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The Georgia Peach - A Story of the American Civil War
- Thread starter Fossy
- Start date
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
I suspect she probably did Barb, at least a little of his seed, as that's what Catherine puked back up ...
Sniff ... well, now that she’s been deflowered and degraded by Yankee trash, she’ll definitely be excluded from the guest list for next season’s cotillion.
twonines
LIMERICUS
Luckily for her, Captain Apostate was engaged on other duties!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
At the Tree Estate Cotillion, they are not that picky, usually!
Mainly because they’re all stone cold drunk on their asses long before the orchestra strikes up the first dance tune,
I resemble that remark...
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 22 – Movement around White Orchard, Around Midnight, As May 11th Becomes May 12th 1864
(Continued …)
The little vignette at the slave pens with the cutthroat was not the only movement around White Orchard that night.
“Please Massa Shepherd, not again, she sick, my chil’, let her rest, I beg you. Take me …”
But Tom Shepherd was on a mission. His lust had been fuelled by the sight of his bitch Mistress being beaten earlier this evening. The fact that he had raped young Mercy whilst watching the enthralling scene had simply heightened his desire to further degrade the poor slave girl.
“I don’t know why they let your little pup stay with you. Slave bitches that look like she does should be sold off, that’s what they’re good for, well that and one other thing …” His words were vicious but not as vicious as his actions when he pulled Mercy from her cot and threw her outside the crude hut in which she and her mother lived.
“And you too bitch … you get to watch.”
Mercy’s mother leapt from her own bed and stumbled outside into the warm night, lit only by the light of the moon. The rains had stopped but the darkness still aired an ominous presence.
The slave huts were a distance from both the pens and the main house, and so, other than a few prying eyes that briefly looked out through other cabins, only to quickly disappear when they saw the overseer, this scene was played out in relative isolation.
“Move to it,” Shepherd herded the two female slaves from their hut to the secondary whipping post, a smaller affair than the one by the block.
“No Massa please,” it was Mercy’s mother who spoke once again, as the girl herself simply looked forlorn through wide, scared eyes.
Mercy’s lustrous, thick black hair tumbled over her face as she moved toward the dreaded post, her pace slow, faltering.
“Stop.” She stopped.
“Strip.” She paused.
“I said … Strip!” Shepherd repeated in a more angry tone. Mercy’s hands, fingers stiff, like claws, reached for her shoulders ... but the shock, the humiliation of standing in the nude, knowing that she was about to be whipped for no reason at all, proved too much for her. Her weakened fingers shook so badly she was unable to grasp the sleeves of her torn shift to pull it off ...
After a few moments of panic-filled struggling, Mercy’s hands fell away, and she simply stood, engulfed in a deep, sobbing fit of frustration.
“You ...” He gestured to her mother with a slight lift of his chin. She stepped forward, distraught at the awful duty of helping her daughter out of her skimpy covering. With both hands, she drew the brief shift down.
Mercy’s pert breasts, high still with the fresh firmness of youth, tipped with dark areola, bounced free. The girl trembled and teetered as her mother tugged the taut garment down over her daughter’s quivering hips. The dirty, white apparel fluttered to the ground.
“Now fix her to the wood.” Shepherd growled his instruction.
The Mother gently grasped her daughter’s hands, and pulled towards the vertical beam. Naked, the dark-skinned slave girl of Imabangala origin, wrapped her arms obediently around the post, and allowed her mother to fasten the shackles that would hold her in place. Mercy’s smooth face was tear-stained and tight with horror, her breasts, abdomen and thighs pressed against the rough timber.
Sobbing, distraught beyond comprehension, her mother backed away, watching Shepherd advance upon her pitiable daughter. Grasping the handle of his bullwhip in one hand the overseer experimentally ran fingers across the leather with the other, showing as much disregard as he could towards the bound girl now stripped of the last vestiges of decency.
The overseer took position to Mercy’s left, and tested the weight of the lash in his right hand. He regarded the strength of the thick coiled leather length, and, with a smirk, released its serpentine length.
He raised his arm and thrust it downwards ... A practice swing. The bullwhip emitted a portentous swish through the hot, humid air. Mercy tensed at the sound, twisting her head back at him with a maniacal, almost feral look in her eyes.
The slave girl then threw her gaze forward, waiting fitfully … trembling, licking frantically around her dry lips. By the time Shepherd drew back the whip for real, her mother’s heart was pounding. As she watched her already abused daughter about to be beaten, blood coursed through all her extremities, against the tips of her fingers, the tips of her toes, her body seeming to spring away, out of itself …
The overseer swung his arm forward in a wide, horizontal arc. The leather cracked with shocking volume on tender flesh. Mercy threw her head back, tossing her loose mane of hair into further disarray. Her body vibrated, the force of the blow driving breath from her lungs in a toneless shriek.
