The Sutler Wagon Ch. 1

In the grey, misty dawn that blanketed the countryside a few miles from the outskirts of Dalton, silent shapes moved around the large plantation house. Rifles, canteens, and anything else that could make noise was wrapped in rags to silence even the smallest “tink” of metal against metal or wood. The shapes, in tattered grey uniforms or linsey-woolsey shirts and pants, walked on grass wet with the dew of the humid summer morning, and slipped unseen among the giant oak trees that would shield the house from the cruel Georgia sun. Behind them, other shapes pulled caissons and cannon with freshly greased wheels; horses might have revealed their presence with knickers or neighs. As the rising sun seared away the fog and woke a thousand song birds, the ragged remains of the once proud 57th Georgia Infantry took their positions facing the open field that served as gateway to the plantation. On that field was the infantry and artillery of an advance unit of Sherman’s Union Army. Their forced march had taken them to this field late last night, and they had orders to move out at daylight. Confederate operatives had learned of this plan, and the general staff had assigned the 57th to ambush the force. An almost imperceptible breeze brought the smell of coffee and bacon to the warriors in grey, but thescent was lost in the acrid odors of sweat and fear. Hopelessly outnumbered, they would stand and fight proudly once more, but they knew today would be a dying day for many.

Marion lay on her back, her breathing deep and regular, her body in a state of complete relaxation. The humid night had brought small beads of sweat to her upper lip, and her auburn curls had turned to sodden wisps plastered against her forehead. The white, silk nightdress she had chosen the night before had slipped up to her waist during her unconscious battle with the summer heat, and she had thrown off the sheet, exposing slender calves, soft, white thighs, and round, sensuous hips framing a small triangle or auburn curls. Her right arm lifted the full breasts that lay in soft, slightly flattened mounds under the fabric, and her hand cradled the left. Now, at this early hour of the morning, it was cool enough to sleep deeply, and early enough to be able to do so. Not that she had many things to do today; Marion was living in the huge house alone. She had continued to operate the plantation after her grandfather died, but when the war started, her overseer left to join the army. All the field and household help had left with her blessing, and she had let the Jane, the overseer’s wife, stay on in the small house, asking nothing from her except an occasional visit, and some of the vegetables from the kitchen garden. Jane’s husband had been killed in battle, and she went to live with her sister in Marietta. Then, three months ago, Marion’s grandmother had passed, leaving her alone.

Marion had known only her grandparents for all of her twenty years. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father had succumbed to cholera when she was barely two. She could still vaguely remember him, but her vision of him was bits and pieces of unconnected memory; a large face with a large smile, large, work-worn hands, and a deep but gentle voice. She couldn’t put all the memories together into one person, but sometimes, late at night, she thought of him. She remembered her grandfather well. He was a kind man, lively in action and intelligence, and never allowed abuse of the field hands or household workers. His overseer would answer directly to him if there was even a hint of such conduct. Her grandfather had grown up a poor, uneducated farmer in Scotland, and knew what it was to be mistreated. Marion inherited her love of people, quick thinking mind, and uncompromising character from her grandfather; her grandmother had passed her auburn hair, green eyes alive with the fire of life, and soft, flawless skin through her daughter to Marion.

Marion was in that dreamlike state between asleep and awake, the time when reality weaves itself into dreams, and dreams feel like reality, when the grey shapes fired the first cannon shot. She leaped from the bed, ran to the window, and stared in terror and awe at the spectacle below.

The open field was filled with horsemen and footsoldiers in blue, milling in confusion as the cannon shells burst in their midst. Mules pulling caissons and wagons clamped their bits tightly and careened madly through the sea of blue shirts in spite of the frantic curses and slashing whips of the drivers, while officers on wild eyed, sweating horses screamed orders into the melee. After what seemed like hours, but was in reality only minutes, finely honed discipline was restored, the battle lines formed, and the Union artillerymen began shelling the house.

