The Georgia Peach - Part 02

Chapter 11 – The Upstairs Study at White Orchard Plantation, Around 4:30pm, May 11th 1864

William Sherman had ensconced himself in the upstairs study. It was a room he knew well having spent many happy hours in here, drinking brandy and smoking his favourite cigars with poor old John. He was not happy now though, not in the slightest, and his river of discontent had many tributaries.

Stroking his distinctive red beard, and running a hand through his unkempt hair of matching colour, Sherman was consumed by pensive thoughts.

Surely, she couldn’t be guilty of what they were all now suspecting, not little Catherine. She had always been headstrong, but demure too, a beautiful Southern Young Lady even in her early teens.

He sighed. That was before the war, and now, just a few shallow years later, the world … her world … was a different place.

The General recalled the night he and Catherine’s father had come to the parting of their ways. They weren’t here, nor in Louisiana, but they had both visited the War Department in Washington, and had sojourned for a late nightcap in Sherman’s room at Willard’s hotel.

Back then John, the more emotional of the two, and conscious that the veil of differing ideals was still between them, thrust out his hand suddenly and said, "Whatever happens, Billy, you and I must not quarrel over it. Let's pledge our word here and now that, having come this far together, we will always be friends."

The General recalled how the colour drained from his cheeks as the words of his friend brought the whole sorry state of affairs to a personal head for them both.

A slight moisture had appeared in his eyes. Billy Sherman was, on the whole, more reserved than his friend, but he, too, was stirred.

He took the outstretched hand and gave it a strong clasp. "Always, John," he replied. "We don't think alike, maybe, about the things that are coming, but you and I can't quarrel." He recalled releasing the hand quickly, hating any show of emotion … but now he wished he had held onto it a little longer.

Poor John. If there was a saving grace it was that his friend’s death early in the war had avoided the intolerable situation of them facing one another across the battlefield.

Another sigh however told the General that metaphorically speaking they were facing one another now over Catherine.

Closing his eyes, he thought about his own children, and Eleanor his wife and the tear that had amassed rolled down his cheek, because on the evening of October the third of the previous year, just several short months ago, the boy lay dead in a Memphis hotel room. The General had called them to join him at Vicksburg … he should never have done that. When they moved the camp back to Chattanooga, Willie had contracted camp fever …

The memory caused the General to slump over the desk before him, as, in his mind’s eye he recalled the family vignette around his son’s death bed, Father Carrier from Notre Dame presiding over the solemn affair …

Shaking his head and sitting upright he turned his thoughts to the previous Sunday. A beautiful sunny May day, before the rains had come with such vengeance.

On that beautiful day he had ridden a few miles from his tent and picked bouquets of wild flowers from a deserted woodland. He mailed the flowers to his daughters, Minnie and Lizzie, with a note that said “My darling girls, with these flowers, both of you will have a present to commemorate the opening of Spring.”

He had added a kiss … how he cherished them, how he had cherished Willie. And now here he was, lost in a deportment of displeasure. Angry with Catherine for putting him in this position. Angry with himself for handing his own Goddaughter over to the troops so that the Union army could dole out justice as they saw fit. And angry with the world for heaping these burdens upon him in simultaneous order.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

“Come,” The General said quietly as Mary the long-time house slave to the McCown family, entered.

“Massa Sherman, they have took her to the block, I thought you should know Massa, Sir.”

Sherman closed his eyes and waved her away. He knew what the block was. Standing, new concerns now bubbling upwards from his stomach, he moved to the window to look out over the front of the Mansion …

Chapter 12 – From the House to The Block, Around 5pm, May 11th 1864

Catherine didn’t know the exact moment the blackness overcame her, a raging darkness through which she floated dreamily.

She fought hard to regain clarity then remembered that although the soldiers were not gentle with her, even these barbarians seemed to have a code of honour. They could already have abused her virtue, not stopping, as they seemed to have for now, with her humiliation.

She looked up to see the Lieutenant standing before her, the orange lantern glow lighting the silhouette of his head.

“Put this on,” he thrust forward the rag that had been recently covering the body of Martha one of the field slaves, who, having been called upon to attend this horrible little scene, now stood naked and trembling in the corner of the drawing room, trying somewhat pathetically to cover her own newly acquired nudity.

Catherine looked at the torn, dirty rag as it was dropped upon the table by her side. She stood with one arm over her naked breasts and the other hand covering her mound, exposed for the first time in her young life to the prying eyes of strangers.

Strangers who, right now, were chuckling at her futile show of modesty. Picking up the battered fabric Catherine pulled the torn shift over her head to cover one exposed breast, her left letting the rag fall to her thighs. The left shoulder was torn and the flap of material that exposed Catherine’s right breast and nipple hung loose below her chest.

A strange, feeling invaded her wearing this ragged smock … half shame and half defiance, her body so shockingly exposed but even this humiliation was not enough for these brutes. Catherine flinched upon hearing the desperate screams of the naked slave whose smock she now wore as she was dragged forcibly from the room.

“Put this on her.” The Lieutenant held out an iron slave collar to one of his soldiers.

“Please no,” she recoiled at the thought of what they were about to do. But she was powerless to stop this further mistreatment of her body.

Feeling her hair bunched tightly into a male grip so that it could be pulled away from her neck, Catherine winced as the collar was placed snuggly into position.

“Now these.” The poor girl’s arms were jerked out from her barely covered body and her delicate wrists encased in heavy iron manacles.

