A/N: Gee, I don't know what to say except, THIS IS MY FIRST FIC EVER!!! I've decided to try something a little different...You have all these fics where people get teleported to Tortall or have the characters in a high school setting. So here I'm trying to take the characters to a different time and place in our history based on a bestselling noval by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. The characters may seem somewhat OOC, but I tried to put them in roles that best suit them. I hope you enjoy!! -WoD-
Disclaimer: I'm only gonna say this once, so PAY ATTENTION!!! I do not own Tamora Pierce's work or characters. I also do not own 'Ashes in the Wind' by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss or her characters.
Ashes in the Wind
Lament
Oh my home!
My land of sunshine,
Of loving folk and
Gently passing days.
You are gone!
Gone beneath the booted
Heel of WAR;
The million-legged worm
That crawls mindlessly across
My land and leaves behind
A tangled waste of broken lives
And lifeless bodies.
You have left me! Alone! Forlorn!
Atoss like a leaf upon the flood.
Wherever I would set my feet and rest,
I find—Despair.
You have rent the very fabric
Of my soul with your going.
You have fled my grasp,
And everywhere I turn, I find—
The smell of WAR,
The acrid scent of
Ashes! Ashes!
Ashes in the wind!
Chapter One: Arrival
September 23, 1863
New Orleans
The tides of the muddy river sloshed to and fro lazily at the foot of the levee, while a heavily loaded riverboat carefully chose its path through the assembly of Union warships. Two hundred yards away, the main body of the fleet full of gunboats ready for action stood midstream and apart from the sometimes hostile city of New Orleans.
A brownish hash hung over the city as the humid air brought down the blistering heat upon the detachment of blue-clad soldiers. They waited on the dock for the arrival of the side-wheeler and its passengers. The once-bright trimmings of red and green were now faded and chipped; causing the steamboat to resemble an awkward beast that had towering black horns and grown gray with age as it drifted towards them. It swam ever closer until it cautiously nudged against the low pier where the Mississippi touched the port city. Great hawsers snaked our like giant claws, and pulleys and blocks creaked above the shouts of laborers as the vessel shouldered closer against the jetty.
In the anticipated end of a journey full of misery, passengers had gathered belongings and pressed onward to their landing. Each one seemed to have a destination in mind and was working to reach it with eagerness, but to perceive any definite goals is nearly impossible through a crushing herd of people. They are the eager-to-be-rich, the scavengers, the harlots, the rogues of society that wish to squeeze what ever fortunes New Orleans held despite the Yankee invaders.
When the gangplank formed a bridge to walk, all moved as one down to the mainland. People rudely shoved and elbowed each other aside in their haste till their progress was halted by a rank of Union soldiers. A second rank formed behind the first, then as the two lines stepped apart a single file line of thin, ragged, and unwashed Confederate soldiers passed through the aisle. They shuffled in unison, the only pace that their fetters and chains would permit. Catcalls sounded from the crowds of spectators that watched.
Halfway down the once elegant staircase from the deck, a short, slender lad stood where he and the other passengers were stopped. Beneath a battered drooping hat pulled low over his ears, wary purple eyes stared out of a begrimed face. Overly large garments emphasized the smallness of his frame, and the baggy trousers were held up at the waist with rough rope. He wore a loose cotton jacket over a huge shirt with sleeves flopped over narrow wrists—even though they had been rolled back several times.
A large wicker case stood on its end next to the outsized boots, which turned up at the toes. The lean face was smudged with the soot of the boat's passage and through it the first signs of sunburns shown on his thin nose. He claimed to be thirteen, but appeared no more than eleven and unlike those around him a frown bore at his brow for the site of his defeated countrymen being led from the boat in chains.
The prisoners were met ashore by the detachment as the Federal officers aboard fell in behind their officers and followed them ashore letting the passengers to disembark. Dragging away his gaze from the shuffling prisoners, he lifted the case to begin making his way down the steps. The box snagging onto people's clothing that came in its path and occasionally bumped against his legs as he descended. Receiving glares from those around him, he fought to control his burden and walked as best as he could. A man behind him with a gaudily dressed and overly painted woman at his side grew impatient at the lad's slow progress. He pressed him to move faster and as a result the lad tripped and the wicker case rebounded and slammed painfully into the man's shins.
