At the Slaver's Association
The Caravan Arrives
Paying a Call
There Goes the Neighborhood
At the Realm of Thorns
Native Ground
At the Consortium
Through the Looking Glass
Plucked
Peer Gynt
Solitude
Clipping a Raven's Wings
When Once We Were Mortal
Neighbor of the Beast
The Hunter, Dawn
Realm of Thorns home
The Slaver's Association
Message boards
Web site
|
Tax Dollars at Work 
City Point, Virginia - May 3, 1863
"Sunday a soldier of Company A died and was buried. Everything went on as if nothing had happened, for death is so common that little sentiment is wasted. It is not like death at home." ~ Elisha Hunt Rhodes The distant drums and cannons at Chancellorsville were just a haunting chorus, barely heard above the fiddles and concertinas singing in the makeshift lanes of City Point, a ramshackle sort of town thrown up virtually overnight on the backs of negro laborers, to meet the turning tide of war towards a summer's campaigns through Virginia. Just to the east of the city proper, where the railroad bent to the docks, lay a glittering village of northern log and clapboard structures, three parallel streets, each about four blocks long and lit with lanterns, and even a few gas lights. Cooking was limited to pine-covered tents manned by negroes in the back alleys, but the houses themselves were furnished with the finest settees, silver, and beds that the Union depots could supply, and throughout the town, there were signs, and corduroy sidewalks with drain gutters, all the trappings of civilization, and symbols of the riches to be had from a life of sin. Revelry, not combat, was the order of the day, in this haven where, for a price, soldier and officer alike might find a carnal reprieve from the gehenna of war just a few miles distant. The town supported a gaming hell here or there, and a few reputable women turned their coin as laundresses, but the lifeblood of City Point was the thriving business taking place behind closed doors, in the establishments of certain ladies of ill repute, harridans and whores to the self-righteous few, but angels of mercy if you were a man fresh from the battlefield, or a miles-long march, or anticipating either one. One such habitation, looking to the outside no different from all the rest (but where, it was reputed, tastes beyond the norm could be indulged), housed a madame of unique experience, a worldly wise woman who had seen enough of war in her long lifetime, and was choosing to sit this one out. As the dying embers of another day settled into ash and smoke, and then into another night, she strolled through the somewhat cramped parlor of her abode, listening to the music outside in the streets, and giving barely a thought to the carnage winding down miles away, in Chancellorsville. For her, it was just another night of business, overseeing the preparation of lavish meals and assuring that all her girls were bathed and groomed, ready to take the coin lining the pockets of soldiers fresh from the field. Tonight, with the battle raging to the west, and because payday had passed, business would be slow. At pay time, the lines before every house on the lane were ridiculously long, and the men would often fight each other for a place, but tonight, she would most likely spend her time penning a missive for one of the men, to a sweetheart or a loved one back home. Nonetheless, she always set out an opulent spread for her guests, and no one ever saw her that she was not dressed to the nines. Tonight, it was an evening gown of rich aniline magenta, of moiré antique satin with a pattern of roses raised in terry velvet. The bodice, pointed at both front and back, was plain and cut dramatically low, to reveal the ivory swells of her bosom, to frame them in a collar band of velvet, embroidered and bound in gold. The puffed sleeves were caught up with the same banding, and flounces of black lace. Down the front of the huge bell skirt were three satin chevrons, with satin rosette bows and cascading loops of ribbon, and each ribbon rosette, of shimmering onyx, had a small agrafe of diamonds at its center (a further example of the wages of sin?). She carried a fan ornamented with sheer black tulle, and set with tiny mirrors, and her crowning glory, hair the color of flames that had not waned through the centuries, was coiled up into lappets, and topped with a headdress of satin ribbon, folded