laughed and said, "Okay, I get your point."
	"Cooper, you also better get used to being a good guest."
	"How so?"
	"Well, you are Cooper de Marigny. Your family has been a part of
this state for what, two hundred, three hundred years?"
	"Tell me about it," I said with a frown. "You'd think I was a
prince or something!"
	"You are, in a way," replied Pendleton. "We don't have money, most
of us just get by, but we have something no one else has: our honor, our
names and our history." He waved his hand, indicating the buildings of the
academy. "This place hasn't changed since it was founded. We do things the
same way folks did them back then. We have values that haven't changed, and
live by a Code that will never change. People who don't understand us laugh
at us, but we like the world we have. It's a world of grace, and gentility
and good manners, and we're part of it." He looked at me. "Cooper, in a few
years you're going to be drawn into the world, whether you like it or
not. Your name, your history, guarantees it."
	"And you!" I stated firmly. "The Izards aren't exactly swamp
trash!"
	"No, we are not," agreed Pendleton. "Which means we'll be invited
to homes no one outside of our insular world will ever see the inside
of. We'll have to dress the way our people expect us to dress, act the way
our people expect us to act. There will be times when we think we'll never
be able to stand another minute of it. We may pack up and run away, but we
always come back. It's our world and it's where we belong."
	We sat in silence, watching the cadets relaxing and playing silly
bugger and grab ass. I knew exactly what Pendleton meant. He, I, all my
friends, we all lived in a separate world. It was small; it was insular,
and xenophobic. Our values were old fashioned, as were our manners, and to
many outside of that world we were crashing bores who thought only of good
breeding. Well, maybe we did. Good breeding had given me my red hair, and
my so-so good looks. Education had given me my outlooks, my manners, and my
consideration for the feelings of others. We, my brothers and I, were
taught our manners from the cradle. We were also taught that service, to
the community, to the state, to the country, was the price we paid for our
world to exist. My personal feelings meant nothing at all. By refusing to
wear fancy dress, I was being an ass; causing hurt and offense to the one
person I loved dearly, my mother. In my world this was unforgivable. In my
world one never caused offense if it could be avoided.
	I sighed heavily. Whether I liked it or not, I was a part of this
special little world and, as Pendleton had said, before too very long I
would be drawn further into that world. Pendleton was right, and I might as
well bend with the wind.
	"Well, I guess I better see what I can wear then," I mumbled. I
glanced obliquely at Pendleton. "I suppose I can find something in the
attic."
	"And eat what is set in front of you and don't ask for something
you shouldn't ask for."
	"Huh?"
	"Cooper, when you're invited to a party, or a dinner, folks plan
carefully for it. When my Momma plans a dinner the first thing she reaches
for is her book of Charleston Receipts."
	I nodded. My mother did the same thing. The little book of
traditional recipes was her bible when it came to food. Then she reached
for a battered, stained, old hand written ledger, which recorded generation
after generation of meals, suppers and banquets, including wines
served. These two books would guide her to the perfection she demanded. It
was then I realized that a lot of work was being put into Mummy's party.
	". . . Which means don't ask for white wine when the dish before
you calls for red," Pendleton was saying.
	"Now who would do that?" I asked. To ask out of the blue for a
change was considered the height of bad manners. When wine was served it
was supposed to complement the dish, not pander to the diner's personal
preferences.
	"It happens," Pendleton said seriously. Then he gave me a funny
look.
	"What?"
	"Cooper, did Bonnie Prince Charlie have red hair?"
	"How the hell would I know?" I asked. Then I added flippantly, "I
assume he had a pecker or he'd have been Bonnie `Princess' Charlie."
	A bugle call interrupted us and out on the parade ground the fifes
and drums took up the call. It was time to return to class.
	"Do you equate everything with peckers and sex?" Pendleton asked as
we stood up.
	"Usually," I admitted with grin.
	"Well, meet me after class." He winked at me. "I have an idea."
	"Does it involve peckers?" I asked eagerly.
	"Pervert!" And with that Pendleton walked away.