They had clearly discovered the room where the slaves were disciplined, or ‘the block’ as it was more commonly called, and seemed determined to treat her like she too was enslaved.

Wearing a torn, dirty slave shift was more humiliating in her mind than being naked … but to be shackled and forced into compliance, led on a chained leash like a dog was unbearable.

But so it was that, flanked by two uniformed soldiers, armed with loaded rifles, she began her slow procession to some unknown and unknowable fate. Her slender wrists were secured well beyond reason, clasped in heavy steel manacles. The short length of chain connecting them jingled with a strange, hollow sound as the slow procession entered the hallway and out through the main door.

Her firm, smooth, naked thighs quivered, one brushing against the other as she walked, the rubbing of skin against tender skin stoked a bold, unwelcome sensation within her loins. She dared not cry out or even speak, her head down, her heart pounding, her only impulse to run away, cover and hide herself. Nor did she dare even think, because every thought was frightening and revolting.

His carriage was still parked outside the main door, and so Catherine assumed that Uncle Billy remained at White Orchard. Had he absolved himself of the whole affair? Or was he watching, surreptitiously from behind a lace curtain, embracing his arousal at her newfound predicament. Catherine shook her head to free it of such thoughts. Even now, feeling as let down by him as she did, the poor girl could not think ill of her Godfather, and she prayed inside her head that he would put a stop to proceedings before they went too far!

With a growing realising Catherine saw where they were heading. It was to the block itself, where the slaves of White Orchard were taken to be disciplined … where normality consisted of the sound of cries that echoed like a crazed, macabre chorus. That was where the Lieutenant and his men were taking her.

Or was it the whipping post positioned outside the entrance to the block. Would they whip her? They had stripped her like a slave, dressed her like a slave, chained her like a slave and now they were going to treat her like a slave …

She sensed the close proximity of her personal armed guard, and as their obvious destination became closer she felt the heightened repulsion swirling around her head before settling in the pit of her nauseous, churning stomach.

Catherine began to tremble uncontrollably. Right now, at this very moment, she would do anything to be spared the shame and humiliation of being paraded in front of the gathered slaves assembled along with the full complement of Union army soldiers, to await her appearance … chained as she was, her nubile shape exposed, nipples hard in the cold air … half-naked.

The rains had stopped but she felt the small stoned gravel digging into her skin and the slippery mud underneath her bare feet as they traversed the pathways and then the open land that prefaced the block.

Upon reaching the large open double doors into the wooden barn like building, Catherine panicked and painfully wrenched herself into an opposite direction, only to be forcefully stopped in her tracks and dragged with very evident enthusiasm on her aggressors’ part, through the ominous entranceway. Her captors had thrust her into a familiar place, but one that she was about to see in a completely different light.

Catherine herself had never used the block in anger. In fact, since her father left for the war … never to return … the slaves at White Orchard had enjoyed a more communal relationship with her and, until recently, her mama. But Catherine knew that using this fact to appeal to Sampson and his men would be a wasted effort.

Chapter 13 – The Upstairs Study at White Orchard, Around 5:30pm, May 11th 1864

The General saw them gathering together the slaves and the men – a considerable number of people, and he knew that the handling of Catherine’s interrogation had progressed. Poor Catherine … he knew that she was innocent, wasn’t she … but to a certain degree, he had absolved himself of the issue. His only saving grace now was the hope that she could endure a little cross-examination and still maintain her innocence - that surely, would be proof enough that his Goddaughter knew nothing. He could then order the cessation of this sorry state of affairs, have the foraging completed and make sure that they all took their leave in good order, allowing Catherine to resume her life without further disturbance.

His heart leapt to his mouth when he saw her paraded across the front of the main house in full view of the audience now gathered around the entranceway to the block building. She had been made to change clothing, no doubt stripped in full view and was now wearing a soiled rag that barely covered her comely shape. He could feel the presence of Colonel John McCown in the room with him, his burning gaze piercing the General’s neck and ravaging his mind with guilt.

He thought briefly of intervening, but the ball which had begun rolling could not be stopped until a satisfactory conclusion had been reached. Simply interfering to save the honour of his own Goddaughter, despite the fact that the situation consisted only of allegations without proof, would be a short route to ill-discipline and discontent amongst the men.

No, he would need to let this play out and then hopefully he could step back in and wrap things up.

As he watched the small parade on the mud-soaked ground down below, the General could not help but dwell on the way Catherine’s firm buttocks moved under the short garment, and an unwitting and unwanted desire rose from his loins.

Closing his eyes, he tore his gaze from the lewd scene, but it was a state that lasted only a few seconds because Sherman was soon, once again, looking at the little entourage making its way before him.

They were leading her like an animal, collared and chained, manacled and pulled like a hound. It was appalling to see, but yet held a painful allure for the watching eye.

“Stop!” He said to himself out loud, remonstrating against his growing need to watch the unspeakable scene below. This was Catherine McCown, daughter of Colonel and Renee McCown, his own Goddaughter, damn it!

But he could not bring himself to look away …

Chapter 14 –The Discipline Block Out-Building at White Orchard Mansion, Around 5:30pm, May 11th 1864

The gathered crowd fell silent at the sight of her. Slowly, deliberately, the soldiers edged her inside the block. Her body appeared small and limp, her trembling so strong that even her knees and bowed head seemed to shake. For one brief moment Catherine’s eyes took in the familiar faces. House and field slaves, Tom Shepherd, the only overseer left at White Orchard … all now watching her as the enemy soldiers systematically degraded her before them.