A curse exploded from the man and he turned on the boy, half crouched, with a knife suddenly in his hand. Frighten purple eyes stared back at the man and slowly the lad crawled away to avoid the long, slim blade that threatened him.
"Gauche cou rouge!" the man's French was slightly mix with a Cajun accent. His sapphire eyes glared menacingly with rage. His anger slowly dissolved as he pursued the terrified youth, finding nothing dangerous about him. Sneering he put away the knife and straightened himself to his full height—barely half a head taller than the boy. "Be careful with your trash, eh, buisson poulain. You 'ave almost send me to the surgeon."
The bright violet eyes flared hotly at the insult, as the youth's lips grew thin and white. He knew all too well what he meant and longed to throw it back into the other's face. Gathering his wicker case and holding it more tightly he gave the two disdainful inspection. The man was handsome, but even though he wore a coat of rich brocade, the bright print shirt and red bandanna about his neck, a sense of distrust was needed for he was one of the backwater riffraff.
Startled by the violet orbs that glared at them and by the sneer of hatred, the harlot huffily reclaimed her companion's arm and crushed it against her large bosom. "Ah, give him a couple of cuffs, Major Conte," she urged. "Teach the lil' piker to mind his betters."
He fixed the trollop with an impatient stare. "Just Roger, ma petite. Do not worry, someday I will own this town. But no cuff, ma douceur. There are those who watch—" He gestured upward where the Yankee captain of the side-wheeler leaned on the railing of the upper deck. "And who remember too well. We do not wish to offend our Yankee hosts, chere. Where the whelp older, I might enjoy taking him on, but he ees barely weaned. He is not worth our bother. Think no more of him. We go eh?"
The ragamuffin watched the couple leave, his loathing apparent in his blackened smudged face. To him they were worse than the Yankees. They were traitors of the south and everyone he loved.
Aware of the captain's stare, the lad lifted a daring glance to the upper railing. The brown-haired captain gazed down upon him with a little more compassion he could take from a Yankee and his pride forbidden him to give even a small gesture of gratitude. He reminded him too much of the Confederate defeat along the Delta. So quickly, the boy lifted the case and hurried down the steps.
Going to the levee, a short caravan of Federal wagons rattled down the adjacent ramp. At an abrupt command from a sergeant, a handful of soldiers dismounted and started her direction.
The youth eyed the Yankees nervously and had to force his gaze down, carefully keeping a slow and steady pace. But as their footsteps closed in on him, his fear mounted. They seemed to be coming strait for him. Did they know?
The lump in his throat grew until the first soldier passed him to cross the gangplank and was followed by his comrades. Watching them, they paired up to lift heavy crates stacked on deck and carry them to the wagons.
'Just the same,' the lad reason to himself, 'it's best to get clear of these Yankees as soon as possible.'
Reaching the top of the levee, he hastened to shelter himself by the abandoned warehouses in the wharf. Fire stains covered the wood, a few displaying the new lumber of recent repairs in hope of using them once more. These were but small reminders of the thousands of cotton bales and hogsheads of molasses that had been set ablaze by the citizens of New Orleans to keep the blew invaders from seizing them. It was more than a year ago when the city had fallen to the Union and it was not a pleasant thought for the youth in knowing must now live in the midst of the enemy.
Shrieks of laughter drew his attention to the hired carriage that Roger Conte helped his companion into. As it swept briskly away from the docking area, the boy could not avoid feeling the aches of jealousy. He had no coin to purchase a ride, and it was a fair distance to his uncle's house with, no doubt, more Yankees along the way.
The presence of the Yankee blue was everywhere. He had not visited the New Orleans since its fall, and he felt very much out of place. Soldiers moved supplies onto boats or into warehouses. Gangs of black laborers abounded, and sweat flowed freely as the men strained in the steaming heat. A vulgar curse made the youth jump swiftly aside and wait as a six-in-hand of huge, tiresome horses pulled a large wagon piled high with casks of gunpowder. The skinner swore again and swung his whip against the broad backs of the carts. Heavy hooves struck sparks from the stone as the animals struggled harder.
