Hello, Dear Readers: Here we are once again in the world of John's Grand Uncle. Adam Johnny and Billy are still at Holloman House in Yazoo County. In next chapters we will be meeting some more people who played a very important roles in the life of Johnny and Adam. I hope you enjoy. A grateful thanks to Ed with his help on this chapter.
Please e-mail all Comments to me at Swarri1349@aol.com or visit my web page at: http://www.members.xoom.com/Swarri1349 Thanks, Stephen
The Red River steamer Miss Lou steamed slowly down the log-jammed river to her destination, Belle Bend, 25 miles south of Shreveport, Louisiana, then on to Vicksburg, Mississippi. Before the outbreak of war, the steamer would have stopped at the mouth of the Red River and transferred her cargo and passengers to a Mississippi River packet but now she made the entire journey to Vicksburg.
A young man dressed in a broadcloth suit stood on the hurricane deck with his boot propped on the rail. He was watching the river and a long way from home. At seventeen, Michael Hunter, now on a steamer headed south, hailed from Arizona territory. His mother and father hated it when he packed his bags and headed east, after reading in the newspaper that Arizona had joined the Confederacy. Now as he looked at the river, one bigger and fuller than any he had seen before, his mind wandered, thinking of his Ma and Pa and little brother back home and what now lay ahead. It was not time for idle minds but action. He took his foot off the railing and began to walk toward the bow of the little steamer. Michael wanted to avoid the card dealers and cheaters in the main cabin; he already had one run-in with a big Texan who was drunk and spoiling for a fight; the captain took care of the Texan by kicking him overboard, plus he did not want to waste what little money he had in gold coin. The steamer slowly pushed forward, her paddle wheel biting into the muddy water and her wood smoke darkening the gray skies overhead, and the hiss of steam and rumbling of her engines set the slow pace. Neither the steamer nor the river cared a war was being fought over who controlled them.
Michael continued to the bow of the steamer, lost in deep thought and dreaming of Arizona. He saw, in his mind, his father dressed and prepared to leave home for work in his carriage, the two mares, both solid white, hitched to the fine black lacquered carriage with the family crest emblazoned in gold on the doors. His loving mother downstairs in the kitchen, finishing up the morning dishes, and his little brother playing in his high chair, and Marco, the hired hand, working in the gardens and minding to the chores, while he slept in his bunk all morning, trying to avoid most of the other passengers on deck.
Now here he stood at the bow of Miss Lou, over 1000 miles from home, watching the clouds and the river float by. He looked down onto the boiler deck and saw the deck hands playing cards and smoking their pipes, the crates of muskets stacked here and there along with medicine, whiskey, flour, and hay. Then there were the kegs branded with a triple X, the black powder for the guns at Vicksburg. Then Michael looked where they were stacked right beside the long rows of cordwood used to fire the steamer's boilers. Michael saw one of the smoking deck hands sitting on one of the kegs. Michael was not a person afraid of anything, but this did bring a sweat to his brow. Now he began to wonder, 'What in the Hell was I thinking?'
As Michael's thoughts raced through his mind, he saw a stunning sight. A boy about the same age as him stood on a small wooden wharf, waving a white rag to hail the steamboat. The Miss Lou tooted her whistle and turned toward the wharf. As the steamer pulled closer, Michael could start to make out the boy's features. He first noticed the shoulder length curly hair, the handsome slender face, the tanned muscular arms. Michael's thoughts of home and if he made the right choice faded from his mind as his teenage hormones took over. God had blessed Michael in many ways and now one of those endowments was waking, stretching the fabric of his pants. Michael chuckled to himself, 'Thank goodness for strong buttons'. The teenager on shore looked up from the wharf and looked Michael directly in the eyes. Michael found his knees wanting to buckle as he held onto the rail. Michael had never seen such beauty before.
The gangplank was unfastened from the deck and swung out toward the wharf. The teenager jumped onto the gangplank and began to walk on board. The little steamer never stopped, just slowed down a little. The mud clerk walked out to help the teen with his bags and of course to collect his fare. "Welcome aboard the Miss Lou, sir," the clerk grinned, his pipe cocked to the right side of his mouth.