Feeling their stares upon her, the shackled girl felt the overwhelming urge to kneel and beg for mercy, yet her plea would be futile, and only serve to satisfy the perverted pleasure of these monstrous soldiers. Catherine had been determined not to show fear, but her resolve was rapidly weakening.

After the initial shock of seeing the Mistress in this condition, mutterings among the slaves began. The soldiers meanwhile were far more brazen with their lewd calls and ogling stares.

Catherine’s eyes met the gaze of only a few spectators among the sea of faces. To her left stood Mary, loyal maid-servant and friend, solemn and stricken at her Mistress’s shameful exposure. Beside Mary stood the younger maids, their worried looks only exacerbating Catherine’s sense of doom. Several of the male slaves, especially the younger ones, openly ogled the scene they were, to their extreme disbelief, witnessing. Their shameless stares eating away at the poor girl as she was disgracefully displayed. ‘Cowards!’ she wanted to shout at them, ‘if you were real men you would have tried to run away to your freedom, but you did not, you stayed here as a bonded slave’. But these words stayed inside her head, despite the looks on the faces of the majority of her slaves exposing the fact that they were enjoying the spectacle. To her right, Lieutenant Sampson stood brazenly scrutinizing every inch of her body!

Once clear of the crowded entranceway, the guards moved away from her side, but not before one of them yanked her brutally by the chained leash, forcing her into the very centre of the large open space. Her breasts bobbing, thighs trembling, hips swaying, buttocks quaking to the delight of the onlookers … slave and soldier alike.

Catherine looked straight ahead, seeing this familiar outbuilding from an entirely new, unwelcome perspective. The podium, the chair, the iron shackles and manacles, the chain-points hammered into the floor … she nearly fainted in horror.

“Did you truly believe you would emerge from this debacle unscathed?” Lieutenant Sampson stepped into the space before her.

He was flanked by a pair of burly troopers, holding loaded rifles with bayonets fixed. This small vignette heightened the formality of proceedings, and crushed any spirit that the poor, hapless Catherine may have had left.

“Silence,” Sampson called above the growing noise, raising his arms outward. The uproar abated.

“You see now before you a traitor to the Union. She stands accused of spying and of assisting Confederate Bushwhackers in the murder of innocent soldiers. She has violated mandates governing our glorious Union, which most certainly led to her engaging in these illicit activities …”

Despite no one in the watching crowd, neither slave nor soldier, being really interested in the charge list, the room had fallen silent upon hearing his words.

“These crimes are so blatant, so calculating, so insidious, that she deserves neither our pity nor our mercy.”

The Lieutenant paused to enhance the dramatic effect he was endeavouring to create.

“To the satisfaction of our compatriots in arms, we assemble here today to obtain her full confession, dispense swift and effective justice upon this girl and prescribe for her an appropriate punishment, that she may suffer fully the consequences for her actions and her treacheries.”

The levels of murmuring began to rise once more.

“Rest assured,” he continued to proclaim with an ever-growing sense of righteousness, “I intend for this girl to pay due penance for her wrongdoings and serve as example to all who engage in similar unlawful activity.”

It was clear from the mounting sense of anticipation in the room, that desire to see justice being served was not the main reason the excitement was heightened … the majority simply wanted to see a young girl being flagrantly used and abused.

Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes as the building flooded with roars of approval, all except from Mary her loyal house slave, who at this very moment wanted to be anywhere but here.

Chapter 15 –The Drawing Room at White Orchard Mansion, Midday, April 5th 1864

(A few weeks earlier)

The doors of the drawing room burst open and young Mercy, one of the more Junior house slaves under Mary’s authority flew in, stumbled and fell to her knees. She looked up through tear filled eyes and gazed at the shocked expression on her Mistress’s face.

“What is the meaning of this?” Catherine was now staring at the looming figure of Tom Shepherd, the Overseer, the only supervisor left on the plantation since Lincoln had made his damn speech following Gettysburg. She knew Shepherd despised her … he had been at White Orchard ever since she could remember, and he was tough, muscle bound, thick headed and ruthless with his slaves.

The bullwhip hung in the belt loop by his side, but its recent activity was evident through the rip in the back of Mercy’s thin shift and the angry red welt that had already risen from her otherwise smooth skin.

This brute was what her mama would have called ‘white trash’. A man, not of colour, but equally not of means nor breeding. A dangerous man who walked the edge every day of his life.

“Mister Shepherd, what has happened here? Mercy please stand up dear girl and take a seat while I hear what our Overseer has to say.”

The look on Shepherd’s face should have been a warning to the young Mistress of the house, but she did not have the commensurate experience to recognise it. Instead she continued on with her patronising diatribe …

“So, pray tell Mister Shepherd, what could this young girl possibly have done to a man like yourself to warrant such harsh treatment?”

Shepherd’s already thunderous deportment only deepened at the words of this fledgling upstart of a girl who called herself his Mistress.

“Mistress Catherine,” he began, “This uppity little bitch refused to bring me liquor when I …”

“Mistress, please no that is not the truth. I was busy with an errand for Mary and said I would return …” Mercy stopped speaking then, realising that she had done so out of turn, cutting off the callous Overseer without having been invited to share her views.

“See what I mean Mistress, she is a no-good little cunt, who need a good whipping to show her where her place his.”