Intent upon staying out of the team's path, he rashly stepped backwards into a loitering group of Union soldiers. Their presence was first marked when a slurred voice called loudly:
"Hey, looky here! An up-country brat come to town."
The young Southerner turned and stared, half in curiosity, half in hatred, at the four men, the eldest of which could have barely been called a man, while the youngest's cheeks were still covered with the light down of youth. The one who had spoke passed an almost empty bottle to a companion and stood up, his feet spread and his thumbs hooked in his belt. He towered over the slim lad who eyed him suspiciously.
"Whatcha doing here, yokel?" he called boldly. "Come ta see the big, bad Yankee?"
"N-no, sir," the boy nervously stammered, his voice breaking and dropping in key on the last word. Uncertain and dismayed by the unexpected confrontation, the boy glanced uneasily at the others behind him. All of them were more than tipsy; their uniforms in sad disorder, and for the most part, seemed to be finding some distraction out of boredom.
The lad could not be too careful and decided upon making the soldiers more cautious, "I'm supposed to meet my uncle. He should be here—" He let his voice trail off in the lie and looked around as if in search of some trace of his kin.
"Hey!" The Yankee private grinned over his shoulder. "This kid's gotta uncle around here. There, boy!" He jabbed a finger painfully into the youth's shoulder and pointed to a team of mules nearby. "Do you suppose one o' them could be your uncle?"
The lad pulled down the brim of his floppy hat lower over his eyes, trying not to show his embarrassment to the uproarious laughter of the four. "Excuse me, sir," he mumbled and began turning away to end being the target of the drunken Yankee's humor.
In the next instant the hat was snatched from his head, baring a mop of shaggily cropped dark reddish brown hair. The lad threw his hands over his head to hide the uneven thatch, at the same time opened his mouth to voice his rage. But he thought better of it and clamped his mouth tightly shut. Angrily he reached for the taken possession, only to see it sailing high in the air.
"Man oh man!" hooted the soldier. "That's some hat!"
Another caught it and inspected it closely. "Hey, I think I saw an ol' mule downriver with a hat better'n this. Maybe that was his cousin."
As the lad went to grab his hat, it went sailing off again. He stood with his small fists clenched, a snarl of rage baring gnashing white teeth. "You bluebellied woods colt!" he shrieked, his voice piercing a high note. "Gimme back my hat!"
The first soldier caught it again with loud guffaws and upended the wicker case and sat on it. The flimsy sides began to bow until it threatened to burst. His laughter exploded into howls of pain as a well-directed boot found his bony shin and, another, his knee. With a roar he seized the lad roughly by the shoulders.
"Now you listen, you sowbelly brat!" he snarled, shaking the boy and bending near until his whiskey-breath choked the other. "I'm gonna turn you over— "
"Attenhut!"
Immediately the boy found himself sprawling free, almost stumbling over his case. He saw the hat fall to the ground scramble over to retrieve it and jamming it securely onto his head before whirling around with doubled fists, ready to fight. He relaxed at the amazing sight of the four soldiers standing stiffly and unmoving. The whiskey bottle smashed on making contact with the cobblestones, and after the noisy shatter the silence was deafening.
Two tall figures strode into view, resplendent in dress-blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons, bright braid on cuffs, and gold epaulettes bearing the ranks of captain and lieutenant sitting on their wide shoulders. A red and white sash was bound about a lean waist of one of them, beneath a wide black gun belt that they both wore and as well as a Hardee hat pulled down over scowling brows and a hazel and sapphire glare. As the men came forward, the yellow stripes that ran down the sides of their trousers flashed against the blue of the cloth.
"You men!" the lieutenant barked sharply. "I am sure the sergeant of the guard can find more worthy chores for your attention then abusing the children of this city. Report to your quarters at once!" His commanding gaze sternly raked them as they struggled to maintain a rigid stance, then he curtly ordered, "Dismissed!"
