-- Chapter 7 --
The U.S.S. Benton, the largest ironclad gunboat in the Northern River fleet, steamed slowly up the Red River. She was ordered on a scouting mission to sink or destroy everything afloat. The captain was a heavyset bearded man. Jack Thompson paced the gun deck, dressed in his heavy blue uniform, brass buttons shining like gold dollars, his peaked hat pulled down over his black hair. "Gawd damn it, the river is so fucking low!." He continued his pacing, staring at the gunners resting by their loaded guns that were run out into battery, ready to fire at his command. "Why didn't Porter send Selfridge and the U.S.S. Cairo up the Red River? But no, Porter wanted the Benton, the biggest and heaviest and newest ironclad gunboat in the river fleet, and now the Red River was dropping." Thompson kept asking himself these questions over and over as he paced the decks.
The men under Thompson's command knew he was a coward. Out of the 175 enlisted men, over 90% wanted to serve on the Benton's sister ship, the Cairo, the second newest ironclad. Even though she was smaller, her captain was bold and daring. At fort Donelson in Tennessee, Thomas Selfridge of the Cairo had his ironclad right in the middle of the bombardment, a coal barge lashed to her side. She and her sisters shelled the fort for six hours, the Cairo taking many hits while the Benton, commanded by Thompson, stood back and watched the fight. During the last hours of the bombardment, the Cairo took a direct hit and had to be towed back upriver to Cairo, Illinois for repairs. The Benton did the towing, calling the Cairo 'the hard luck ironclad' since her gray bands on her tall smokestacks had the number 13 painted on them in red.
Now the Benton eased up the Red River alone. Men stood on top of the casemate under canvas stretched between the guide wires of the smokestacks and the lifeboat supports. Muskets in easy reach, officers stood with their field glasses to their eyes, scanning the green woods for any sign of the Confederates. Twenty miles north of the mouth of the Red and not a sign of the enemy, no steamers or barges, nothing but empty land and wharves.
The two river pilots stood in the small, cramped iron-plated pilothouse, looking at the lazy river. No one wanted their job; it was not an easy task to steer a 190-foot ironclad up a winding river, especially when the river was dropping. After rounding a tight bend, one of the pilots leaned over the brass speaking tube. "Increase speed two knots." The engineer's voice echoed back, "Aye, aye, sir." Unlike regular steamboats, this pilothouse had no comforts. The men stood for their six-hour watch in the blistering heat or freezing cold. Their government pay was two dollars a day. The men down below had it even worse than the pilots. The coal stokers were right in front of the huge fire boxes and red hot boilers, with the temperature reaching as high as 145 degrees in the summer months. Then men worked almost naked, their bodies covered in sweat and black coal dust. As the engineer repeated the order of increasing speed by two knots, an engine bell was rung twice. He pulled a brass lever with a gloved hand and turned a wheel, increasing the steam to the pistons of the dual 500 horsepower steam engines that drove the massive paddlewheel. The paddlewheel served two proposes - one, to propel the ship through the water, the second to provide water to the showers and toilets. The green sailors soon learned to shower first, then take care of your other business second, because otherwise what you just removed from your body might just cover you on the next turn of the paddlewheel. The U.S.S. Benton had two cooks on board and they served fifteen men at a time in the small galley. The captain's quarters, along with the other officers, were located in the stern around the massive iron and wood paddlewheel that propelled the ship at a maximum speed of six knots. A 1000 pound bronze bell adorned the top of the captain's quarters. Skylights were placed along the center of the casemate roof to provide light for the gunners below. The gunners themselves had to learn to adapt to the dim light inside the iron casemate. They painted white lines down the center of their guns so they could properly aim them. Life on an ironclad was not easy but it beat sleeping in the mud and long marches of the infantry.
The large Union flag flapped in the hot southern breeze, its 13 stripes of white and red, with 36 gold stars in 3 circles. Now most of the sailors lay around on the roof of the casemate, enjoying the fresh air or polishing their shoes or washing clothes, while the gun crews drilled with their big guns. The Benton, like her sisters, carried 13 big naval cannon: three in the bow, four along each side, and two in the stern on both sides of the paddlewheel raceway. Each gun had a crew of six men who knew their gun like their own faces.