Her Mother’s body leapt in time with her daughter’s and she looked down to the dust beneath her feet in alarm and fear. The lash painted a lengthwise streak of scarlet across the bound slave girl’s dusky hips. Shepherd drew back his arm to strike again, wrapping the strand of leather just above the crease between her clenched buttocks and tightened thighs, and then jerked the lash back towards himself … its harsh crack like a thick cord of wood snapped into two.
“Please Massa Shepherd, do not do this …’ but these words were whispered by the mother in fear of angering the overseer even more should he hear them.
Mercy’s body jerked rigid with pain once more, gasping frantically. The third stroke came down with undiminished force.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”
The bound slave girl let loose another breathless but less intense screech. The fourth drew a high-pitched, scarcely stifled, scream from her lips. At the fifth, Mercy was yelling out ear-piercing, harrowing sounds.
She gripped the post in a desperate effort to remain standing, grasping the wood so fiercely her knuckles turned white, her nails digging and scratching into the grain like hooks.
Her mother should have turned away, but, emotionally compelled, she kept her gaze fixed forward, watching the next strokes rain down at a relentless pace of snaps and cracks.
Mercy flung her head from side to side, her plaintive cries growing from shuddering whimpers to agonized shrieks. After a while, Shepherd paused to catch his breath and observed the bright red welts that had begun to emerge on the lashed flesh. He was taking care to spread the strokes evenly so as not cross over too much and slice the skin too badly.
It was then that Mercy’s mother saw in Shepherd’s eyes a look of wanton cruelty. He was revelling in his dominance, relishing how terrified her young daughter was, offered up so easily as a target for his brutality, bound at the post, taking the full force of his release. With head tilted, his eyes narrowing to slits, the overseer jerked back the thin strand of leather even higher into the air and slammed it once more against the back of Mercy’s thighs.
The young girl lurched in spasm, twisting her hips at this unexpected assault on previously unmarked flesh, and began screaming, as if her very soul was being torn from her body. Struggling to regain her balance, she stood with feet far apart, her bare legs stretched straight, bent slightly back, almost on her toes, arching her back so that her pubis leaned forward and pressed against the wooden beam.
All the while the lash mercilessly struck the backs and sides of each thigh, bringing a fresh series of pitiful wails. Her mother flinched at each blow, tears spilled down her cheeks, but she continued to watch, sharing her daughter’s torment as much as she could. Imagining Mercy’s stricken cries to be her own, she choked back a sob as her daughter was whipped into complete submission by this monster’s masterful strokes, each one swifter and sharper than the one before.
Then, gasping, his own chest heaving, Shepherd stopped.
Exhausted, Mercy’s knees gave way, and she fell forward still clutching the post with legs sprawled far apart, her lashed buttocks shiny, striped with the colour of raw meat. She whimpered in pain as the skin of her scalded haunches burned with the flames of agony.
“Get her back inside,” was all he said, as refastening the whip to his breeches, he headed for the comfort of his own bed.
To Be Continued ...
Footnote - Laying stripes across the bare back or buttocks (of a slave) caused indescribable pain, especially when each stroke dug deeper into previously opened wounds. During the interval between lashes, victims anticipated the next in anguish, wishing for postponement or for all due speed, though neither alternative brought relief … The whip forcefully removed any sense of control or power that slaves may have possessed … Whipping was like defecating: it happened regularly but one did not usually talk about it. If this were the case, a considerable portion of whippings went unaccounted for, leaving the primary historical record rather bare relative to other aspects of slavery …
- Extracts from … “HONOR, CONTROL, AND POWERLESSNESS: PLANTATION WHIPPING IN THE ANTEBELLUM SOUTH”
The role of Mercy was once again played by the wonderfully whippable, eminently enslavable Skin Diamond.
(Continued …)
The little vignette at the slave pens with the cutthroat was not the only movement around White Orchard that night.
“Please Massa Shepherd, not again, she sick, my chil’, let her rest, I beg you. Take me …”
But Tom Shepherd was on a mission. His lust had been fuelled by the sight of his bitch Mistress being beaten earlier this evening. The fact that he had raped young Mercy whilst watching the enthralling scene had simply heightened his desire to further degrade the poor slave girl.
“I don’t know why they let your little pup stay with you. Slave bitches that look like she does should be sold off, that’s what they’re good for, well that and one other thing …” His words were vicious but not as vicious as his actions when he pulled Mercy from her cot and threw her outside the crude hut in which she and her mother lived.