The two officers watched the four soldiers scurry out of site before looking at the boy who returned his violet gaze to that of the two men. Examining both of them he found that the captain was the same one from earlier, having short chopped hair and hazel eyes set in a bronze golden face by the sun. Light brown sideburns were neatly trimmed against his lean cheekbones and firm angular jaw. His nose was a little too big and spoiled most good looks, but his eyes drew that attention away with its long lashes. As his generous lips struggled to remain unsmiling, but were tempted to smirk.
His fellow officer, the lieutenant, did not show any sign of amusement. His beautiful, but stern sapphire gaze set their direct attention on the lad. His jet-black hair shined wherever it stuck out under his cap and a cleanly shaved face presented heavenly features and a well-formed nose that was thin and slightly hooked. His looks came from good breeding appropriate to some princely head of state, but the captain's eyes seemed to be the ones capable of piercing to the lad's innermost secret, causing a chill to run down his spine. There was an air of the professional soldier about them though, a quality that displayed itself in a crisp manner, almost painfully neat garments, and rather harsh appearances.
Gradually they both relaxed the professionalism as the firmness of their presence softened as they stared at the raggedy urchin. When a fully-grown smile came from the captain it quickly turned into a grimace. "I'm sorry, laddy. These men are a long way from home. I fear their manners need as much improvement as their judgment."
The youngster was overwhelmed by the Irish accent of the Federal officer that he could not muster a reply. He glanced away from the man's gaze that went to study the boy's oversized boots.
"And you, boy." Asked the lieutenant. "Are you waiting for someone, or running away from home?"
The youth fidgeted beneath the other's close inspection but remained mute to the question asked. His ragged, ill-fitting garb and turned-up boots suggested a serious lack of coin, prompting the men to draw their own conclusions. The captain gave his partner a worried gaze and turned to the lad.
"If you're looking for work, we can use an extra hand at the hospital." When the boy looked up at him the purple hues that stared at him intrigued him. "Nice eyes." He added thoughtfully.
The youth wiped his nose on the back of a dirty sleeve and let his eyes roam derisively over the dark blue uniforms. "I don't fancy workin' fer no Yankees."
A chuckle came from the lieutenant, "We won't demand that you shoot anyone."
The violet eyes narrowed with hatred. "I ain't no lackey to wipe some Yankee's boots. Go find you someone else, mister."
"If you insist." Chimed the captain as he casually produced a long cheroot and took his time finding a match. When he could not find one he swore. "Jon do you got a match?"
"Sure thing, George." The lieutenant produced one and struck it for his companion.
"Thanks." He said before returning to the boy. "I wonder if that pride of yours keeps your belly full."
The urchin lowered his gaze, too aware of the painful gnawing in his stomach to make any denials.
"When's the last time you ate?" The man named George queried.
The youngster's retort came sharply on the heels of a piercing glare. "Cain't see it's any of your business, blue-leg."
"Do your parents know where you are?" The lieutenant watched the youngster thoughtfully.
"They'd turn over in their graves if'n they did."
"I see," he murmured with more understanding. Glanced at his comrade, who looked around until his eyes fell a small eating establishment located nearby, he jabbed a thumb towards it to gather the lieutenant's attention. "We were about to have a bite to eat. Would you care to join us?"
The boy raised cold, bright eyes to the tall man. "Don't need no handout."
Both officers shrugged and the captain responded, "Consider it a loan if you must, lad. You may repay Johnny and me when your fortunes improve."
"My ma learnt me never to jaw with no strangers ner Yankees."
A low chuckle came from the captain, one of amusement. "Unable to deny the latter title, I can at least present myself. Captain George Cooper, assigned surgeon to the hospital, and my good friend here is second Lieutenant Jonathan R. Conte IV, a fellow surgeon of me."
Jonathan scrunched up his nose; "Must you always give my entire name?"
George laughed at his friend's dismay, "Of course, if you want to be properly aquatinted."
Now the violet eyes betrayed a wide measure of distrust s they swept the officers. "I ain' never seen no sawbones younger'n fifty, mister. Betcha you're filling me full of o' rot."
"I assure you, we are both fully trained doctors, and as for my age and my friend's here, I'm positive neither one of us is even old enough to be your father."