Catherine recoiled from the use of such harsh language, and then stood to face off the situation.

“Mister Shepherd, Mercy is a good slave. Obedient and diligent and willing to learn. I believe what she has said, and can only conclude that you must have misunderstood her response to your request. So, you will leave this situation with me sir, and I will make sure that Mercy understands very clearly her place on this plantation and you should go back to running the fields, a job that you do so very well, Mister Shepherd.”

Had Catherine commanded Shepherd’s respect, had she been a man and had she been much older, then her handling of this situation had been very appropriate and had diffused the fire before the flames had really taken hold.

But none of those things was the truth in Tom Shepherd’s eyes, and he certainly held no respect for the McCown girl … Plantations like this one needed a grown man’s firm hand, especially in times like these! As he turned with a growl and left the main house, he had but one thing on his mind, and that was to show her who really was the boss around here …

******

And so now, in the open space of the discipline block building he stood directly behind young Mercy with his hand on her firm naked buttocks, covered by nothing but the flimsy shift that still bore the rip from his whip in its back. The young slave had her eyes closed in an attempt to divert the sensations this monster behind was creating inside her body, and also to avoid looking at her poor Mistress, poor Miss McCown who had suffered so much hardship already and who had shown her nothing but consideration and fair treatment.

Shepherd was enjoying every second of this, and seeing the young McCown bitch in such ‘uncomfortable circumstances’ was nothing more than she deserved … in his humble opinion of course … His view of proceedings was good enough for him to see close up how her exposed nipple pebbled in the cool air. How many times he had thought about having this bitch writhing under his weight, and now here she was, virtually naked and about to get her haughty ass whipped if any luck would have it.

His erection grew harder and he poked it through the thick leather of his pants pushing hard against the barely covered ass of the young slave at his front …

Chapter 16 –The Discipline Block Out-Building at White Orchard Mansion, Around 5:45pm, May 11th 1864

Catherine’s head was swirling. She had become a target for so much hatred, scorn and ridicule.

“Silence!” The Lieutenant shouted even more forcefully at the ever-growing noise levels, a cacophony of excited chatter, filled with expectant anticipation of what was about to be witnessed. Then he spoke more softly, to Catherine, in practiced tones of deceitful elegance.

“Kneel before me.” Catherine’s cheeks flushed at the command.

She turned her eyes pensively toward Mary, then jumped in fright as Sampson yelled at her.

“Don’t look at her, she is just a slave … you will look at me!” His face had twisted abruptly into a mask of utter fury. However, she couldn’t hold back the sneer forming on her lips, the gorge of disgust and hate rising in her throat. She regarded this madman with stubborn defiance, this savage who so brazenly expected her to defer to him.

And yet, at the same time, Catherine was so terrified she thought she might scream

The Lieutenant nodded to the guard who was holding the chain on her leash, and the man’s hand gave it a harsh tug. Catherine threw her head sideways with a quick, sharp gasp of fright. Her eyebrows lifted in shock. Panic ran riot within her captive body. She swayed, fingers flexing with fear, her pounding chest pulling at the last thin traces of breath from her heaving, stress filled chest.

Catherine’s mouth opened wide, but no sound came forth. She was almost too weak with emotional exhaustion to remain upright, unaware of anything but the agonies she was burdened with, both mental and physical. She stood upon shaking legs trying desperately to maintain her balance, but it was a task whose success evaded her. Poor Catherine was unable to do anything except sink to the ground, the backsides of both thighs collapsing upon the smooth skin of her calf muscles, her bare buttocks under the flimsy shift, fell upon her naked, mud covered heels.

With petulant thoughts still inside her head, but too weak to move, Catherine could only remain kneeling, all desire for struggle lost in despair and blind submission.

Lieutenant Sampson loomed over her. “Your escapades are those of great daring little girl, however misguided your loyalties are.”

She knew the only way to escape this madness was complete denial. “I know not to what escapades you refer, Lieutenant,” she whispered contemptuously, her throat parched from sobbing.

“Be careful, girl. Such lies only compound your crimes.”

“I am not guilty of anything!” she screamed hoarsely.

“Then how do you explain the coins, the buttons and that damnable notebook?” His tone rasped with venom. Catherine clamped her jaw shut. Any answer that she gave to him, he would turn slanderously against her.

Lieutenant Sampson slipped his fingers under her chin, brushing the iron collar. Catherine released a gasp as he wrenched her forward by the neck, up off her haunches, until their faces were just inches apart.

“What does the notebook signify, girl? Who is WQ?” His words were formed into a noxious question before he spat the words out.

She raised her eyes, directly meeting his intense glare “You are insane, sir, if you think I have ever seen any of those items before ” she whispered, letting a triumphant smirk play on her lips.

The Lieutenant rose, towering over her, and to the gathered crowd of both his men and the household slaves and staff, he announced, “We are left with no choice but to extract whatever information we can from this immoral young lady by force, in the hope of saving further innocent lives from being lost.”

Catherine wanted to laugh in his face and tell him that she had never, ever seen an innocent soldier dressed in blue, but her attention was taken by a movement from Sergeant Oak. The burley soldier now standing by the space that had been exposed when the crowd of people parted under instruction from lieutenant Sampson. In it lay a long ominous plank of wood, flat to the floor.

She felt a hand push her back forcing her to stumble forward towards it.

Chapter 17 – The Upstairs Study at White Orchard Plantation, Around 6:15pm, May 11th 1864

Sherman stood at the window of the study. He had been unable to move ever since Catherine and her official entourage came into view. The entire predicament captivated him.

