Hey Rod,

Nice seeing you here. I do enjoy reading your work.

For those who are coming in late and don't know you, perhaps you should explain what this is?

Looking forward to more! Thank you,

Michael

I'm not sure what it is myself...I've been tinkering with a story idea set on the Missouri/Kansas border, covering the border wars from 1854, leading into the Civil War, then finishing up some time after.

There is a LOT of history that few know about because there were no "Gettysburg" type battles fought....just a lot of skirmishes and small scale battles (with the exception of perhaps Lexington and Westport). 

I grew up in Kansas City, MO and learned a lot about Quantrill, Jesse James, Senator Lane, Doc Jennison, General Ewing, General Blunt, and of course Old John Brown.  I'm not trying to copy or rewrite "Ride with the Devil";  I want to concentrate on the more well known characters and write a historical fiction, creating characters and having them interact with the real characters. 

I don't know where it will go yet...I'm making it up as I write...and sometimes characters just seem to take on a life of their own and write their own destinies.  It may just fade away or it may go on in a series of blogs...but I plan to have fun writing it, no matter what.

With luck, there will be plenty of action, drama, comedy, a surprise or two (or not).  I'm not promising Bernard Cornwell or Hemingway...just plain ol' TBG Rod writing from the heart. 

My dear Mr. Brents~

Do please continue your story, do you have others?

~Miss Rose

A few years ago, we had a good go round fo first person tales. You can find them here:

http://mainemilitia.com/node/430

Mr. Brents also wrote some other tales for the website but they may be hidden in the archives. I can dig them out if you want Rod? The archives would be the old forum we had here. There are some things in the archive just better left in the dark. But some of the stories were good ones!

I don't know...opening those old archives may be like breaking the seal on Pandora's Box and releasing all those old demons...

I honestly can't remember what stories are buried in the archives...I did a tongue-in-cheek short series that started with a couple "Bill Anderson" entries...then there was something about Confederate Ski troops...but that was just a prank I pulled. 

Mike, I'll leave it to your good judgement whether or not you wish to take us into that minefield again.  You never know...it could be "interesting"...like that old Chineese curse...

...and Savage Cruelty is the working title of my story.  What you read was the first part of the prologue...I'll submit it in short bursts so as not to bore the reader too quickly...sort of like those old time radio serials.

besides, every time I read it, I end up "fixing" something so this gives me the opportunity to rework it a little at a time.  I can't promise it will be all that exciting, I'm an unpublished novice writer...but I have a story inside me itching to get out and I like to spin a good yarn...so stay tuned. 

My dear Mr. Johnson~

How grand a discovery, your secret archives. Who would have thought that such conversing was at one time so popular? I would love to see that again. Perhaps if we gently nudge our folks, it shall be the norm once more?

~Miss Rose

Mr. Brents is quite right. There are some things in the archives that are better never to see the light of day. Perhaps someday a digital archeologist will break that seal in a safe manner.

If I have the time, I may carefully pull a couple of choosen works out and re-publish them here.

There are some great pieces from the old days...

 (This picks up from the previous entry...)

Jeptha heard another coach struggling up the bluff road.  The driver was cursing and whistling his commands to coax the tired and cold drays along.  "Hush up", he whispered.  The command was unnecessary because everyone was too terrified to make a sound.

     A bonfire tended by two slaves marked the entrance to the driveway that had been shoveled clear of snow.  They were dressed in top hats, powdered wigs, bright red formal coats with tails, white breeches, and high leather black boots polished to a glistening shine.  As each coach left the road, the slaves removed their hats and bowed deeply, facing the ground until the coach was past. 

     The driveway wound through a dense row of elm and hickory trees and was lit every few yards by lanterns held by black servants shivering knee-deep in the snow banks and dressed in the same formal costumes.   They were instructed to remain still as statues; lanterns held high above their heads, eyes forward, warned not to look at the coaches or their white passengers as they rolled past. 

     After a final sharp right turn, the carriages left the trees and entered the clearing where the mansion stood before them.  Bright yellow light from over a hundred oil lamps and candles flickered from every window of the three-storey manor where it was reflected back by the snow onto the whitewashed bricks, bathing the building in a soft cream-colored glow.  The mansion on the bluffs looked down on the town and over the river: An alabaster monument to wealth, power and influence sitting on the western edge of the civilized nation. 