"Well if yea were, you sure ain't my pa!" croaked the youth angrily. "Not any damned Yankee butcher!"
A long, lean finger was thrusted into the boy's face by the lieutenant, almost meeting the tip of the slim, arrogant nose. "Now look, boy. There are some folks here who would not take kindly to your choice of titles. You can bet they'd use stern measures to take some of the starch out of you. We fished you out of one scrape, but I have no intention of playing nursemaid to any quick-tempered little whelp. So have a care for your manners."
The grimy flesh around the jaw flexed with irritation. "I can take care o' m'self."
Lieutenant Conte scoffed in disbelief and Captain George Cooper smiled and retorted. "By the looks of you, somebody needs to take you in hand, laddy. When did you last wash, anyway?"
"You're the nosiest bluebelly I've ever seent!"
"Irritable little runaway," George muttered and gestured officiously. Grab your bag and come with us." The two officers left the little urchin staring after them in dumb surprise and strode purposefully toward the eating establishment they espied earlier. They had only gone a few paces when the lieutenant sharpened his voice and, without glancing around, he barked, "Hop to boy! Don't stand there gawking."
The youth scrambled in the officers' wake, crushing the hat tighter on his head and struggled with his heavy case. Before the entryway of the wood frame structure, George and Jonathan paused. The youngster was a quick step behind, almost treading on the heels of the shiny black boots, cut halted abruptly when inquiring sapphire and hazel eyes turned upon him.
"Do you have a name, lad?" asked the captain.
The boy squirmed uneasily and glanced around him.
"You do have a name, don't you?" George inquired with a hint of sarcasm.
A brief, hesitant nod gave him an affirmative answer. "Uh—Al! Al, sir." The nod became more vigorous.
Throwing away his cigar, the captain arched a brow as he peered at the lad. "Is something wrong with your tongue?"
"N-no sir," Al stammered.
Eyeing the hat skeptically, Jonathan reached to push open the door and allowed George passage, but stopped Al. "Remember your manners, Al," he lectured, "and find a place for that thing besides the top of your head."
The boy made a sorry attempt at a smile, glared at the Yankee's back and glumly followed him in. The stout matron of the place paused her work to watch the trio cross the room as they settled themselves at a small table by a window. Her face betrayed no emotion as she examined the Yankee's crisp, neat uniform and the lad's ill-fitting garments, but when she returned to the tack of chopping vegetables, a slight frown flitted across her brow.
Reluctantly copying the Captain and Lieutenant on manners, Al pulled his hat off and laid it into the chair indicated. In wry disbelief George surveyed the unevenly cropped thatch of mahogany brown hair, and his attempt to not smile grew painful. Jonathan's best defense against such a humorous sight was looking away, but sadly George was unable to and his eyes danced with mirth.
"Who cut your hair like that, lad?" he finally asked. He missed the bottom lip, which trembled at his question and caught only the croak reply.
"Me."
George burst out laughing, "Your talents must lie in other directions."
Silence answered him as the thin face turned to the window, and purple eyes brimmed with threatening tears. George's laughter ceased at the site of the proud urchin suddenly gone quite without the slightest of retorts. Before he could say anything, Jonathan had beckoned the mistress of the place to their table where she stood with her hands at her hips.
"Y'all get shrimp today," she drawled roughly. "Bisque or creole. We got beer or coffee, tea or cow's milk. What's your choice, suh?" she asked, stressing the last word.
Jonathan ignored the mocking grammar of her accent; having grown accustomed to the disdain Southerners bore him or any soldier in blue. He had arrived before his friend, George, in New Orleans when General Butler governed the city, and the public hostility had been worse then. The General had tried to run the town like a military garrison, issuing orders and mandates that were supposed to solve any situation. Unable to understand or cope with the stubborn pride of the citizens, he had failed miserably. Indeed, the city had been near the state of revolt when the general was recalled. Yet the man had been equally severe with his own troops, had even hung a few who had been caught stealing from civilians. New Orleans was not an easy city to manage and certainly not by weak-willed. Because Butler had been harsh in his measures, he had been doubly unpopular, but the Southerners would have hated any Yankee placed in the general's position.