and stitched to form a wreath of leaves from which clusters of silk rose blossoms fell. Rose had little loyalty for either of the players in this conflict. It was not her country, not her fight, and if anything, she prayed that the Union would stand strong only because it meant more money to line her own pockets. It was with this attitude in mind that she eased down onto a piano bench, flicking out her fan with a flourish, and drawing it slowly over her bosom, as the house maid bustled through to answer the evening's first knock at the door. Rose recognized his face instantly, even through the litter of road dust that peppered his beard and cheeks. But the gentleman at the door was no customer, not tonight, at any rate, judging by the grave expression he wore. In one hand, he carried a hardee hat of black felted wool, in the other a pair of beaten leather gauntlets. As he crossed the threshold, the folds of a sky blue great coat peeled back, revealing his frock coat of navy blue wool, chevrons on each upper arm, and fall front trousers with NCO stripes running down the side of each leg. Even beneath that, visible in the opening of a few undone buttons at the collar, was yet another layer of wool, a severely-cut military waistcoat. In sharp contrast to the rest of the dashing picture was a worn leather sword belt, slung across his chest, from which hung an officer's sabre and scabbard, and around his waist, a sash of red worsted, and though he bore none of the cap and cartridge boxes sported by the enlisted men, his square-toed brogans were every bit as worn as the next soldier's, the result, no doubt, of miles of marching from one campaign to the next over the years. Snapping her fan closed, she rose instantly to meet him, the fullness of her skirts rustling about her, her expression instantly mirroring that of their austere guest, although she could only wonder at the cause of such solemnity. "Why, Captain Emmett, what brings you here this evening?" The velveteen flow of her words, and its slight patrician laziness, brought an instant relief to the tension in the air, smoothing the lines of the officer's features. The gentle delivery of Rose's voice was in stark contrast to the drawl most of her girls favored, marking her as something foreign, something exotic, and made her origins the subject of much conjecture in City Point, a conjecture to which she had nothing to add. In fact, she preferred that her lineage remain clouded in mystery - it brought more business from the curiosity-seekers. "Well, theh's been some activity ovah at Zoan's Church that ah thought you should know about...," he began, his eyes drifting to the magnet of her cleavage, as she had known it must - one of the features she loved most of this century was the femininity one could achieve in the arena of dress. But she went on, smiling as though she were oblivious, and batting her lashes occasionally, as he began to relate his tale. "Hookah's been engaged theh for three days now...," he continued, absently slapping his forearm with the gloves, in an attempt to tidy himself that only resulted in a cloud of dust choking the air in the tiny parlor. With a startled, boyish grin, he froze in mid-swing, and began waving at the air, to clear it, as Rose erupted in a series of dainty coughs. Growing ever more red, he stammered, and began to speak again, only to glance to the maid, and his tongue came to a halt before it had even begun moving. Rose glanced from one to the other, and then, with a shudder of mock impatience, she tapped at the officer's shoulder with the tip of her fan. "Daniel, she's only waiting to take your coat," she chided, her eyes dancing with a teasing light born of familiarity. "Don't be a goose." The playful scolding prompted him to shrug out of the heavy wool cassock, which he turned over the negro maid's forearm, and she, dipping a curtsy and nodding to the pair, her eyes downcast out of habit, then scuttled out of the room. Rose signaled her to be gone with a fluttering of fingertips, but the gesture was entirely unnecessary, and given to a back already in retreat. "Come... make yourself comfortable..." Flowing from one gesture into the next, she motioned the captain towards a divan with an outsweep of the other forearm, punctuated by a snap of her wrist that brought the fan out like a peacock's tail of jet and mirror-silver.