The first shell exploded in her grandmother’s bedroom, and the concussion knocked Marion to the floor. As Marion stumbled down the stairs, a second destroyed the parlor below her room, and as the stair collapsed, Marion fell six feet to land hard on the hardwood floor. Her bed, dresser, and dressing table rained down beside her, but except for some bruises and severe ringing in her ears, Marion was unhurt. Her first thought was to hide, but as she stumbled through the kitchen to the cellar stairway, she discovered the cookstove lying in pieces after spilling its banked coals onto the floor. Flames were rapidly chewing their way across the finely polished oak, and licking up the wood paneled walls. The sun-baked Georgia pine was as dry as kindling, and beckoned its lover, the flame, with fragrant dripping pitch. Marion ran to the french doors that led to the rear of the house, and as she fumbled with the latch, flames engulfed the entire first floor with a scorching blast of heat and a loud “whumph”. She smelled burning hair as she finally worked the latch and ran out the door. Marion kept running until she reached the barn, ran through the door, and fell into the straw of an empty stall. Windfire, her Grandfather’s tall gelding, stomped in fear at the raging battle sounds and smell of the fire, and neighed to her in terror. Quickly regaining her feet, Marion climbed to the loft, and peeked out through the hay door.

Rifle shots grew near, and Marion saw what was left of the Confederate troops running away from the house. Blue coated riders on sleek coated horses followed, and sliced through the running men with slashing sabers and smoking pistols. Screams of agony, shouted curses, and the stench of blood, ripped intestines and urine assaulted her senses as a blue wave of footsoldiers appeared from both sides of her flaming home. The footsoldiers quickly swept through the killing field, plundering the dead and looking for the living; screams and pleas for mercy were quickly silenced with single thrusts of bayonets mounted on Springfield rifles,

In half an hour, the yard was silent except for a few Union troops searching the outbuildings. Yesterday, the yard had been a place for quiet appreciation of flowers and good books enjoyed with a cool drink under the shade of the oaks. Today, it was a horror of trampled grass and blood soaked, twisted bodies. Marion froze as two Union soldiers approached the barn, then slipped away from the door to bury herself in the large haystack. She heard whispered conversation, then felt the thud of heavy boots on the loft floor. A thrust bayonet struck the floor only inches away from her face. She stifled the urge to scream, and prayed that the sound of her pounding heart could not be heard by the bayonet’s owner. The heavy boots walked away. Marion heard Windfire neigh in fear as he was led from the barn, and then the voices faded away.

Marion stayed in the haystack until she was sure no soldiers still searched. When she cautiously slipped from the hay, the late afternoon sun burned hot.. A quick peek out the hay door revealed only the dead witnesses to today’s slaughter, and the charred remains of the house. Marion crept down from the loft, and checked all around the barn by looking through cracks in the sheathing planks. The soldiers had gone. As Marion walked through the outbuildings, she discovered that the Union soldiers had taken everything that could be eaten or used in any way. Gone were the chickens, sacks of feed, and most of the tools and supplies in the workshop. She was relieved to find that the root cellar had not been ransacked. There, hidden among the potatoes, onions and carrots was the metal box containing all the money she had left. She never gotten around to changing the gold coins to Confederate paper, even though she felt less patriotic for her laziness, but at least she had almost two hundred dollars.

Marion awoke in the haystack, hungry in spite of the potatoes and carrots she had eaten the night before. She brushed the hay from her hair and was thinking about what to do, when she heard a familiar nicker from below. She raced to the loft ladder to see Windfire standing in his stall and waiting to be fed. She threw down some hay, then climbed down, and ran to hug his neck. He must have gotten away in the night, and had found his way home. As she stroked the sleek body and soft nose, tears ran down her cheeks, despair flooded her mind, and she gave way to uncontrolled sobbing. Windfire stood quietly munching his hay; he was the only thing left of her life of yesterday, and she poured out her grief and anger to the big horse.

After a while, the sobbing subsided and was replaced by thoughts of what to do. She couldn’t stay here with no food and no shelter except the barn. She had nothing but the money, and was not even dressed. First, she must search the remains of the house; something might have come through the fire.