He had handed responsibility over to the Lieutenant and so he must let him complete the task without interruption. But what would he do to her? The general recalled Lincoln’s Lieber Code which he had passed the previous year, not long before the great victory at Gettysburg. It contained an explicit provision prohibiting rape as an act of war. Any soldier found guilty could be executed …

He reflected on how safe this made his Goddaughter. They couldn’t rape her … could they? All provisions were superseded if it was felt that any given situation warranted urgent action due to life threatening circumstances. The Lieutenant could argue that he and his men were forced to abuse Catherine’s body in order to quickly get the results that were needed …

… but only if they had something more evidential regarding his Goddaughter’s involvement in the murder of the XV Corps soldiers. And so, for now at least Catherine was safe from being raped …

“What am I thinking?” Sherman slumped into a chair and let his head fall into his hands, more thoughts of his wife infiltrating his head. “I am so sorry darling Eleanor, that the conflict has come to this.”

He had agreed a policy of ‘total war’ with Grant, and had a mandate to ‘scorch the earth’ if required. It was the only way to end this damn struggle and of course there would be collateral damage. Innocent victims that would die for the greater good. He knew that no questions would ever be asked about a young girl alone on a plantation in deepest Georgia, especially one who had a mountain of allegations stacking up against her.

The general was not a bad person. He could be ruthless, as a Major-General he had to be, but he always thought of himself as fair and just. However, the Confederacy’s strategic, economic, and psychological ability to wage further war needed to be definitively crushed if the fighting were to end. That was why he had to make sure that even his own Goddaughter was seen to be dealt with appropriately.

Sherman knew that it was the bigger picture that was important. Not only did he need the provisions that White Orchard could supply, but he needed to retain a sense of discipline, and to do that he could show no favouritism, in any way. And besides, the stupid girl had taken matters out of his hands when the evidence had becoming damning in its implication.

Standing once more he saw Catherine moving further into the building, out of his vision, Sherman again reflected on the fact that the only hope for any respite whatsoever, was for his Goddaughter to maintain her innocence whilst suffering whatever duress the Lieutenant had planned. If she was able to do that it would allow him to call a halt to this terrible state of affairs.

Chapter 18 –The Discipline Block Out-Building at White Orchard Mansion, Around 6:20pm, May 11th 1864

The Lieutenant appeared to smile calmly but inside he could barely contain his excitement. Evans Sampson came from Maine, son of a lawyer, his father was a partner in the Paris Hill firm of Senator Hannibal Hamlin, and the younger Sampson was a ’59 graduate of Bowdoin College – indeed not the only one serving the Union cause. Like many of his neighbours and associates, young Evans took the first opportunity to join up. This was all about Virginia versus Maine, and he was not going to miss out.

It was at the college that his appetite for submissive girls took hold. Acting like the elder characters from the recently published novel about Tom Brown, he and his friends would frequent the backwater places of ill-repute, and pay handsomely for the female trash that plied their trade there to be tied and beaten. His appetite for this was voracious … but since the war he had not had the opportunity, until now that is!

Sergeant Oak was waiting for the subjugated and bound girl beside the table, a coil of rope hanging loosely from his hand.

There was no time for Catherine to wonder where he'd got it from before Sampson was behind her, his hands at her neck. In short order the collar and chain leash were removed followed by the manacles. Catherine’s relief at her freedom from these restraints was short lived as she quickly realised that the Lieutenant was simply giving himself the manoeuvrability to pull the skimpy slave fabric up and over her head.

The crowd gasped at the sight of her total nudity. The slaves were seeing their Mistress in a whole new way … some of them embarrassed, some of them infused with lust but all of them completely enthralled. It was a long time since the soldiers had seen a girl as beautiful and nubile as this one.

Catherine immediately moved to cover herself, but her humiliation was only heightened when her arms were grasped from each side and she was forced onto her knees and then face down onto the wooden plank.

“Oh no, please …” her pleadings were said quietly and served as nothing more than an additional stimulation for the perverted whims of the Lieutenant.

She knew what this was for, though it was a long time since even the slaves had suffered on this heinous contraption. She had no resistance any longer, nothing with which to fight the inevitable as her wrists were pulled into iron cuffs at the ‘head-end’ of the plank while her ankles were contained between two locked pieces of timber.

“Oh God please help me …” She prayed desperately for the strength to withstand the onslaught that she knew was about to come.

Several of the slaves prayed too, but it was the younger ones and the house slaves in the main, because the older males were watching with a glint in their eyes, hardly believing what they were witnessing.

As Mercy grunted and lurched forward, her anguished mother reached out from her adjacent position to hold her daughter steady, as the poor slave girl, stumbled again.

“Have strength my darling little girl,” her mama whispered into Mercy’s ear, as the grunt turned into a gasp followed by a groan.

Her mother glanced backwards, but she knew what she would see. Tom Shepherd’s calloused hands at her daughter’s hips, the dirty shift, threadbare shift hanging loose from her otherwise naked body and his groin thrusting into her.

In the midst of her Mistress’ suffering, Mercy was being savagely raped and no one was paying any attention whatsoever. A tear rolled down her dusky cheek as the young slave held onto a wooden chair at her front, her mama’s hand tightening its grip on her arm.