The river was quiet, too quiet. Where were the steamers of cotton and supplies for Vicksburg and Port Hudson? The Benton continued north up the Red River, passing sluggish bayous and still water. Weeping willow and oak trees lined the banks, some leaning far over the banks.
Davie Phillips stood on the forward casemate. He was in a whole new world. Everything was different, never before in his seventeen years had he seen so many wild animals and exotic trees. Now he understood why they called him a city rat, and he was. Davie Phillips was born and raised deep in the slums of Chicago. His father, David, worked at Crown's Brewery, owned by Joseph Crown, a German immigrant. Davie had tried to get on at the brewery with his father, but it seemed like every other father's son beat him to all the available openings. One day, while Davie was walking the streets, looking for any kind of work to help out his family, he passed a blue jacket. Davie looked at the crisp blue naval uniform and thought, 'That is one place who needs every man and boy they could get.' So he took off in a run through the chilly winter day to the recruitment office on E Street. When he arrived, the place looked deserted, so he pushed the door open and walked inside. A large, heavyset, bearded man sat behind an oak desk. Stacks of papers were piled here and there, foolscap lay on top of the folders. Every spot in the place had something piled there. The only two spots clean were a spot in the center of the desk and a corner where the U.S. flag hung from an oak staff. The bearded man looked up from his papers.
"Can I help you, young man?"
"Yes, sir, I want to join the Navy, sir."
"Very noble of you, my lad. Please take a seat."
"Thank you, sir." Davie moved several large leather-bound books and binders, then sat down in the only chair besides the officer's in the cramped office.
The bearded man introduced himself. "I am Sergeant Louis E. Jonestone," and reached his hand across the desk to take Davie's.
Davie took the hand of the sergeant and shook it. "Nice to meet you, sir. I am Davie Phillips."
"So, young man, you want to join the Navy."
"Yes, sir, I do," replied Davie.
"Well, Davie, this office is for the department of the Army, but I can help you. We need crewmen for the river fleet and you can serve on an ironclad gunboat. Are you still interested?"
"The river fleet? I thought that was under the Navy department, just like the blockade ships."
"Well, lad, the river fleet is under the Army at this time. The ironclads, mortar boats, and supply ships on the upper river are a branch of the Western Army. The sailing sloops, frigates, blockade ships, monitors, and other gunboats and ironclads in the Gulf of Mexico and along the Atlantic are the Navy. As we speak, the sailing sloops and frigates have blockaded the mouth of the Mississippi River under command of David Glasgow Farragut. Also, my lad, a second attack is being planned on Fort Henry and Donelson in the Tennessee River. This time, the Damned Rebels will not know what hit 'em."
Davie was listening to the sergeant describe the events of the past months. Davie looked up, "Sir, where do I sign?"
"Very noble, lad." He reached for an enlistment form. "First, we must fill out this paperwork."
"Your name?"
"Davie Jones Phillips."
"Your age?"
"17, sir."
Sergeant Jonestone smiled. "You must be 18, laddie, to fight, but you'll pass." So he wrote 18 in the blank.
"Place of birth?"
"Chicago, Illinois, sir."
The questions continued for another hour. Finally, Sergeant Jonestone turned the form around and handed Davie the quill pen after dipping it into the ink well. "Sign here, Mr. Phillips."
Davie took the quill and signed his name. He had a smile as he did it, not only for joining the Navy and doing his part but also for being able to sign his name. Few poor Irish lads could do that.
Sergeant Jonestone stood and shook Davie's hand. "Congratulations, my boy, you're now in the Navy."
Davie shook the sergeant's hand. "Thank you, sir."
"Now, crewman Phillips, report to this address for fitting of your new uniform." He handed Davie a block printed card, then a second card with his enlistment information. "You have one week to report to Cairo, Illinois for duty on the U.S.S. Benton."