"Thank you, sir," replied the teen.
The clerk sat the teen's bags on deck and grabbed his clipboard off a crate. "Where are you headed?" asked the clerk between puffs on his pipe.
The teen looked for a moment, still holding his carpetbag. "To Vicksburg, sir."
The clerk smiled, "To the end of the line, fare $2.50 in gold coin or $3.50 in confederate paper money."
The teen slowly sat his bag down and dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out 3 gold coins and handed them to the clerk.
"Thank you, lad." He began to write out the ticket.
"What is your name, lad?"
"Conway James, sir."
"That is Irish, very Irish."
"Yes sir, it is. I am half Irish and half Indian."
The clerk finished the ticket and handed it to Conway. "There you go, laddie. You will have to find someone to bunk with or sleep out on deck since all the cabins are full."
Michael, standing on the hurricane deck right above them, heard it all. He was mesmerized by the angelic voice of one Conway James. Michael leaned over the rail. "Mr. James can bunk with me, sir."
"Very well, Mr. Hunter, Mr. James. Cabin C3 right in the center on the port side."
"Thank you, sirs," replied Conway and he smiled. Conway picked up his bags and climbed the stairs leading to the hurricane deck and to the door that led to the main cabin.
Michael left the bow and headed down the deck to the door that led to his cabin. Michael pulled the tarnished brass key from his pocket and unlocked his door. He quickly looked around the small room. Then he began to stash his books and other personal items, including the long woolen underwear that he refused to wear in this heat. Dry heat out west was not so bad, but this humid heat would kill a man or so he thought. Michael then dumped the china wash basin and refilled it with cool fresh water from the pitcher. Then, looking at himself in the large mirror, he unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt. Then it hit him - there was only one bunk in the small cabin. 'I guess we will have to share,' as a smile broadened across his handsome face.
While Michael was cleaning up the cabin, a large-busted girl stopped Conway in the main cabin. She spotted him the minute he topped the stairs.
"Hello, handsome," she said; her bosom bounced with each step she made.
"Afternoon, Miss," replied Conway as he continued to walk toward Michael's cabin. The young lady smiled, "Miss Ann White," as she extended her gloved hand.
"Conway James at your service." He sat one of his bags down and took her hand and gently kissed it.
"Why, I do declare, there are some true gentlemen left in the South."
"Why, thank you, Miss White." Conway picked up his bag and had begun to walk toward the cabin.
"Mr. James, I would love for you to join me for a drink once you have stored your bags."
"I would love to, Miss White, once I am settled in. I am sharing a cabin with Mr. Hunter. Have you met him?"
"The Western gentleman? Cabin C3, I believe?"
"Yes, that is the one."
"Well, Mr. James, I did run into him last night at supper. Charming boy, but very quiet, also very handsome just like yourself." She batted her eyelashes as she spoke.
"Miss White, it was a pleasure to meet you."
"Thank you, Mr. James, the pleasure was all mine." Then she turned and walked back toward the roulette wheel. 'Finally,' thought Conway, 'Women are all the same, all they want to do is talk until they can get you to their room for a quick screw. Conway did not have the slightest interest in them. 'Now, Mr. Hunter, just how quiet is you?' as he smiled.
Conway continued toward the stern of the steamer, down the long wide cabin, passing card dealers, card players, and black servants. Doors lined the main cabin, each with a nicely painted scene, wild deer, flowers, birds, or a steamboat plying the river. Above the paintings, the cabin number was carved into the rich oiled wood. Conway smiled at this homely little steamer, slugging her way to Vicksburg. All the big grand Mississippi River packets named their cabins after states and were called staterooms and the deck above where the officers' quarters were was named the Texas deck. He continued his slow pace and soon made it to cabin C3. The door was closed, so he sat his bag down and knocked.
Michael wiped his face to remove the sweat that was forming back. He heard the knock and scanned the small cabin. He was nervous of meeting Conway James.
Michael straightened his clothes and turned the brass door knob and there Conway stood. Michael felt his knees turn to jelly.