Shepherd was in ecstasy. His thick hard cock embedded within the wet, warm body of a nubile slave, his favourite nubile slave, whilst he watched these soldier boys degrade his bitch Mistress. He had his whip ready at hand should they need any assistance …

Sergeant Oak positioned the rope under the plank at the ‘foot-end’ and slipped it over the winch mechanism. Catherine screamed when the board was raised from the floor at a 45-degree angle, leaving her feet higher than her head.

Despite having the front of her naked body flat to the timber, the poor girl had never felt more uncovered. She could hardly move, and suddenly she was very scared … and for good reason, because the bound position severely restricted her movement and exposed the unprotected and upturned soles of her feet to the monsters that had now moved to her rear.

Lieutenant Sampson however remained at her front, where Catherine could look directly at his boots and legs just a few inches from her head.

“Hurt her,” the Lieutenant then said with a simple clarity.

Catherine whimpered. She knew that to beg would only heighten their sadistic pleasure.

No matter how much she struggled, she wouldn't be able to move her feet enough to avoid their attention. Sampson pulled up a chair and looked down into her eyes.

"I don't suppose you would know much about Bastinado, would you? Or maybe, when you were young, you sneaked outside and saw your daddy disciplining the darkies huh?" As he spoke the light tapping of two sticks, beaten like a boy at the drums, began on the long dusty table top that stood to the side of the plank upon which she lay, building up a steady, rhythm. Catherine, with a queasiness circulating inside the pit of her stomach, shook her head, hardly noticeable had the Lieutenant not been watching for it.

"No, I didn't think you would. Well I guess a practical demonstration would be far more effective than a dry old history lesson, don't you? Maybe we can show you what it was that your daddy used to do to his slaves when he disappeared into here for hours on end. Do you remember those times Miss McCown … do you?"

This time he didn't get a response from Catherine, he hadn't really expected one. When he moved behind her, Catherine's eyes followed him as far as they could, until the restraints arrested her movement. His commentary continued, though it took a slightly different line. This time he definitely wasn't expecting any answers.

"Remember what I asked you Catherine? This is your final chance. Tell us about the notebook and the bag.”

He said the words but hoped that the bound beauty before him would not respond. He did not want to miss out on this fun, no sir!

The sticks renewed their rhythmic tapping on the far end of the table.

"Actually, when I said ‘hurt’ I should not have used that word. Hurt is such a soft word, I always think, a weak word, open to misinterpretation. Personally, I prefer the word torture. It makes things so much clearer in the victim's mind I find, it concentrates their thoughts beautifully. So, torture is the word I'm going to use with you Catherine. You've been an errant young lady and now I'm going to torture you. Make sure you do not ever make that mistake again. You will tell us what we need to know."

Catherine began to struggle, but she was secured far too efficiently, and so after a few seconds she lay still again. The Sergeant's tap-tapping of the sticks went on. It was scaring her beyond comprehension, she could feel the vibrations at the side of her body, as Sampson continued his discourse.

"Victim. Now there's a word that conjures up a different image altogether. Such a lovely word, do you not think so? That is you, is it not, Miss McCown? Do you suppose that you are the victim here? Or is it those poor soldier boys you helped to murder?"

She jumped as the sound of the sticks beating against the table stopped suddenly. The Lieutenant took the lengths of wood from Oak and transferred their attention to the sole of her left foot. Beating out the same steady, repetitive rhythm as if striking a drum, as he continued to talk menacingly to her.

Catherine gritted her teeth as the sticks repeatedly, but lightly, berated her sole.

"Shall I tell you something interesting?" He paused, expecting no reply, and getting none.

"Soon you will be begging us to stop Catherine. Willing to tell us anything and everything if only we'll stop hurting you. Sorry, torturing you."

This time he did get a response. A muffled "Go to hell Lieutenant!”

Her response made Sampson smile. The continual rhythm he was tapping out on her feet was clearly getting to Catherine, terrifying her, but it wasn't really hurting. Yet still the pitter-patter of the sticks went on, a faint tapping sound echoed around a room that had fallen strangely silent.

Silent that was save for the shuffling feet and muffled cries of young Mercy, as the brute raping her spilled his thick seed into her abused body.

“Hold on child, I’m here for you.” Her mama had placed her own hand over the mouth of her abused daughter to save her from making any sound.

Shepherd came hard and then pulled out of the slave’s dripping pussy so that he could concentrate on the real matter at hand, a situation that seemed to be growing in its interest. Naked, Mercy slipped to the floor, her skimpy covering already laying there, and she clutched her mama’s leg seeking comfort.

"Oh yes Miss McCown, you will sing to us, of that there is no doubt." Suddenly the Lieutenant’s voice was more serious. "Soon young lady, it's getting closer."

For a few seconds, the rhythm slowed, before picking up again, faster this time.

"You will beg us because you want us to stop hurting you. But we'll just keep on going, and your need to say anything at all to make us stop will become so strong that you will not be able hide it from us anymore. You will know when you reach that point, and so will we. Then we'll stop and you can speak to us. Tell us what we want to hear.”

Catherine had heard every single one of his words, and now he seemed to have finished she paused for a second before replying, “Damn you Lieutenant, damn you all to hell!”

He smiled as his gaze lowered onto her firm and peachy bare ass staring up at him from the plank, but the rhythm went on relentlessly. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, like wind driven raindrops on a windowpane he drummed out his twisted tune.

He paused for a second. "Soon," he said quietly, and then delivered the first real blow.