"I'll have the bisque and coffee," Jonathan decided.
"And I'll have the same, except a cool beer," said George. "As for the lad, anything he wishes with exception of the beer."
When the woman left, the captain again studied their young companion. "New Orleans seems an unlikely destination for a lad that hates Yankees as much as you. Have you any kin here, or someone else to stay with?"
"Gotta uncle."
"That's a relief," George sighed. "I was afraid I would have to let you share my quarters."
Al choked and had to cough to clear his throat. "I ain't gonna bed down with no Yankee, that's fer sure."
Jonathan sighed impatiently, changing the subject back to work. "I would assume you have need of some sort of income, but most of the civilians are in a hard way themselves. The Union Army is about the only source capable of hiring you, and the hospital seems a good choice for one such as you. Unless, of course, you desire to join the sanitation crews and sweep the streets."
Al controlled his glare, but only slightly.
"Can you read and write?" he continued.
"A little."
"What does that mean? Can you pen your name, or do more?"
The boy stared at the officer with bristling anger, and his voice was flat as he retorted, "More, if'n I gotta."
"We did have some blacks to clean at the hospital, but they enlisted in the army," George commented. "We don't have much of an Invalid Corps since the wounded that are capable of getting about are either returned to their units or sent back east to recover."
"I ain't gonna help heal no Yankee!" the boy hotly protested. A hint of tears brightened the violet hues of his eyes as he spoke. "Y'all killed my pa and brother and drove my ma to her grave with yer infernal thievin'."
George felt a pang of pity for the ragged lad. "I'm sorry, Al. My task is the saving of lives and the mending of men, whatever uniform they may wear."
"Huh. I ain't seen a Yankee yet who wouldn't rather ride across our lands, burning and lootin'—"
"Just where are you from to have gained such a high opinion of us?" the lieutenant interrupted.
"Upriver."
"Upriver?" Sarcasm was bold in Jonathan's tone of voice. "Not Chancelloersville or Gettysburg? You've heard of those places, haven't you?" Despite the tightening jaw of his friend and the lowered gaze of the boy, he didn't ease his mockery. "Why, from your answer, I could assume you were a damn bluebelly just like me and had seen some of those Johnny Rebs swarming over our lands. Just how far upriver do you mean, boy? Baton Rouge? Vicksburg? Perhaps Minnesota?"
"Jonathan, there's no need for—"
His stormy violet eyes flew to meet the lieutenant's and snapped with irate sparks, "ONLY A BRAYING ASS WOULD COME FROM MINNESOTEE!" shouted Al.
A warning finger made a reappearance beneath the lad's nose from across the table. "Didn't I tell you to mind your manners?"
"My manners is jes' fine, Yankee." Boldly he slapped the hand away. "It's you'ns what got me riled. Ain't yer ma ever tole you it weren't nice ta point?"
"Be careful, laddy," seconded George, he grew tired of the unmannerly Al. "Or I'll take down your britches and blister your backside good. Don't think I won't."
With a gasp Al came half out of his chair, then crouched like a wild animal at bay. Indeed, a fierce light gleamed in the lucid depths of his eyes. He jerked up his hat again and jammed it over his shabby hair. "You lay a finger on me, Yankee"—he ground the words out in a low, husky voice—"and you'll draw back a nubbin. I ain't taking no guff off'n no damned blueleg—"
As soon as the threat was spoken, George Cooper rose and leaned forward deliberately until his hazel eyes stared into the boy's violet ones only a hand's length apart. It was Jonathan's turn to calm his friend and stood up as well to grab hold of George's shoulder to restrain him from doing anything rash. The Captain's eyes grew hard, yet when it came, his voice was soft and slow. "You dare me to carry out my threat, boy. Because if you do, I will not hesitate."
Before Al could respond or move at all, the hat was snatched from his ragged head and slapped onto the table. The violet eyes grew wide in sudden distress. George continued, his tone unchanged. "Sit down. Shut up. Or I'll do it here and now."