*******

	As directed, I met Pendleton after our last class. "Here," he said
as he handed me an olive green duffle bag. "This is on loan and I need it
back after the party."
	I took the bag and felt the heft of it. "It's heavy," I
observed. "What's in here?"
	"Your costume; and you owe me a blow job."
	"What . . . and how come I owe you a blow job?" I demanded
mildly. I grinned evilly. "Can I pay you now?"
	Pendleton laughed. "It's a complete drummer's uniform, kilt,
doublet, sporran, everything you'll need to be the belle of the ball!" He
gave me a nudge. "I had to give the drummer something when I borrowed his
uniform."
	"A blow job?" I squeaked.
	"Well, he didn't want money, so it was the next best thing."
	I shook my head. "And you had the nerve to call me a pervert!" Then
I smiled. "Pendleton, I don't know how to wear this get-up."
	The gleam in my eyes told Pendleton everything he needed to
know. "Well, tomorrow night, I'll help you put it on." He cocked his
head. "Okay?"
	I grinned. "I would not expect anything less and I shall pay my
debt then."

******

	I returned home, lugging my book-bag and the duffel. I went to my
room and hung the gold-encrusted doublet, impressed by the detail of the
gold braid and heavy bullion buttons. I admired the pleated, plaid kilt,
not knowing at the time that the tartan was Royal Stewart. There was an
extremely hairy sporran and wide leather belt to hang it from, white
gaiters, socks and shiny leather boots. I decided it was impressive enough
to wear and knew my mother would be pleased.
	As the lower floors seemed to be filled with people rushing back
and forth, maids, and cooks, and florists setting up the rooms, I stayed in
my room, even though the most enticing odors drifted up from the kitchen,
tempting me to forget my homework. I resisted, knowing that if I went
downstairs I would be put to work.
	I did my homework and gave in. Downstairs I found Damian Lee and
the two dailies, Flora and Annette, in the dining room. The table was fully
extended and arrayed with crystal glasses, which the girls were busily
polishing. Always being one to avoid work of any description, I turned on
my heels and was confronted by the huge bulk of Mam Berta.
	"Oh no you don't, little man," she rumbled. She handed me a soft
towel. "Them glasses need polishing and you're just the one to do it!"
	I knew better than to argue. I sat down and picked up a glass. At
least the work was easy. I could have been out in the garden, setting up
tables.

******

	"You shore?" Stubby Richmond asked as he took the Mason jar filled
with Daddy Smith's finest 'shine. He took a sip, grimaced and said, "I
always thought better of Miss Louisa Hampton."
	Daddy Smith glowered. "It don't matter what you thought. They meet
when they's out ridin'. They go to the old overseer's house and do it."
Daddy Smith retrieved his jar and took a hefty swig. "I bin watchin' 'em
for a while now. Nigger's got hisself a big ol' dick."
	Stubby glared at Daddy Smith. "You gotta be sure!"
	Daddy Smith leered. "You want details? He's an army captain from
the camp. He ain't bad lookin' for a nigger - got a lot of white in him -
and he's real tall. They ride 'most every mornin' and head right for the
house."
	Stubby shook his head. "I cain't believe it. Miss Louisa an' a
nigger."
	"Believe it," growled Daddy Smith. He took another swig of the
white lightnin'. "It cain't be allowed." He gave Stubby a cold, direct
look. "You know what we gotta do."
	Stubby nodded. "I'll make some calls. We'll do it tomorrow. There's
that big party gonna be goin' on out at Broadlands. People will be lookin'
there, and not at us."
	Daddy Smith nodded. "Wish mah boys was here. They'd sure know what
to do."
	"Well, they ain't," snapped Stubby. He scratched his chin
reflectively. "I shore don't like it, but its gotta be done. Niggers is too
uppity as it is."
	"Yeah," agreed Daddy Smith. "We gotta be real careful,
though. Doin' an army captain . . . hell, we'll have every cop in the
state, the Military Police . . ."
	"The FBI as well," interjected Stubby. He shook his head. "The
first ones they'll look for is us."
	"We can handle it," said Daddy Smith. "We use only a few men, ones
we can trust. And we make sure enough people see us around town so's they
can swear that we was nowhere near where we do it."
	Stubby nodded. "Percy's old farmstead. It's just about overgrown
with pine trees. The place I have in mind cain't be seen from the road and
it's isolated so nobody goes there."
	"Let me pick him up."
	"Fine. Do it quietly." Stubby had a thought. "He'll be with Miss
Louisa, so wait until she leaves. If she don't leave take both of 'em."
	"What we gonna do with her?"
	Stubby shrugged. "That's up to her daddy. He'll do the right
thing."
	Daddy Smith did not reply, but he thought, `If he don't, I will.'