     Spirits bolstered by liquor and anticipation of an evening of feasting, gossip, and political opportunity, the finest families of Western Missouri announced their arrivals with cheers and shouts of "Merry Christmas".

     In the shadows of the trees, just beyond the reach of the lights held by the freezing and miserable servants, Jeptha listened to the cheers of the arriving guests. He felt his wife Cassie shiver and pulled her thin body tighter against him.  The smoke from the manor hung low in the still evening air and carried the sweet fragrances of hickory, roast turkey, pork and ham straight down to his empty stomach with each breath he took.        

     "Quiet, Jeptha. They can probably hear you growling clean up to the house."  Cassie gently rubbed her hand over his stomach to quiet the rumblings but Jeptha knew as long as he smelled that smoke, nothing would make the noise go away.  He hoped it wasn't loud enough for the slaves on the driveway to hear since only the two tending the fire knew what was up; if too many knew his plans, then everyone would try to run with him and that would have alerted the folks at the house.  He had to keep this group small if he hoped for any success. 

     The heavy snow on the tree limbs overhead caught the glow from the bonfire by the road and reflected a dim light that allowed Jeptha to see only varying shades of darkness where his group was hiding; he couldn't tell who anyone was unless he was practically nose to nose with them.  He knew that once he got away from the farm and into the woods, it would be much darker so he told them tie rope belts around their waists to which he tied strips of cloth or scraps of hemp rope, linking them in a human chain.  It was the only way he could think of to keep them from getting separated as they made their way to the river and he had to keep them together until they made it to Kansas.

     And he had to keep them quiet.

     "How much longer we gonna wait here, Jeptha?" The deep voice rumbled out of the quiet darkness, startling Jeptha who squeezed Cassie so tightly that she let out a quiet squeal of pain.  Big dumb Oscar.  Damn fool field hand was too stupid to follow the simplest directions.  He wanted to leave him behind, but he knew he needed the huge man's strength to help the weaker ones along.

            "Hush up Oscar," he whispered into the darkness.  "We're going soon, but like I told you before, we got to wait until all the people are in the house making a lot of noise. Then we head out for the river."

            "Ok Jeptha," Oscar "whispered" loud enough to make Jeptha squeeze his eyes shut, hoping none of the slaves on the road heard and wandered back with their light to investigate.  "You're the boss."

            'The boss.'  Jeptha still wondered how he ended up with that title.  All he did was talk to some crazy old white preacher riding past the farm on his way to Westport, and now he was the 'boss'. 

 OK...here's some more.....

            Five days.  He was still struggling to accept how much his life changed in such a short time.  Five days ago, Jeptha was a simple field hand.  He kept out of trouble, did his work, avoided the Overseer's punishments, and took care of his wife Cassie.  But he was a slave.  He or Cassie could be sold, beaten, worked for hours with no rest; they were someone's property and had nothing of their own. 

            Then on that unusually warm December morning, while he was chopping wood near the road with Oscar, an old man dressed in black trousers, wearing a long black frock coat, and a wide-brimmed black hat rode his mule up to the gate and asked for water.  Between sips from the dipper, he introduced himself as Silas Wolfe, a Methodist minister from the Shawnee Mission settlement.  He said he worked for the Emigrant Aide Society back east and was here to help free the Negroes. 

            Jeptha became immediately wary of the stranger, but Oscar leaned forward and listened wide-eyed, licking his lips like a hungry dog.  The old minister pointed west and told them that just beyond the woods, about three miles yonder from where they stood right now, was the Missouri River.  Jeptha already knew that because he'd been there many times picking up supplies from the riverboat landing at Westport, but he listened obediently as the minister rambled on.

            Minister Wolfe went on to tell them that on the other side of that river lay the Territory of Kansas.  Jeptha knew that too because the Overseer, Mr. Crook, spoke many times about the 'sumbitches over yonder'; Mr. Crook really hated folks from that side of the river for some reason. 

            The old man emptied the dipper and asked Jeptha for a refill.  He took another slow sip, cradled the dipper in his hands and looked at the two men like a buyer inspecting a prospective new slave.  Jeptha grew nervous and impatient, thinking the old man was just having a bit of fun at their expense by keeping them from their work long enough to be caught by Mr. Cook.  He scratched his forehead as he worked up a polite way to beg the man's pardon and ask if they may please go back to work.

            The minister casually asked, "Did you two boys know that there ain't no slavery in the Territory of Kansas?" 