Her search through the ashes of the once beautiful home was disheartening. The possessions of her grandparents lifetime had been reduces to a powdery fluff that puffed around her feet with each step. The fire had burned most of the shell to the foundation, but the heavy floor beams had not burned through. She carefully walked down the steps to the cellar and found it mostly undamaged. Sunlight poured through the spaces between the beams and lighted her way as she placed each bare foot carefully to avoid stepping on the glass, nails, and other trash that littered the floor. She sifted through the ash and bits of charred lumber and was overjoyed to find her grandfathers revolver. If she could find powder, balls, and caps, she would have some protection. Her continued search revealed nothing more except some mildewed books in an old trunk and some broken oil lamps. Sadly, she left the cellar, and started back to the barn. On her trip to the house, she had avoided the bodies laying in the yard, but now, she searched carefully for anything that might be of use. She soon found two flasks of gunpowder, balls that would fit the revolver, and a supply of caps. She was squeamish about taking them from the dead soldiers, but after the shock of seeing the wounds of the first few, she became numb to the sight, and searched every corpse. She collected a clasp knife, two canteens and a leather belt with pouches for caps and balls. After filling the canteens from the pump in the yard, she went to the barn and saddled Windfire. She found a cotton feed sack, placed her few possessions inside, and tied the neck with a piece of twine. After tying the sack over the back of the saddle, Marion mounted Windfire, and rode away from the stinking yard, away from the charred house, away from her past. Marion had an aunt in Chattanooga. She had gone to visit last year, by carriage of course, but she knew the way. She would have to travel off the roads until she could find some clothes, but Windfire was bred to carry his rider on long inspection rides across the fields, and she would have little trouble.

She had ridden all morning, when she saw a small burned out house and almost undamaged barn in the distance. It didn’t appear that anyone was around, but she quietly rode Windfire into a stand of trees that bordered the farm lot, dismounted and walked him the rest of the way. She tied Windfire to a small tree, and walked across the empty farm lot to the barn. As she rounded the corner of the barn, she saw a horse and wagon tied to a post.

“OH, OH, AH, AH.” Marion was frozen at the open barn door by cries of a woman in pain coming from inside. She looked through the door, but could not see the source. She slipped in, carefully looking all around, and still could see no one. “AH... AH,,, AH,” A man’s voice now spoke, “Now I’m gonna give it to you hard, bitch.” The sound was coming from a box stall on her left. The door was open, and she could hear thrashing around in the straw. “You stupid, stupid girl”, she had left the revolver in her sack; she couldn’t risk an attempt to get it. She looked around her for a weapon of some type and saw an ax leaning against the stall. Marion picked up the ax, and moved into the stall entrance.

A fat man in a blue uniform was lying on top of a very red faced woman who had her eyes closed. He was holding her arms to the ground as he bounced up and down on her body. She was screaming again as Marion raised the ax and swung it into the fat man’s back. He started to rise, then slumped on top of the woman. The woman’s eyes opened wide, and her mouth formed an unspoken “what” as she stared at Marion. With a grunt and a heave, she threw the man off her body, and sat up. Marion stared at a thirtyish looking woman with a large bosom and wide hips. She was dressed in a red dress that did little to conceal the bosom and hips, and her flaming red hair was twisted into a big knot that sat on top of her head like a hat. The woman carefully adjusted her dress, and then spoke.

“Damn, girl. What got into your head?

“He was hurting you, and I had to stop him. I thought he was killing you.”

The woman was seized with a fit of laughter that lasted so long, Marion wondered if the woman was sane.

“Honey, he was just fucking me. Good thing I got the money first. He probably wouldn’t want to pay after you chopped him in the back with your ax. Men’re funny that way.” More uncontrolled laughing followed. Marion must have looked confused, because, as she regained control of herself, the woman giggled, “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No.”

“What kind of life have you led, girl? Didn’t your mother ever tell you anything?”

“My mother died when I was born.”

“Girl... God, I can’t keep calling you girl. What’s your name, honey?”

“Marion, Marion McLandon”

“Well, Marion, who raised you then?”

“My Grandmother and Grandfather.”

“Now, I see. Grandma never talked to you about sex, I suppose.”

Marion became indignant at the casual way the woman talked about her grandparents. “Who are you and why should I tell you?”

“My name is Angelique Bouvier. You can call me Angie. I’m a sutler, and sometimes I do more than just trade things to the army, if you know what I mean. Angelique’s french, if you didn’t know, and it looks like I’m about the only person around who can help you.”

“Why should I need your help?”