The lad swallowed and could not find a trace of anger to sustain his own courage. Quickly he sat down and, with considerably more respect, cautiously watched the Yankee Captain.
George lowered himself into his chair and, studying the humbled one, spoke carefully and distinctly. "I've never been an abuser of children, nor of women—" The lad's gaze never left the captain's face, and he sat rigidly upright. "But if you tempt me enough, I just might change my ways."
Jonathan finger brushed his black strands as he watched in awe the command his friend had over the urchin. A smile was tempted to cross his face.
The suddenly uncertain boy searched for his best manners. Lowering his gaze before the man's regard, he folded his hands in his lap and sat meekly silent.
"That's better." George nodded with approval. "Now Johnny here wanted to know how far up north you're from?"
The reply was barely heard. "A few miles from Baton Rouge."
George's frown changed to a toothily smile, "I shall hope in the future that you will revise your opinion of us, Al." The lad raised his gaze and appeared somewhat bemused until the officer explained. "My home is farther upriver, laddy—Minnesota."
Embarrassment joined confusion in a rapid play across the ragamuffin's face. He was rescued from the dilemma when the portly matron returned to their table, skillfully balancing a large tray on one hand. With a total lack of noisy display, she placed huge steaming bowls of the spicy bisque before them. Soon, these were followed joined by biscuits and another cornmeal-battered catfish, deeply fried to a golden brown.
The woman hadn't begun retreating from the table before Al began munching on a piece of fish and as rapidly spooning the rich broth into his mouth. For a long moment George and Jonathan watched in amusement until the starved youngling became aware of the officers and their attention. Suddenly abashed, Al laid down the fish and slowed his spooning. George chuckled lightly and Jonathan smiled as he shook his head, then turned to their own tantalizing food.
Though the boy had eaten heartily at first, he satisfied his hunger quickly and dallied with the remainder of his food while the two officers consumed their portions more leisurely, savoring each taste fully. When they finished the meal, they both sat back and wiped their mouths on a napkin.
"Do you know where your uncle lives?" asked Lieutenant Conte.
A quick nod answered him, and the two officers rose together. Jonathan tossed down several bills, as George handed him his hat and gestured the lad to follow. "Come on. If we still have horses outside, we'll see about getting you to your uncle's."
The youngster readily gathered his case and hurried out the door to follow the two men. He could hardly refuse the officers, and besides, riding was definitely better than walking. Struggling with the case and the weight of the heavy boots, he staggered behind his guardians. They made their way to a long legged roan and a midnight-black steed tethered in the shade. Gathering the reins, Jonathan considered the slim lad and his burden.
"Here I'll ride behind you so you can carry your wicker case. That sound all right?"
"Yeah, I can handle it. I been riding since I was little."
"Get on up there then. We'll hand you the crate."
George held the horse still while the lad attempted to step into the high stirrup, but once in it he had not the span to throw his other leg over the saddle.
"Since you were little, huh?" laughed Jonathan as George moved to help the boy.
With a start of surprise, Al felt a broad hand beneath his buttocks, hoisting him up. The violet eyes widened considerably, and some distress showed in his face as he was settled on the steed. Angrily he jerked around to snap at the Yankee, but the captain was already lifting the case. He set it before the youth with an offhand remark. "I would guess that you've had an easy life until now, Al. You're as soft as a woman."
Jonathan placed the reins and swung onto his horse, as did George with his roan. They adjusted things, then the lieutenant asked in front of him, "All set?"
At the answer, "Yup." Jonathan reined the beast, followed by George and they rode away from the dock. The black steed was well trained but unaccustomed to the extra load. Al could not help but keep resettling himself as he fought to hold the wicker case in his arms and the reluctant touch of the lieutenant. His efforts made the steed more skittish. Finally, Jonathan lost all patients, "Al, get your butt settled and be still, or we'll both end up in the street." Wrapping an arm around his waist, he pulled the boy against him until he stilled. "Now sit still."
Gingerly the youth stopped his struggle from the unwanted contacted between him and the lieutenant. The horse quieted down some, as did Al, but rubbing against the hated blue coat kept a bad taste in his mouth.
A/N: Please review, and tell me what you think!!! -WoD-