“And you too bitch … you get to watch.”
Mercy’s mother leapt from her own bed and stumbled outside into the warm night, lit only by the light of the moon. The rains had stopped but the darkness still aired an ominous presence.
The slave huts were a distance from both the pens and the main house, and so, other than a few prying eyes that briefly looked out through other cabins, only to quickly disappear when they saw the overseer, this scene was played out in relative isolation.
“Move to it,” Shepherd herded the two female slaves from their hut to the secondary whipping post, a smaller affair than the one by the block.
“No Massa please,” it was Mercy’s mother who spoke once again, as the girl herself simply looked forlorn through wide, scared eyes.
Mercy’s lustrous, thick black hair tumbled over her face as she moved toward the dreaded post, her pace slow, faltering.
“Stop.” She stopped.
“Strip.” She paused.
“I said … Strip!” Shepherd repeated in a more angry tone. Mercy’s hands, fingers stiff, like claws, reached for her shoulders ... but the shock, the humiliation of standing in the nude, knowing that she was about to be whipped for no reason at all, proved too much for her. Her weakened fingers shook so badly she was unable to grasp the sleeves of her torn shift to pull it off ...
After a few moments of panic-filled struggling, Mercy’s hands fell away, and she simply stood, engulfed in a deep, sobbing fit of frustration.
“You ...” He gestured to her mother with a slight lift of his chin. She stepped forward, distraught at the awful duty of helping her daughter out of her skimpy covering. With both hands, she drew the brief shift down.
Mercy’s pert breasts, high still with the fresh firmness of youth, tipped with dark areola, bounced free. The girl trembled and teetered as her mother tugged the taut garment down over her daughter’s quivering hips. The dirty, white apparel fluttered to the ground.
“Now fix her to the wood.” Shepherd growled his instruction.
The Mother gently grasped her daughter’s hands, and pulled towards the vertical beam. Naked, the dark-skinned slave girl of Imabangala origin, wrapped her arms obediently around the post, and allowed her mother to fasten the shackles that would hold her in place. Mercy’s smooth face was tear-stained and tight with horror, her breasts, abdomen and thighs pressed against the rough timber.
Sobbing, distraught beyond comprehension, her mother backed away, watching Shepherd advance upon her pitiable daughter. Grasping the handle of his bullwhip in one hand the overseer experimentally ran fingers across the leather with the other, showing as much disregard as he could towards the bound girl now stripped of the last vestiges of decency.
The overseer took position to Mercy’s left, and tested the weight of the lash in his right hand. He regarded the strength of the thick coiled leather length, and, with a smirk, released its serpentine length.
He raised his arm and thrust it downwards ... A practice swing. The bullwhip emitted a portentous swish through the hot, humid air. Mercy tensed at the sound, twisting her head back at him with a maniacal, almost feral look in her eyes.
The slave girl then threw her gaze forward, waiting fitfully … trembling, licking frantically around her dry lips. By the time Shepherd drew back the whip for real, her mother’s heart was pounding. As she watched her already abused daughter about to be beaten, blood coursed through all her extremities, against the tips of her fingers, the tips of her toes, her body seeming to spring away, out of itself …
The overseer swung his arm forward in a wide, horizontal arc. The leather cracked with shocking volume on tender flesh. Mercy threw her head back, tossing her loose mane of hair into further disarray. Her body vibrated, the force of the blow driving breath from her lungs in a toneless shriek.
Her Mother’s body leapt in time with her daughter’s and she looked down to the dust beneath her feet in alarm and fear. The lash painted a lengthwise streak of scarlet across the bound slave girl’s dusky hips. Shepherd drew back his arm to strike again, wrapping the strand of leather just above the crease between her clenched buttocks and tightened thighs, and then jerked the lash back towards himself … its harsh crack like a thick cord of wood snapped into two.
“Please Massa Shepherd, do not do this …’ but these words were whispered by the mother in fear of angering the overseer even more should he hear them.
Mercy’s body jerked rigid with pain once more, gasping frantically. The third stroke came down with undiminished force.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”
The bound slave girl let loose another breathless but less intense screech. The fourth drew a high-pitched, scarcely stifled, scream from her lips. At the fifth, Mercy was yelling out ear-piercing, harrowing sounds.
She gripped the post in a desperate effort to remain standing, grasping the wood so fiercely her knuckles turned white, her nails digging and scratching into the grain like hooks.
Her mother should have turned away, but, emotionally compelled, she kept her gaze fixed forward, watching the next strokes rain down at a relentless pace of snaps and cracks.