Catherine never saw it coming. The speed of its delivery even caught Sergeant Oak by surprise. Without breaking rhythm, Sampson swung one of the sticks hard, hitting the sole of her foot with all the power he could muster. Indescribable pain shot up the length of her left leg like a fireball exploding into her body. The watching audience gasped in unison.

“Aaarrrghhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Catherine writhed and squirmed on the wood, contorting before her back arched and her first unearthly shriek filled the room. The pain and terror combined to bring a brittle, razor-edged resonance to the sound.

This was totally alien to her. Catherine had never subscribed to the servitude aspect of slavery preferring to treat the slaves at White Orchard with respect and civility. She had never seen this room nor this contraption … bastinado he called it … put to real use. Yet now here she was suffering at its odious pleasure, begging for its unseen mercy.

Sampson’s eyes shifted from the girl to Sergeant Oak, noting the surprise in his face. He waited to see what his response would be. The Sergeant’s head was nodding and a smirk broke out on his lips. There had been real pain in her scream, genuine agony, authentic fear, and it had stiffened his groin.

Long before Catherine's shrieking cries deteriorated into a low, persistent keening, the pitter-patter of the sticks in the Lieutenant’s hand took up their rhythm all over again. This time it was played out on the sole of her other foot, and with the beating of the sticks came the sound of his voice. Softly and persistently, taking full advantage of her vulnerability, he began to mock the poor, bound girl.

"How did you like that?" He asked. "Still reckon you can withstand this pain, do you?"

Shepherd’s cock was feeling stimulated again. Despite his most recent conquest still sobbing quietly at her mama’s feet, the scene being played out here was like nothing he could have ever imagined. He would play his part at some point, he simply must. Degrading this young, little bitch would be his ultimate pleasure!

For a few seconds Catherine struggled wildly, but the restraints binding her to the plank were secured too tightly, too firmly. In fact, the harder she struggled, the more the fetters seemed to tighten around her.

She soon gave up and, despite the discomfort of her deportment, lay quietly on the wood, trembling and whimpering softly as she waited for the pain to visit her again. Catherine could only move her foot an inch or so, and the sticks followed her relentlessly. The drumming began again. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

This time he didn't keep her waiting quite so long, though the final slashing blow was delivered with equal ferocity. For a second time Catherine's body contorted in agony, and the block filled with her shrieking screams as Sampson quickly switched his attention back to her left foot.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. When Catherine began to babble, he did nothing to dissuade her; to him the sound of her pleading voice was sweet, like the taste of wild honey on the tip of his tongue.

"No," she whimpered, "please, no more. It hurts, it hurts too much."

All she could hear was his laughter; all she could feel was the sticks beating out their cruel rhythm on the soles of her feet.

"That's the point Catherine, it's meant to hurt … to torture you, no point doing it if it doesn't. Are you ready to start talking to us yet Catherine? You know what we want to hear."

He knew she wasn't ready yet, not by a long way. He could see and feel her body tensing as she gritted her teeth and tried to resist. She was still trying to deny the inevitable, but already her breathing was coming in short, pained gasps as she tried to anticipate when the next blow was going to fall. That was the true beauty of bastinado; the anguish of the wait was every bit as painful as the blinding instant of agony when the next blow fell.

He looked across at the Sergeant and nodded. “Next time,” he said, “Next time I hurt her she will start begging for it to stop. Next time she really will want it to end, and she will say anything just to put an end to the pain.”

He kept her waiting a very long time. Pausing occasionally, and altering the pitter-patter rhythm of the sticks several times, he tempted her into that certain belief that the blow was about to fall. Watching her body as it tensed in anticipation and then relaxed slightly when the blow failed to materialise. He chose the moment she was least expecting it to drive the jolt home, the moment when the pain would be at its most intense. That was when Catherine really cried out. Screamed with the throbbing agony and she began to shake uncontrollably.

"Please, leave me alone. Do not hurt me anymore I beg of you. I won't give you any trouble, not one little bit just stop, please."

Every time she begged, Sampson came back at her with the same reply.

"Not yet Catherine, you can take a lot more punishment than this. Besides, we need to hear you begging for us to stop, and you are not yet begging with enough sincerity!"

So the torment continued, the remorseless tapping on her feet, followed by that blinding instant of white-hot pain that lost none of its potency with repetition. Steadily the desperation of her bearing increased in its urgency. Now her whole body was quaking, her eyes were wide and staring, and her lips drawn back over her teeth in an ugly grimace. Everything the Lieutenant had said, was happening, and finally Catherine began to beg them to stop.

"Please, please stop. I will do anything you want, say anything you want … no more please, I beg you Sir." She groaned, desperate to feel relief from this perpetual torment and put a stop to the pain racking her body.

"For God's sake please … STOP!”

Chapter 19 – The Upstairs Study at White Orchard Plantation, Around 7pm, May 11th 1864

The General was not aware of the actual time, but he was very conscious of what might well be happening in the block building.

He knew it would be fully equipped for handling ill-disciplined slaves and so he had pictured Catherine being bucked and gagged, or maybe hung by her thumbs or fastened to a cart wheel … any of the options quite frankly turned his stomach.

He knew they couldn’t flog her, that was too severe a punishment for a civilian whose guilt remained unproven, but his consternation was heightened when, in every one of his imaginings his young Goddaughter was naked!

He sighed, and once again paced to the window, but all he could see was the back few rows of the watching audience. How humiliated Catherine would be as they degraded her, making her submit in public … her naked body subjugated … STOP! Damn it!

