Negroes are burning the cotton, when I get to the docks.
They set them ablaze and push them into the river.
They cut open the bales and pour buckets of liquor over them. That said, whenever puffing like little steamboats, float off into darkness, the bales. Essentially, when it’s over they order most of the whiskey dumped in the gutters to frustrate Yankee thirst. Now regarding the aforementioned fact… Owners stand in the rchlight watching their livelihood, their way of life, drift away. No, To be honest I didn’t say much about the pattyrollers and they dogs chasing runaways around the countryside, or overseers with whips and chains, or the way mothers out in the fields keep they heads down and pray not to be separated from they children when speculators come round buying us up by the wagon load. Whenever marching up and down, sleeping on the sidewalks, gambling, swearing dreadfully, yankees are everywhere.
At the commons, in front of a line of tents, a bluecoat officer comes up to me with two negroes I do not recognize. Both are wearing colorful head scarves tied Creole style to celebrate the occasion. Imagine that. It is henceforth I will need a pass signed by the commanding general to leave my house. Of course, today, a brand new proclamation. Really similar kind of pass we give our negroes. Rumors are flying that the Federals will soon arm them against us. Guns fired all along the line and our cavalry swept in from the side but they got swallowed up. Accordingly the Johnny Rebs got wore down, I’m almost sure I knew the South was done for, after about a year. Remember, I heard the drums and hereupon the Yankee bugles sounded and they come screaming and running straight ward our rifle pits half a mile down the hill from me.
One sunny day over in Louisiana, I looked down the valley and saw more Yankees coming than I ever knew existed. By the way, the Yankees just kept coming until men was killing one another in the pits. Right after the war the Ku Klux started up and things was real bad for a long while, what with the lynchings and the fiery crosses and all. Still bad today, truth be told, all these many years later. I didn’t say nothing about that, I knew no almost white man wanted to hear me complain about my troubles today. Nary a word. Bill pushed the piano into the middle of the room and ok a swing at it with the axe.
It sure didn’t sound like music.
In the library I found $ 420 of secesh money in a book of poems.
Wouldn’t buy a biscuit. We broke open a locked desk looking for silver but found only papers and a bottle of ink, that got poured over everything. Besides, it’s impossible, he says. Nevertheless, while aiming to sneak through the lines into the interior, I pack a running bag and leave the house after midnight. Old Mr. Have you heard about something like this before? Nothing to do but go homeward. Sarter stops me at the corner. They hanged three guerrillas yesterday, just schoolboys they’ve been. He unsheathed his sword and slashed furniture until there was stuffing everywhere. As a result, we didn’t find just, we checked each room, even under the beds.
Me and a bunch of the boys broke into a secesh woman’s house looking for the sharpshooter.
Whenever laughing anyway the broken glass flying around, bill split open the sideboard with an axe and threw china at mirrors and pictures.
We went on a rampage. Mmy pulled dresses from an armoire and stomped them with his muddy boots. Sounds familiar? How, after my mama’d been sold off, Master Jim’s daddy gave me to him when he was only three and I was but five. Master Jim ok me out in the woods on Sundays after church and taught me anyways, they didn’t need none of us to learn to read and write. Generally, I did tell him a little. Now look. Except definitely I couldn’t go to school with him, my job from on was to watch after him and be his companion.
It got away from me a way back, he give me a little Bible to read.
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So it is really attention grabbing, You’re an excessively professional blogger. I quite agree, well stated. It’s a well whenever becoming more interesting in with the rise of Vaudeville and SlapStick comedy, the Banana has an interesting literary history. Seriously. Gag being. Barry Basden lives in the Texas hill country with his wife and two dark yellow Labs. His shorter work had been published in Atticus Review, decomP, Matter Press, Northville Review, PANK, Prick of the Spindle, Thrush, and many other fine journals.
WITH A COMBAT INFANTRY OFFICER IN WORLD WAR I.
He edits Camroc Press Review and is coauthor of CRACK! He is currently working on a collection of compressed pieces about war. Furthermore, looking at the mess we made, By the way I thought it fortunate we didn’t find that secesh woman, or there’d likely are even more shameful doings. Not much was left intact, though Tommy came downstairs wearing a bonnet and twirling a fancy cane that had somehow survived, after our bile was spent. Made me think about my wife back home in Cincinnati. Almost white man stopped by today. Now please pay attention. Could’ve been Jim Crow hisself sitting there for all I know. Like I will tell some almost white man the truth about slavery. For instance, sat on my porch and wanted me to tell him all about them terrible days, get it recollected down on paper while there’s still time, he said. Said the government hired him to talk to us ‘ex slaves’ about those times way back when.
Job’s a job, By the way I reckon, with so many out of work in this here Depression.
It was a mercy when he finally stopped breathing.
By late afternoon, bodies were laid out all over the field, and two soldiers brought Master Jim up the hill out of the smoke and haze, shot through both lungs. There wasn’t nothing I could do but hold his head in my lap and try to keep him from strangling hisself while he wheezed and moaned. This is where it starts getting very interesting, right? I prayed for the South to lose but, Lord, not for Master Jim’s terrible death.