Mercy flung her head from side to side, her plaintive cries growing from shuddering whimpers to agonized shrieks. After a while, Shepherd paused to catch his breath and observed the bright red welts that had begun to emerge on the lashed flesh. He was taking care to spread the strokes evenly so as not cross over too much and slice the skin too badly.
It was then that Mercy’s mother saw in Shepherd’s eyes a look of wanton cruelty. He was revelling in his dominance, relishing how terrified her young daughter was, offered up so easily as a target for his brutality, bound at the post, taking the full force of his release. With head tilted, his eyes narrowing to slits, the overseer jerked back the thin strand of leather even higher into the air and slammed it once more against the back of Mercy’s thighs.
The young girl lurched in spasm, twisting her hips at this unexpected assault on previously unmarked flesh, and began screaming, as if her very soul was being torn from her body. Struggling to regain her balance, she stood with feet far apart, her bare legs stretched straight, bent slightly back, almost on her toes, arching her back so that her pubis leaned forward and pressed against the wooden beam.
All the while the lash mercilessly struck the backs and sides of each thigh, bringing a fresh series of pitiful wails. Her mother flinched at each blow, tears spilled down her cheeks, but she continued to watch, sharing her daughter’s torment as much as she could. Imagining Mercy’s stricken cries to be her own, she choked back a sob as her daughter was whipped into complete submission by this monster’s masterful strokes, each one swifter and sharper than the one before.
Then, gasping, his own chest heaving, Shepherd stopped.
Exhausted, Mercy’s knees gave way, and she fell forward still clutching the post with legs sprawled far apart, her lashed buttocks shiny, striped with the colour of raw meat. She whimpered in pain as the skin of her scalded haunches burned with the flames of agony.
“Get her back inside,” was all he said, as refastening the whip to his breeches, he headed for the comfort of his own bed.
To Be Continued ...
Footnote - Laying stripes across the bare back or buttocks (of a slave) caused indescribable pain, especially when each stroke dug deeper into previously opened wounds. During the interval between lashes, victims anticipated the next in anguish, wishing for postponement or for all due speed, though neither alternative brought relief … The whip forcefully removed any sense of control or power that slaves may have possessed … Whipping was like defecating: it happened regularly but one did not usually talk about it. If this were the case, a considerable portion of whippings went unaccounted for, leaving the primary historical record rather bare relative to other aspects of slavery …
- Extracts from … “HONOR, CONTROL, AND POWERLESSNESS: PLANTATION WHIPPING IN THE ANTEBELLUM SOUTH”
The role of Mercy was once again played by the wonderfully whippable, eminently enslavable Skin Diamond.
Attachments
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Thank you 99. I suspect Catherine's anguish continued unabated even whilst this appalling scene was playing out ...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
That was a remarkable chapter, Fossy. I was particularly impressed by the quote at the end to put the true horror of slave treatment in perspective. Although I feel some sympathy for Catherine (and a lot of lust), she is, in the end, a spoiled privileged young woman. She is one of whom Lincoln spoke:
To read in the Bible, as the word of God himself, that 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread' [Gen. 3:19] and to preach therefrom, that 'In the sweat of other mans faces shalt thou eat bread,' to my mind can scarcely be reconciled with honest sincerity. When brought to my final reckoning, may I have to answer for robbing no man of his goods [I Sam. 12:3]
Mercy's suffering fills me with sorrow, pity, and hatred.
To read in the Bible, as the word of God himself, that 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread' [Gen. 3:19] and to preach therefrom, that 'In the sweat of other mans faces shalt thou eat bread,' to my mind can scarcely be reconciled with honest sincerity. When brought to my final reckoning, may I have to answer for robbing no man of his goods [I Sam. 12:3]
Mercy's suffering fills me with sorrow, pity, and hatred.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Thank you PrPr my friend. Despite our proclivities here on CF, that was a hard chapter to write. It may appear to be gratuitous, but its essence was designed to highlight even more the true nature of Overseer Tom Shepherd.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 22 – Movement around White Orchard, Around Midnight, As May 11th Becomes May 12th 1864
(Continued …)
Never during all of the horrors that this war had delivered in its three long, awful years, not even upon the untimely and tragic deaths of both her mama and papa, had Catherine felt as numb as she felt now. Dazed through fitful sleep, she had been truly forsaken.
Brought up as a young lady, a ‘belle’, Catherine had come to expect masculine assertion from the menfolk hereabouts, and with a good helping of chivalry and respect to go along with it. But these louts, these rogues in blue had stripped her, beaten her and now violated her body in the most brutal manner imaginable.