            Wolfe noticed that he finally had the full attention of the fellow who seemed to have the brains and sense to understand what he was going to tell them next.

            "Did you know, boys, that over in Kansas, all Negro men, women, and children are as equal as whites?  That you are free to work, farm, do whatever you want, or go anywhere's you choose without having to ask the permission of some overseer or master?"

            Jeptha didn't know that.

            Wolfe noticed thick scars on the back of Oscar's neck that looked like pale white snakes crawling out of the top of his shirt.  He nodded at the old wounds and said, "And nobody gets whipped in Kansas."

            Oscar rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and looked down at his feet. 

            Jeptha scratched his forehead and thought of Mr. Crook and the beatings he'd been forced to watch.  The Overseer always carried a rope whip and wore a sawed-off double barrel shotgun slung over his shoulder.  He'd seen what Mr. Crook could do with that rope; it was a thick weave of rough hemp, tarred at the handle and split into three separate lines about two feet long.  Each line had a knot in the end that was dipped in hot tar and spiked with three small nails.  When the tar cooled, the knots became hard as rocks and kept the nails from being left in someone's flesh.   The parts not tarred were stained almost as black from the dried blood of anyone Mr. Crook judged wasn't putting in an honest day's work.  

            He always dragged the end of the rope behind him through the dirt, hog pens, and occasionally dipped it in the ditches they used as a latrine when working the fields.  It smelled like shit and death.  He even had a name for it: "Blessed Mary".  He called his shotgun "Beelzebub".

            As the minister talked of freedom, Oscar grinned like a fool.  He stamped his feet and rubbed his palms together and asked Wolfe for directions to Kansas.  Jeptha knew Oscar could get lost between the hog pen and the cabin; he'd never make it to the river and over to Kansas on his own. 

            As Wolfe talked, Jeptha absently scratched his forehead and calculated the route he would have to take.  It was at least three miles down the bluff road and maybe another mile through dense woods.  Then he'd have to cross the Missouri River.  Recent droughts had the river running low and it was iced over right now, but how thick was the ice after this warm spell?  Would it hold?  It would have to be at night, and the moon was barely a sliver in the sky now.  By Christmas, it would be gone and the night would be black as soot.  How would they find their way through thick forest if they couldn't even see the trees in front of them?

            And how many people would want to go?  There were over sixty slaves working the farm.  He quickly realized that he had to keep Oscar quiet because once word got out that there may be an opportunity to escape, just about everyone except perhaps the easy-living house servants would want to go.  He knew it wouldn't be long before Mr. Crook and the Master smoked out the plan.    

            At the thought of Mr. Crook and Blessed Mary, Jeptha knew he couldn't do it.              

            He wanted to ask Minister Wolfe to please stop talking, but knew he could never tell a white man to hush up.  He found himself wishing that Mr. Crook would show up.  He'd rather risk a beating from Blessed Mary than let Oscar get more of this freedom nonsense in his fool head. 

            Wolfe set the hook deeper in Oscar's mouth by telling them that Christmas Eve would be their best chance.  He knew of the big event planned at the house and said that the people attending would be celebrating and paying no attention to anything other than their host, the liquor and the food.  He assured them that the ice would hold as he had crossed it himself that very morning and would cross it again on his way home. 

            Wolfe promised to light a fire on the Kansas side to serve as a beacon for them, and wait until dawn for them with food, blankets and a wagon to take them to a new settlement called Lawrence.  In Lawrence, they could start their lives as free men.

            He bade them farewell and Godspeed, thanked them for the water, and promised to pray for their safe journey to Kansas and freedom. 

            He never asked if they were going to run or how many would be coming with them.

            The two slaves stood there looking west long after the minister disappeared around a bend in the road.  "We're gonna be free, Jeptha," Oscar whispered. 

            "Shut up, Oscar." Jeptha rounded on Oscar and his furious look caused Oscar to stumble back a couple steps and duck his head, thinking he was about to be cuffed again like Jeptha always did when he messed something up.  

            Jeptha was over six feet tall but still stood three inches below Oscar; both were in their early twenties, lean and thickly muscled from years of heavy labor.  Oscar was easily the strongest man on the farm but he was simple and childlike by nature.  Jeptha was Oscar's opposite: Oscar would laugh at a man stepping in a cow flop; Jeptha would shake his head and mumble something like, "Damn fool should watch where he's stepping." 