“Well, unless I’m mistaken, this fine example of the Union Army is dead as a poisoned pup, and the Union doesn’t take kindly to people who kill their soldiers. Not that he was anything to write home about, you understand; kind of fat, and real sweaty, and wouldn’t even take his pants off. Damn belt buckle was cold and his fly buttons kept snagging my cunt hair. He was a big, fat turd, but they’ll be pissed off, just the same.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“Well, honey -I mean Marion, when a man’s getting the screwing of his life, and then just falls on top of you with an ax sticking out of his back, it’s a pretty sure sign that something’s really wrong with him. Look at him, he’s kinda grey colored, he’s leaking blood out all over the place, and he’s not breathing. Looks pretty dead to me; stone cold, burying dead.”

“I really killed him?”

“Well Ho... shit... Marion, I was kinda busy at the time, and there was just the three of us here... That leaves you.”

“Oh, God, what have I done?” Marion started to cry.

“You didn’t do anything that anybody else wouldn’t have done, under the circumstances, but we need to get as far away from here as we can before they come looking for him, so stop crying and let’s get out of here. You got a horse?”

“Yes”, sniffed Marion, and led Angie to where Windfire was tied.

“Well, I got a wagon. Where are you headed?”

“Chattanooga, to my aunt’s,”

“Well, that’s fine with me. Let’s go.”

They rode all day, Angelique driving with Marion beside her, and Windfire tied to the wagon. Although they heard shooting from every direction, they didn’t meet any troops from either side, and soon Marion was leaning aginst Angelique and drowing. At dusk, they stopped at a small house that was many miles from the barn.

“We’ll be safe for the night here”, said Angelique as she lit two lamps. “I know the people who live here, and they won’t mind. Now, let’s get something to eat, and get you some clothes. You can’t keep riding around in your night dress; it’s filthy and your titties and bush show through.”

Angelique seemed to know where everything was stored, and soon had sliced ham, fried potatoes, and beans on the table. They ate in silence, and then Angelique said, “you’re kind of small, but maybe we can find you some clothes.” She went into another room, and came back with bloomers, a bright blue dress, several petticoats, black stockings, and black, high button shoes. “Here, try these on for size. I’ll be back in a minute.” Angelique went back into the other room.

Marion changed into the garments, and Angelique returned. “You could use bigger tits to fill out that dress, but it looks pretty on you. “ Marion blushed. “Good, it’s not too long. I can’t sew worth a tinker’s damn. All in all, you look pretty good. Have to do something about that face though...maybe some powder and rouge...yes, I think you’ll do. Now get out of those, and let’s get to bed. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Marion followed her into the next room which contained only a bed and a trunk. She started to undress, then stopped and said, “Would you leave me alone until I can get back into my nightdress?”

“Marion, were both women, and it shouldn’t embarrass you to undress in front of me. Besides, your nightdress stinks to high heaven. Sleep without it.” She then unfastened her own dress, and let it fall to the floor. “See”, she continued, as petticoats, then corset, then stockings, then bloomers joined the dress, “I’m not embarrassed, why should you be. And after all, there is only one bed. We’ll have to share, so hurry up.”

Marion turned and blew out the lamp. She slipped out of the clothes, and fumbled in the dark for the bed. She turned back the quilt, sat down, and slipped in beside Angie.

“Marion, you never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“What did your Grandmother tell you about sex?”

“She told me it was a dirty thing men did, and I would find out when I was married.”

“Well, you have a thing or two to learn. Didn’t she tell you how a man fucks you?”

“What’s...fuck mean? You keep saying all these words I don’t know, and you act like I should.”

“Marion, fuck is when a man puts his cock in you...oh, damn, you don’t know what a cock is either, do you?”

“No, unless you mean a rooster.”

“Well,” she giggled, “they stand up like a proud little rooster, sometimes, but a cock is the thing between a man’s legs. It gets hard and he puts it inside you, here”, said Angelique as her hand slid between Marion’s thighs. “Into this hole, right here.”

Marion jumped. No one had ever touched her there. She didn’t even touch herself there except to wash and to take care of what Grandmother called “the woman’s curse”. “Don’t do that. That’s dirty. Grandmother said so.”