They might as well have raped her; she may even have preferred that rather than suffer the feel and taste of his … his … and when he released … Catherine felt the bile rise once more from deep in her gut.
Her mind was a myriad of confusion while her body ached in more ways than she had ever thought possible. Resting her head on the crook of her arm Catherine squirmed as she shifted across the rough dusty base of the pen, trying her best to avoid putting the battered soles of her feet into contact with anything.
She knew what was ahead of her, and although she was afraid, if this thing had to be done then Catherine wanted it done. The anticipation was interminable. She wondered how many of White Orchard’s slaves had lain here before her, bound for the whip, scared out of their minds like she was now. She felt sympathy for those poor creatures.
Her entire body heaved as once more she dry retched. No … of course they would stop it. Uncle Billy could not let this happen. Not to her. Surely it was a trick to frighten her. Or he would realise that she could not endure such punishment ...
Naive though these hopes were, they helped to stay the enormous strain of waiting. Lingering was the hardest part, a severe punishment in itself, serving its malicious purpose to remind her that no appeal of emotion or reason would turn the Lieutenant’s intent, and persuade him to release her.
Catherine shuddered again, feeling her eyes water, acknowledging her trepidation and shame. She mumbled an earnest prayer. Her family were Catholics, like Uncle Billy’s, but visiting a church or chapel of any kind during these recent times had not been possible. However, right now seemed like the appropriate time to reacquaint herself with the Lord our God … her God, or at least she hoped that He was, for He was her only hope.
Voicing the benediction quietly to herself, and in her grainy half slumbering state, Catherine felt the warmth of sunlight that burst in through the opened doors and gleamed upon her place of confinement.
She raised her head to the dawn of the day that heralded the morning of her punishment.
Moments later as the guard leapt to his feet, the sudden movement caused her to look. As she balanced awkwardly on her elbow, upright in the pen, Catherine saw what the commotion was. Uncle Billy was here.
Chapter 23 – Outside the Discipline Block Out-Building at White Orchard Mansion Around 6am (a little while before Sherman departs to visit the block), May 12th 1864
“No, thank you, I am most definitely not hungry.” Sherman waived away offers of bacon and settled instead for a cup of warm coffee, which, despite the rigours of today’s burdensome schedule, he needed in order to heighten his attentiveness following a very unsatisfactory night’s sleep.
“The surgeon and the drummer have arrived just as you asked General.” Lieutenant Sampson buzzed around his Commanding Officer like a bee seeking nectar. He could hardly contain the anticipation that dwelt inside him, and he was keen to make sure that the General did not change his mind over the whipping of this young, nubile filly who, in fact, had turned out to be the General’s very own Goddaughter!
“Good. Let them avail of refreshments and then we will meet. Now Lieutenant, take me to the post. Let me survey the battleground.”
Sampson was delighted at Sherman’s analogous use of the term ‘battleground’, it confirmed that the planned punishment display would most definitely be taking place!
The discipline block was some way from the main house, and so the military pair walked for a not inconsiderable time to reach the whipping post. The morning of May 12th 1864 was bright and already warm, the sun having risen, clearing the early mist, over an hour ago. The previous day had seen several inches of heavy rainfall, and now, baking in the ever-increasing heat of the morning, the slippery, thick mud was beginning to harden and rut.
As the two men approached the small raised platform, the General stopped in those rutted tracks to stare. “Good God man, what have you done to the post?” Sherman’s brow furrowed as his junior officer’s heart rose into his mouth.
“It’s an amendment to hasten her confession Sir. It’s based on the structure of a crucifix. The Roman’s …”
“Yes, yes, I know what it is Lieutenant Sampson, they call it a sedile I believe, but you cannot be serious about using it.” The General moved to the post and touched the point where the carved length of smooth upturned wood had been nailed to the upright.
“Remove it at once.”
Sampson swallowed. There was no way he could have it taken off now. He and the men had marvelled over its potential, fantasised at stories of how it would penetrate the little bitch to the core …
“Sir, it is for her own good.”
Sherman turned to face the Lieutenant, and cocked his head. “Pray do tell me how that can possibly be Mister Sampson.”
Sampson took a deep breath and replied, “General Sir, none of us wish this scene to go on for any longer than is absolutely necessary,” his duplicity was hidden inside the words, because of course the Lieutenant, along with every last one of his men, wanted Catherine’s torment to continue for as long as possible. “… and you said yourself that you wanted answers. So, the sooner we get them the better for everyone, including Miss McCown. If we make the earlier part of this experience as arduous as possible for her, the more chance there will be that she breaks sooner rather than later.”