            Oscar was superstitious and believed in the magic the older slaves learned from their elders.  He also believed in the magic of a white carpenter who took a worse whipping than he ever did.  This man was then nailed to a tree until he died but the white ministers say his magic was so strong that he came back to life and became their leader. 

            Jeptha refused to believe that chicken bones thrown on the ground could tell a man's future or that a white carpenter could come back from the dead.  He believed only in what he could see, hear, touch and taste. 

            His skeptic determination, quiet strength, common sense and intelligence made him a natural leader among his people.  Jeptha's fellow slaves respected him because he was smart enough to avoid punishment and he always helped others when they fell behind in their work, saving many from Mr. Crook's rope.  His people looked to him for advice, help, and strength, but he never saw himself as anything more than just another slave; it was the only life he ever knew. 

            Jeptha's forehead itched something fierce but he ignored it as he stood looking up at Oscar. His voice rumbled menacingly past clinched teeth as he warned him, "Don't go telling anyone about that crazy old minister. You got me?"

            Oscar ducked his head, expecting Jeptha to strike him.  "But Jeptha, that man said we could be free."  His voice was thin and shaky like a child about to cry.  "We can all go to Kansas and be free..."

            Jeptha shut him up by cuffing him on the side of his head with his open hand.  He never hit him hard, just enough to get his attention but Oscar reeled like a child slapped by an angry father.  Jeptha reached out and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him in close.  He saw his eyes welling with tears and felt a fleeting moment of pity for the dumb slave, but he had to make sure Oscar kept his mouth shut. 

            He spoke low and with all the menace he could bring to his voice. "You listen here, you dumb jackass.  If people get the notion that they can all just run down the road and across that river, they'll be shot dead before they make the woods."

            A tear slid down Oscar's cheek.  Jeptha knew he was frightening the poor man to death but he had to continue if they were to have any chance to live.

            "You know what they do to runaways?  You remember Zeke?  You remember how Mr. Crook made us all stand around and watch what they did to him after he got caught?"

            Oscar closed his eyes against the memory and nodded.  Zeke escaped last spring but had no idea where he was going.  They found him half starved in the woods, beat him bloody, and dragged him behind a horse back to the farm where he was tied naked to the fence separating the slaves' quarters from the hog pens.  

            Mr. Crook ordered all the slaves to line up, shoulder to shoulder in three straight rows and warned not to move or make a sound.   Mr. Crook then beat poor Zeke with Blessed Mary more times than Jeptha could count.

            Every time Mr. Crook drew back for another lash, he flicked Blessed Mary back over his shoulder, sending a fine mist of blood onto the slaves.  Something warm and wet, about the size of a horsefly, hit Jeptha in the center of his forehead and stuck.  He wanted to scream in terror and wipe it off, but knew if he moved or made a sound, he'd be the next one to be visited by Blessed Mary.  He kept his expression neutral as he fought back tears and vomit. 

            A small amount of warm blood trickled slowly down his forehead, cooling as it oozed into the crease between his eyebrows, then down to the corner of his left eye.  It formed a bloody tear drop on his cheek where it congealed and dried.  The piece of Zeke's flesh grew cold on his forehead and dried in the sun; it itched badly but he didn't dare move to scratch at it.

            Zeke stopped screaming long before Crook stopped beating him. 

            They got him down and carried him to one of the shacks and later, when Zeke woke up, he started screaming again.  He screamed for almost a week until he finally died.  All the pig fat and stove soot they rubbed on his wounds couldn't heal the mess that was left of his back.  Zeke was only sixteen years old. 

            Oscar was there too and remembered.  "No Jeptha," he whimpered. "I suppose you're right.  We can't get away from here."

            Jeptha released Oscar who sat down on a log and cried quietly.  Jeptha thought that was the end of that.  Oscar wouldn't talk, and no one else would have to suffer Mr. Crook's evil punishment.

            That night, after a small supper of cornbread and fried ham, Cassie looked across the table and said, "I'm going to have a baby, Jeptha."

            Now, on a moonless Christmas Eve, he was about to lead twelve people, and his unborn child, down the bluff road and across the frozen Missouri River to a freedom he still didn't believe existed.  However he had to try.  There was no way in the world that his child would ever see or feel what Mr. Crook and his Blessed Mary could do.

             Jeptha heard a loud cheer from the house, then fiddle music and it sounded like everyone inside was singing loud enough to be heard clear down in Kansas City. 

            No more guests were coming; it was time to go.