Taking out his pocket watch Sherman saw that it was almost seven pm.

“They have had long enough with her,” he muttered to himself, I shall intervene.”

Making his way onto the upstairs landing the General was halted in his tracks by one of Sampson’s Bummers.

“General Sir, we have found this.”

“Can it wait soldier? I have other matters to attend to …”

The trooper held out his hand and in it was a scruffy, loose-leaf piece of paper upon which was drawn a large square with smaller squares inside it. Inside each square was a series of letters and numbers, which at first glance made no sense at all.

Sherman studied for a brief moment and then said, “Is that what I think it is Private?”

The soldier nodded and answered, “Yes, Gen’l, Sir. I believe it as a Goddamn cipher square.”

Sherman looked at the paper but his mind was already elsewhere.

“Coded messages Gen’l, the little bitch … I mean, Miss McCown, must have been colluding with the enemy Sir.”

The General felt sick. Had his worst fear just been realised? Was sweet little Catherine part of the Confederate intelligence network? His own Goddaughter a Rebel spy? They had no proof, not yet … but in his heart Sherman knew that the evidence against the girl was becoming ever more substantial.

The war could be brought to a close if the plan that he and Grant had hatched and agreed with Lincoln was implemented swiftly and successfully. Nothing could be allowed to detract from its execution, so this new evidence raised the stakes somewhat as far as Catherine was concerned. If she was indeed conspiring with those damn secessionists, he needed to know all about it.

He steeled himself … there was important work to be done, Goddaughter or no Goddaughter!

******

“Let me go please,” Catherine was still sobbing hard. A quick look around the room revealed just how many of these men, both soldier and slave found her submissive predicament to be more than a little stimulating.

"Ask us nicely Catherine," Sampson said, interrupting as her babbling threatened to get out of control.

"My feet they are numb with this awful treatment, please stop!"

"No, no. Ask us courteously Catherine. You know what to say. I'm a dirty little Rebel spy and I deserve to be punished " he prompted, as the sticks continued to beat out their rhythm.

"I'm I'm " she hesitated.

"Go on, tell us what you are Catherine. Tell us what you want us to do."

She flinched visibly as she sensed his hand draw back, and suddenly the words came pouring from her mouth in a torrent.

"I'm a dirty little R … Reb … Rebel Spy, and I deserve to be punished." This time there was an air of desperation in her trembling voice.

Suddenly the pitter-patter stopped. Catherine had fulfilled his prophecy and had submitted to the pleading she had been so determined to shun. It was time for the pain to stop Sampson was smiling at Sergeant Oak, as he nodded to the burley Irishman, who, in turn stood up and began to unlock the fetters around her ankles and wrists.

"Roll over Johnny Reb bitch," he ordered when she had been freed, “So that we can all see you properly.”

The poor girl groaned, and remained still. The sergeant, whose own breeches were tented by his erection, grabbed her hair and pulled her head savagely upwards. Catherine screamed.

“Did you hear me you Reb cunt, turn over!”

Resigned to obedience in fear of further torture, and with some difficulty on the relatively thin plank, she moved herself onto her back as ordered. All eyes immediately gazed attentively at her nudity. Her firm breasts, with hardened nipples, slender waist and smooth thighs with a tuft of dark hair at the apex of her virgin mound.

"Now, tell us Catherine. What is it that you have done, and who are you in cahoots with?”

The girl let her head rest back on the wood, her long hair falling to either side.

The Lieutenant grabbed her arm and pulled her off the wood. She automatically moved to put down her feet in order to stop her fall … and screamed. The pain in her legs was unbearable. Catherine shrieked as her knees buckled beneath her, and she slumped to the dusty floor in utter despair.

"What's the matter?" asked Sampson. He didn't sound too concerned.

"I can't stand. My feet, my legs, they hurt too much "

"Who told you to stand?" he said, "I'm sure I didn't. Filthy Rebel Spies can crawl on all fours just as easily." He reached down and patted her on the head before ordering Oak to put the collar back around her slender neck.

Smiling as he watched Catherine once more being collared, the Lieutenant then slipped the leash chain back into place.

“Now we can continue our conversation over here, once you and I have led the way through this crowd of people., all eager to see more of you " She sensed the smirk on his lips without having to look up.

Sampson jerked on her chain and Catherine began to crawl across the room on all fours. As she shuffled past him, Sergeant Oak reached down with one hand and squeezed her bottom, allowing his index finger to lazily slip between the dark crevice of her firm cheeks.

Catherine cried out, her humiliation heightened, but knew that she could nothing to stop this from happening. They had her naked and beaten, collared and leashed, at their whimsical, perverted beck and call.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mercy … sweet, sweet Mercy, on the floor crying and that brute of an overseer standing over her. He had raped her, that much was obvious. Just the very sight of him, knowing how much he would be enjoying this spectacle, made her want to retch.

Lieutenant Sampson brought Catherine’s degrading journey through the crowd of people, many of whom were known to her, to a halt. Her feet were on fire, and it was a warped kind of blessing that she hadn’t been made to walk.

As the officer sat down, the tortured girl collapsed onto the floor before him, her naked body curled in to as small a ball as possible.

“So little rebel slut, what have you got to tell us?”

“Stop this right now.” Everyone looked up to see General Sherman in the entrance way holding the damning piece of paper in his hand, “We have further evidence to discuss.”

To Be Continued …