The Lieutenant took a step back, placed his gloved hands behind his back and smiled. He had to admit that he was quite pleased with his response to the General’s objection.
“I don’t know Lieutenant, it seems so crude, so barbaric!”
“But General, this is war, it is crude and cruel, as you yourself often remind us. The hanging of those four troopers of ours was barbaric!”
Sherman frowned, creating even more furrows to his brow. With a shake of his head, he said, “Very well Mister Sampson, you may leave it in situ.”
“Thank you, General Sir. I intend to have the shackles raised to the very top of the post with the accused placed on a crate while her wrists are secured. The wooden phall … I mean the sedile, will be positioned ‘appropriately’ during my initial questioning so that she can anticipate what is about to happen. If she admits her guilt and answers our questions at that stage, she will avoid all further discomforts. However, if she refuses to speak then the crate will be kicked away and, left hanging only by her wrists, she will be impaled … whereupon the whipping can begin.”
Sherman closed his eyes and sighed. It was more than harsh, and this was Catherine McCown, his own Goddaughter. But they had come this far he reminded himself, and the matter was, after all, of the gravest importance.
“I will leave the administration of this affair in your hands Lieutenant. Come now, let us visit with the surgeon.”
Chapter 24 – The Drawing Room in White Orchard Mansion, Around 6:30am, May 12th 1864
“General, your welcome has been most amenable, thank you.” Major John Watson, the surgeon attached to the Army of the Tennessee’s XVII Corps, was a gregarious man. He enjoyed the convivial nature of army life and he had most certainly appreciated the bacon, biscuits, gravy and coffee that had been waiting upon his arrival.
“It is my pleasure Major Watson, now let us get down to the business of the day.”
“A girl, I believe General?” He responded with more than a glint in his eye. Sherman nodded by way of response.
“She stands accused of spying, and we believe that she aided bushwhackers to murder several of our men recently. However, we cannot simply hang or shoot her, because we know that she has information that could prove crucial to the battles that we will no doubt be fighting in the coming days.”
The Major nodded, an earnest look belying his own mounting thrill.
“She is, I understand, known to you General Sherman?”
Sherman stared at his officer without saying a single word in response, until finally he replied with quiet assertion, “She is indeed Major Watson, but that is of no material relevance to what we are here to do.”
Nodding his understanding, it became clear to the Major that this was the end of the matter.
“You, sir, are here to inspect her health before we begin, and also be on hand to perform spot checks during the flogging, as I, or you, deem necessary. Is that clear and understood?”
“Perfectly General …” Major Watson looked down at the table before him, coughed to clear his throat and then addressed his Commanding Officer once more.
“General might I ask, during the punishment … will the girl be … naked?”
Sherman frowned at the question, ran his hand loosely through his scruff of red hair, and nodded. “Yes Major, she will.”
The less senior officer nodded in response, his mind recalling how he had summonsed one of the young camp followers into his tent only the night before. His groin stiffened a little and the Major was forced to shift his position so that his considerable bulk could rest more easily inside his uniform.
“Then take me to her General, if you please, and let us begin this examination.”
To Be Continued ...
Footnote - Just a point for consideration. Yesterday's post was harrowing to read. The poor slave girl Mercy was savagely whipped by a mean overseer for no reason other than to heighten his ardour and subjugate the girl. Thus far in our story Catherine has been presented as an innocent woman-child who is being treated appallingly by monstrous Union Soldiers. So, the interesting question for us all to consider is whether Catherine is in fact an innocent victim, or is she truthfully an important cog in the wheel of a Confederate spy network, or ... and very pertinently, does the fact that she is an owner of other human beings, and, whilst not engaging personally in anything but equitable treatment of her slaves, she simply MUST be aware of the actions of people like Shepherd, and by turning a blind eye becomes party to it ... and therefore, does she deserve what is undoubtedly coming her way?
(Continued …)
Never during all of the horrors that this war had delivered in its three long, awful years, not even upon the untimely and tragic deaths of both her mama and papa, had Catherine felt as numb as she felt now. Dazed through fitful sleep, she had been truly forsaken.
Brought up as a young lady, a ‘belle’, Catherine had come to expect masculine assertion from the menfolk hereabouts, and with a good helping of chivalry and respect to go along with it. But these louts, these rogues in blue had stripped her, beaten her and now violated her body in the most brutal manner imaginable.
They might as well have raped her; she may even have preferred that rather than suffer the feel and taste of his … his … and when he released … Catherine felt the bile rise once more from deep in her gut.
Her mind was a myriad of confusion while her body ached in more ways than she had ever thought possible. Resting her head on the crook of her arm Catherine squirmed as she shifted across the rough dusty base of the pen, trying her best to avoid putting the battered soles of her feet into contact with anything.