John Brown's body lies a mouldering in his grave, There was some good news - Jackson had been shot, and by his own men, no less, while scouting the wilderness the previous evening. But in spite of the loss of their leader, the Confederate forces looked as though they would take Chancellorsville, lock, stock, and barrel, and with considerable losses on the Union side, to boot. "The next two days will tell, which way the ahmy tuhns... the rebels may ovahrun City Point on theh way through, Miss Rose, and ah think you'd be wise to givin' some thought to... packin' your things... maybe headin' fahthuh nawth for the summah..." As he related this hesitant bit of advice, clearly born of a heart-rending concern for her wellbeing, the fan slowed, and her features grew more and more pale, as though such a thing were possible. It was not the story of the shooting, or even the impending troop movements, that sent a chill to coursing through her veins... but the sliver of full moon she could see through the part in the drapes, just beginning to swell over the skyline of this mockery of a city... With hands trembling all the while, she summoned for his coat, thanked him for the news, and sent him on his way as politely as she could. He seemed a bit taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, but concern still ran deep in his eyes, and he could only assume that she meant to prepare for her departure with all due haste. But as the door closed on his departure, it was all she could do to remain upright, so shaken was she. She turned in a whorl of satin and lace, dropping against the pine boards, her bosom swelling anxiously against the confines of a dress which suddenly seemed far too tight. After all these centuries, she had, instead of growing more in tune with her nature, only grown less and less aware of the coming of the moon, so that unless she kept a careful watch on the almanac, it now took her by surprise, as it had done this night. How close she had come to being revealed... and before a man of no little influence, and with whom she had been quite intimately involved... A sudden jolt of urgency overtook her, and she pushed away from the door, tossing the fan carelessly aside to the top of the pianoforte, and as it rolled to the floor, it elicited a jagged, chaotic twanging in its collision with the keys. A short time afterwards, a very different woman emerged into the parlor, clothed for utility, but with no less elegance. She wore a riding habit of midnight silk taffeta, with grosgrain lapels and a similar trim at the edges of bell sleeves, over a shirt of virginal batiste, and with a pair of kid gloves - perhaps the only white she ever wore. Gone were the ornamental blossoms, and her silken flames were now coiled tightly, tamed beneath a hat of black straw capped with a single ostrich plume. The tulle veil, that was designed to save her from the ravages of dust kicked up by the horse's hooves, instead gave her the appearance of a mourning figure, an image denied only by the riding crop she carried (an hint of things to come, if ever there was one). Without a word to anyone, she bustled out of the house in a flurry of swimming silks, and moments later, the rhythmic staccato of hoofbeats was heard on the street outside, disappearing into the distance, in the direction of the battlefields...
They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple tree,
Oh, we'll rally 'round the flag boys, we'll rally once again, The fighting had long since ceased, and the atmosphere hung heavy with the smell of blood, and the beginnings of mortal erosion. Teasing slivers of moonlight filtered through the trees, dappling the ground with shadows vaguely resembling the outlines of puddles... or perhaps that was only her imagination... with a haunting sense of urgency, she kicked at the haunches of her horse, and reached behind her, slapping at its hind quarters with the harsh sting of the quirt, anxious to reach the edge of a camp before... Almost on cue, a cruel jolt of agony rocketed through her, like a missile on a collision course with her consciousness that exploded in a burst of white heat, clouding her vision and causing every muscle in her body to tense at once to stillness. Cemented in place, her hand was ripped away from the saddlehorn by the momentum of the beast beneath her, and while she went crashing to the ground, the horse reared back once, its nostrils flaring at the faint odor of the diabolical change about to take place, then took off like a shot, back along the only path it knew, towards City Point. She rolled blessedly clear of the hooves, leaves and twigs clinging to her habit, the veil winding around to encircle her neck, and by the time she stopped, cringing face down in the dirt, the sound of hoofbeats was only a memory, fading into the distance. The impact of the fall set off a groan of protest, and like a string of fireworks, the vertebrae in her spine began to pop, an audible backbeat to the cawing of night birds and the far off voices of men around a camp fire. But she hadn't been able to hear those voices before... it was those ears, that stretched and burst with the prickling of hair, unseating her hat to be picked up by an errant breeze, rolling away across the ground with the diaphenous black tail following behind... with a sound like razors on glass, the seams of her riding habit began to split apart, revealing a hunched figure and pale skin from which new fibers seemed to rise at an alarming pace, covering the ivory over in a coat of chocolate and mahogany... emerald melted away to blood crimson, and knotted fingertips shrank down to paws, their nails digging into the soil and forming ruts where they were dragged backwards... and as the beast lifted its newly sprung muzzle to the night sky, to the moon that seemed to taunt her over the tops of Virginia pines, she let out a mournful howl that seethed through gnarled teeth dripping with venom and saliva... The next morning, the remainder of a company of men were found dead, killed where they lay, around a dying fire. The dead were stacked in piles, their husks of bodies reduced to the state of being feed bags for an army of wingless worms... but that description never made it to the adjutant's report... in spite of the fact that their bodies had been badly mutilated, their guts torn open, their faces ripped away to reveal only a glint of bone through the coagulation of blood and shredded muscle, the numbers were only attributed to the battle, and added to the already heavy casualty list...
Hear Ye not the sounds of battle? Sabres clash & muskets rattle |