"Hello, Mr. Hunter, I must thank you for your kindness you have already shown me." Then Conway walked into the room and used his boot to push the door almost closed. "I can tell you're not from the Deep South, since most people aboard would like to see me sleep with the deck hands," and with that said, he sat his bags down and reached out his hand to Michael.
Michael took Conway's hand and shook it, feeling the smooth skin. Michael released it but he wanted to hold it forever. "Thank you, Mr. James, and you're quite welcome and please call me Michael."
"Thank you, Michael, and please, it is just Conway then."
"Conway, you said that most people aboard would like to see you sleep with the deckhands. Why?"
Conway's head dropped as he listened to Michael's question. "Well, Michael, I have tainted blood, as it is said in polite society."
"Tainted blood?" asked Michael. "What does it mean?"
"Well, Michael, tainted blood is a mix of white, Indian, and French Canadian and others. Most people of the Deep South and other areas think we are no better than the slaves that they own and we are in the same class, since we do not come from some blue blood over in England or somewhere." Conway continued to look at the floor. "Well, thank you, Mr. Hunter, I will now go find me a place on the deck. Thank you once again, sir." Then he picked up his bags as tears began to flow down his dusty cheeks.
Michael just stood there speechless for a moment, trying to take in everything he just heard. He thought, 'So this is what is meant by closed society.' "Conway, please wait! I am not like one of them. I do not care what runs inside you. I see from the way you act, you are from a noble clan of people. I do not care that you do not have a link to some dried up Duke or whoever in some far off country. You are a wonderful person, no matter what the closed-minded assholes of high society think."
Conway looked up. "Really, Michael, you're the first person to tell me that outside my family." Conway smiled, "Thank you, my wonderful friend." Conway sat his bags back down and walked forward and grabbed Michael into a bear hug and let his tears flow freely. For once in a long time he felt safe and had a friend in the world.
Michael hugged Conway back, holding the boy close, inhaling his boyish scents and feeling the muscles under his shirt. "Everything is going to be fine, Conway. I will be here as your friend as long as you need me, for now I am not alone either. I have someone to talk to, someone to share my adventure with, and, in trying times like these, we need a good friend to lean on."
Conway smiled and pulled gently back from the embrace. He knew that Michael had accepted him for who he was. "I smell like a pig, all sweaty and dirty, and here I am getting your fine shirt filthy. That is no way to treat my friend who has just welcomed me to bunk with him and who accepts me for who I am."
Michael smiled, "Conway, it is only a shirt and it can be cleaned, but yes, you do need to freshen up." Michael covered his nose and smiled, then winked.
Conway laughed and walked over to the wash basin and poured some more of the cool water from the pitcher into the bowl and reached for the soap. Michael noticed the door was still open just a crack and walked over and locked it. Conway looked over and saw Michael close and lock the door. Michael then walked past Conway, brushing him across his back. Michael then sat down on the bunk and kicked off his boots. Conway watched Michael in the mirror while he scrubbed the dirt from his face. Michael caught Conway looking back at him through the mirror and smiled as he pulled off his socks. "Changing for dinner already, Michael?"
"Umm, no, just getting comfy for a nap. It is too hot to wear wool socks, and my feet are burning up."
"Ya, I know the feeling. Usually when I am at home in the bayou country, I go shirtless and shoeless."
Michael felt his cock twitch in his trousers. "Conway, I hope you don't mind if I get comfortable, do you?"
"Why no, Michael." Conway unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, dropping it on the floor. Michael let out a soft moan when he saw the broad back, the tight muscles under the tanned skin. Conway heard the moan and turned to face Michael and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, then turning to face the mirror once more, he began to wash his chest and stomach. He looked back at Michael who was unfastening the buttons that held his trousers and stood to remove them, letting them slide down his legs. Then Michael unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. Michael saw Conway's eyes get bigger in the mirror but was surprised that Conway's eyes never turned away. Once he saw Michael looking at him, he just smiled. Conway swished the cloth in the water and began to wash his back, watching as Michael laid down on the bunk and turned to face Conway, watching him. Conway laid the cloth down and walked over to the bunk and sat down close to Michael and leaned over to untie the laces holding his shoes on and then removed his shoes and socks. Conway's butt rested against Michael slightly, and he could feel the lump forming in Michael's drawers. Conway stood and removed his worn trousers, dropping them to the floor. He had trimmed his underwear to be more comfortable; unlike the style, he had cut them off above the knees. They now ended right below the beginning of his ass. Michael's eyes were wide as he looked at the sight before him. He moaned and Conway turned to look at Michael and smiled at him. Michael blushed, his pale cheeks turning bright red. "Sorry, Conway, don't be mad."