She knew what was ahead of her, and although she was afraid, if this thing had to be done then Catherine wanted it done. The anticipation was interminable. She wondered how many of White Orchard’s slaves had lain here before her, bound for the whip, scared out of their minds like she was now. She felt sympathy for those poor creatures.
Her entire body heaved as once more she dry retched. No … of course they would stop it. Uncle Billy could not let this happen. Not to her. Surely it was a trick to frighten her. Or he would realise that she could not endure such punishment ...
Naive though these hopes were, they helped to stay the enormous strain of waiting. Lingering was the hardest part, a severe punishment in itself, serving its malicious purpose to remind her that no appeal of emotion or reason would turn the Lieutenant’s intent, and persuade him to release her.
Catherine shuddered again, feeling her eyes water, acknowledging her trepidation and shame. She mumbled an earnest prayer. Her family were Catholics, like Uncle Billy’s, but visiting a church or chapel of any kind during these recent times had not been possible. However, right now seemed like the appropriate time to reacquaint herself with the Lord our God … her God, or at least she hoped that He was, for He was her only hope.
Voicing the benediction quietly to herself, and in her grainy half slumbering state, Catherine felt the warmth of sunlight that burst in through the opened doors and gleamed upon her place of confinement.
She raised her head to the dawn of the day that heralded the morning of her punishment.
Moments later as the guard leapt to his feet, the sudden movement caused her to look. As she balanced awkwardly on her elbow, upright in the pen, Catherine saw what the commotion was. Uncle Billy was here.
Chapter 23 – Outside the Discipline Block Out-Building at White Orchard Mansion Around 6am (a little while before Sherman departs to visit the block), May 12th 1864
“No, thank you, I am most definitely not hungry.” Sherman waived away offers of bacon and settled instead for a cup of warm coffee, which, despite the rigours of today’s burdensome schedule, he needed in order to heighten his attentiveness following a very unsatisfactory night’s sleep.
“The surgeon and the drummer have arrived just as you asked General.” Lieutenant Sampson buzzed around his Commanding Officer like a bee seeking nectar. He could hardly contain the anticipation that dwelt inside him, and he was keen to make sure that the General did not change his mind over the whipping of this young, nubile filly who, in fact, had turned out to be the General’s very own Goddaughter!
“Good. Let them avail of refreshments and then we will meet. Now Lieutenant, take me to the post. Let me survey the battleground.”
Sampson was delighted at Sherman’s analogous use of the term ‘battleground’, it confirmed that the planned punishment display would most definitely be taking place!
The discipline block was some way from the main house, and so the military pair walked for a not inconsiderable time to reach the whipping post. The morning of May 12th 1864 was bright and already warm, the sun having risen, clearing the early mist, over an hour ago. The previous day had seen several inches of heavy rainfall, and now, baking in the ever-increasing heat of the morning, the slippery, thick mud was beginning to harden and rut.
As the two men approached the small raised platform, the General stopped in those rutted tracks to stare. “Good God man, what have you done to the post?” Sherman’s brow furrowed as his junior officer’s heart rose into his mouth.
“It’s an amendment to hasten her confession Sir. It’s based on the structure of a crucifix. The Roman’s …”
“Yes, yes, I know what it is Lieutenant Sampson, they call it a sedile I believe, but you cannot be serious about using it.” The General moved to the post and touched the point where the carved length of smooth upturned wood had been nailed to the upright.
“Remove it at once.”
Sampson swallowed. There was no way he could have it taken off now. He and the men had marvelled over its potential, fantasised at stories of how it would penetrate the little bitch to the core …
“Sir, it is for her own good.”
Sherman turned to face the Lieutenant, and cocked his head. “Pray do tell me how that can possibly be Mister Sampson.”
Sampson took a deep breath and replied, “General Sir, none of us wish this scene to go on for any longer than is absolutely necessary,” his duplicity was hidden inside the words, because of course the Lieutenant, along with every last one of his men, wanted Catherine’s torment to continue for as long as possible. “… and you said yourself that you wanted answers. So, the sooner we get them the better for everyone, including Miss McCown. If we make the earlier part of this experience as arduous as possible for her, the more chance there will be that she breaks sooner rather than later.”
The Lieutenant took a step back, placed his gloved hands behind his back and smiled. He had to admit that he was quite pleased with his response to the General’s objection.
“I don’t know Lieutenant, it seems so crude, so barbaric!”
“But General, this is war, it is crude and cruel, as you yourself often remind us. The hanging of those four troopers of ours was barbaric!”