Conway continued to smile. "Michael, I am not mad one bit."
There was silence for a few minutes, then Michael finally spoke, "Man, you're beautiful, a perfect chest and those muscles. Wow."
Conway sat back down on the bunk and took Michael's hand. "Here, feel them if you wish." Then he placed Michael's hand on his chest. Michael felt the smooth skin, the heat coming from it. His cock began to grow hard. Michael at first wanted to stop and roll over to hide, then his mind just said 'fuck it'. His hand did not want to leave the smooth chest and tight muscles. Then he let his hand roam over Conway's chest, brushing the two erect nipples the size of nickels. Conway sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it back out. Michael's smooth hand was working its magic and he felt his teen hood begin to swell. Michael continued to rub Conway's chest and he noticed Conway did object to it. Michael thought 'If he was not interested, he would have made me stop by now'. "Conway, tell me about your family?"
Conway motioned for Michael to move over on the bunk and he lay down beside him. Michael hated he had to remove his hand from that perfect chest. Michael rolled over onto his back. 'Hard-on be damned,' he thought. Conway just smiled that handsome smile and got comfortable on the small bunk and slowly began to speak of his family and past.
"I grew up south of New Orleans in the bayous of southern Louisiana. Ma and Pa were not rich. We lived in a three -room shack that leaked when it rained. In winter you froze unless you slept in front of the fire. Pa and I helped a plantation owner with his sugarcane crops and I fished and swam when I was not working with Pa. Ma made clothes and washed for some of the better-off folks around our little hamlet. No one was rich, not any of us Cajuns anyway. The rich plantation owners had the money and we worked for them, making enough money to buy what little we needed. We raised our own meat and vegetables and Ma made butter from the milk produced by our cow. I had two red-blooded hounds that I used when Pa and me would go hunting for alligator and coons; they were my real friends. There were few other children my age around there except for the blue bloods of the plantation owners. Last summer Pa was killed when the plow horse kicked him in the stomach. The doctor could not save him, so Ma and me buried Pa out back of the cabin in a grove of willow trees. The next eight months or so, Ma and me continued on alone, her doing her washing and me helping the hands in the sugarcane fields. Then Ma caught yellow fever and she sent me for the local witch woman, as we called her, for herbs to heal it. I left that morning and by the time I got back that afternoon Ma was lying in bed, dead. I wrapped her body and dug a grave by Pa, and I buried her. As I covered her body, I cried; each shovel brought forth memories of a happy time. After I covered her grave, I returned to the cabin and took a ax and made a cross and I drove it into the ground. That night I slept alone in the little cabin. The next morning I packed my few belongings, the family Bible and what little money there was, and headed west. I passed through east Texas and worked my way north, then I headed east to Shreveport and still could not find steady work. So I continued south to where the steamer picked me up. I worked on that small farm, making a little money and the old man died and his wife packed her bags and headed to New Orleans to live with her brother. She gave me enough money to make it to Vicksburg and, before she left, she told me to join the Confederate Army and make the South proud once more. That was this morning. This afternoon I boarded this here steamer. I did not know if it was the right thing or not until now." The tears streamed down Conway's cheeks in a river of sadness and sorrow.
Michael pulled him close. "Cry, my boy, cry. Let the sadness out, let it flow. I am here for you, my friend, and you're not alone no more". Conway sobbed into Michael's arms. Michael once again could smell the sweet odors of soap and clean water but there was no sexual urge for Conway, only love for the weeping boy. Conway's face was now resting against Michael's chest. His tears continued to flow and Michael rocked Conway, trying to comfort him the best he could. Soon Conway's breathing grew quieter and Michael realized that Conway was sleeping. Soon Michael joined Conway in a peaceful sleep as the little steamer continued south.