Sherman frowned, creating even more furrows to his brow. With a shake of his head, he said, “Very well Mister Sampson, you may leave it in situ.”
“Thank you, General Sir. I intend to have the shackles raised to the very top of the post with the accused placed on a crate while her wrists are secured. The wooden phall … I mean the sedile, will be positioned ‘appropriately’ during my initial questioning so that she can anticipate what is about to happen. If she admits her guilt and answers our questions at that stage, she will avoid all further discomforts. However, if she refuses to speak then the crate will be kicked away and, left hanging only by her wrists, she will be impaled … whereupon the whipping can begin.”
Sherman closed his eyes and sighed. It was more than harsh, and this was Catherine McCown, his own Goddaughter. But they had come this far he reminded himself, and the matter was, after all, of the gravest importance.
“I will leave the administration of this affair in your hands Lieutenant. Come now, let us visit with the surgeon.”
Chapter 24 – The Drawing Room in White Orchard Mansion, Around 6:30am, May 12th 1864
“General, your welcome has been most amenable, thank you.” Major John Watson, the surgeon attached to the Army of the Tennessee’s XVII Corps, was a gregarious man. He enjoyed the convivial nature of army life and he had most certainly appreciated the bacon, biscuits, gravy and coffee that had been waiting upon his arrival.
“It is my pleasure Major Watson, now let us get down to the business of the day.”
“A girl, I believe General?” He responded with more than a glint in his eye. Sherman nodded by way of response.
“She stands accused of spying, and we believe that she aided bushwhackers to murder several of our men recently. However, we cannot simply hang or shoot her, because we know that she has information that could prove crucial to the battles that we will no doubt be fighting in the coming days.”
The Major nodded, an earnest look belying his own mounting thrill.
“She is, I understand, known to you General Sherman?”
Sherman stared at his officer without saying a single word in response, until finally he replied with quiet assertion, “She is indeed Major Watson, but that is of no material relevance to what we are here to do.”
Nodding his understanding, it became clear to the Major that this was the end of the matter.
“You, sir, are here to inspect her health before we begin, and also be on hand to perform spot checks during the flogging, as I, or you, deem necessary. Is that clear and understood?”
“Perfectly General …” Major Watson looked down at the table before him, coughed to clear his throat and then addressed his Commanding Officer once more.
“General might I ask, during the punishment … will the girl be … naked?”
Sherman frowned at the question, ran his hand loosely through his scruff of red hair, and nodded. “Yes Major, she will.”
The less senior officer nodded in response, his mind recalling how he had summonsed one of the young camp followers into his tent only the night before. His groin stiffened a little and the Major was forced to shift his position so that his considerable bulk could rest more easily inside his uniform.
“Then take me to her General, if you please, and let us begin this examination.”
To Be Continued ...
Footnote - Just a point for consideration. Yesterday's post was harrowing to read. The poor slave girl Mercy was savagely whipped by a mean overseer for no reason other than to heighten his ardour and subjugate the girl. Thus far in our story Catherine has been presented as an innocent woman-child who is being treated appallingly by monstrous Union Soldiers. So, the interesting question for us all to consider is whether Catherine is in fact an innocent victim, or is she truthfully an important cog in the wheel of a Confederate spy network, or ... and very pertinently, does the fact that she is an owner of other human beings, and, whilst not engaging personally in anything but equitable treatment of her slaves, she simply MUST be aware of the actions of people like Shepherd, and by turning a blind eye becomes party to it ... and therefore, does she deserve what is undoubtedly coming her way?
Attachments
twonines
LIMERICUS
Another great chapter,Fossy.
The question as to whether sexual assault and torture are legitimate means of obtaining information in wartime, is one that has run for centuries ,and despite our thin veneer of civilisation,continues to be vexatious even today.The end justifies the means,or it is for the greater good seem to be the justification used.
The question as to whether sexual assault and torture are legitimate means of obtaining information in wartime, is one that has run for centuries ,and despite our thin veneer of civilisation,continues to be vexatious even today.The end justifies the means,or it is for the greater good seem to be the justification used.
An awakening for her ... belated sympathy for those poor creatures ... better late than never.
I think this Lieutenant and his men would score high on Wragg’s loathometer. Might even break it!
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Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
In today's judicial approach of responsabilities, whether she would be ignorant of Shepherd's actions or not, ignorance is not accepted as an excuse.
Doubtful! It is good old analogue craftsmanship, not a digital toy made in North Corea!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I'm a little confused. I thought the "attachment " was intended as entertainment for Cat, a distraction from the flogging. A small mercy.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
At least that's how I'd expect Barbara to "take it."