Davie once again thanked the sergeant and walked outside onto the muddy unpaved street. The street was crowded with foot traffic, farmer's wagons loaded with goods, merchant wagons, and the fine personal carriages of the city's élite class. Worst of all were the farmers, running their pigs and cattle to the stockyards down by the river. Chicago was the fastest growing city in the mid-west. Davie turned and headed north up the street, the chilly winds cutting into his young face. Fifteen minutes later he stood in front of a massive brick building with his address card in hand. He looked at the card, then again at the building, trying to make sure the address was right. Then he saw two soldiers walking out the front double doors and down the steps leading to the street.
"Excuse me, sirs. Is this the fitting office for new recruits?" asked Davie.
"Yes, it is, young man. Go through those double doors and it is the first room on the right, I think."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're more than welcome, laddie," replied the soldier.
The other solder spoke to the one who gave the directions to Davie. "More fresh meat for the Hell fire," and let out a dry chuckle.
Davie once again looked up at the massive brick building and felt his stomach knot up. Then he began to climb the granite steps to the double doors. He stomped his shoes to remove the mud and gripped the brass doorknob and turned it. The big door swung freely on the iron hinges. He walked inside.
Davie looked around the large hall that was well lit with oil lamps on the walls, with brass reflectors, and others hung in the ceiling from brass chains in pairs. Men in blue uniforms stood here and there, answering questions, while others sat behind massive desks, writing reports. In one corner the clicking of the magnetic telegraph and men writing reports or chalking figures up on a large chalkboard.
Davie was awestruck. Never had he seen so many people bustling around with such precision. A soldier walked up behind him, surprising him.
"Can I help you, young man?"
Davie jumped at the deep voice and spun around. "Umm, yes, sir, I need to pick up my uniform. I just joined the Navy."
"You did now, sonny? Where at, may I ask?"
"On 14th Street, sir, at the small recruitment office."
"Ah, old Sergeant Jonestone enlisted ya, did he now?"
"Yes, sir, here's the card he gave me earlier and he told me to report here for my gear." Davie handed the heavy paper card over to the soldier.
The young soldier took the card and scanned it. "Follow me, lad." Davie fell into step behind the soldier. The hard soled shoes echoed on the hardwood floors. The soldier led him toward the back of the large room and down a long hallway; more lamps lit the hall with a soft yellow glow. They passed closed doors, then finally they stopped at the 3rd closed door. The soldier turned and knocked on the door. A gruff voice on the other side said, "You may enter."
The soldier opened the door and they walked inside. The soldier saluted. "New recruit, sir."
"Thank you, private, you may take your leave now."
The soldier placed Davie's card on the desk and saluted before walking out the door and closing it.
"Good afternoon, laddie, I am Quartermaster Liam O'Conell."
"Davie Phillips, sir."
"Please take a seat, Davie."
"Thank you, sir." Davie sat down in the wooden chair, sitting straight and tall. Davie removed his thin gloves and placed them in his coat pocket. Even the thin coat did not help much on this cold January day.
Liam O'Conell was a lean, slender man in his early 30's, six foot tall, 200 pounds, curly red hair and piercing green eyes. His handsome mustache made him look older.
Liam looked at Davie. "So you joined our Navy. That is very noble, young man, and something to be proud of. So do you have any health concerns or any trouble with the law?"
"No, sir, I have always done my best to make my family name proud and to honor my father and mother in everything I do. Papa did his best for us when we came to America 5 years ago. Now it is my turn to make him proud of me. I want to do my share and, since I have not been able to find employment here in the city, I decided I would fight for my new country, so we can defeat those devils in the south. Davie had heard about the evil Southerners ever since his family arrived, about how they kept black people in chains and worked them to death to make themselves rich. He had read in the papers that he found along the streets about the Southern states complaining of high taxes set by the rich people up north and the tariff rates set by Northern ports. Davie only knew these things from what he heard and read. He never met a southerner in real life.
Davie was brought out of his thoughts by Liam's voice. "Very good, my lad, now let's get down to business, shall we?"
"Yes, sir", Davie looked up at the red haired quartermaster, his green eyes shining like shamrocks.
Liam O'Conell stood up behind his desk, his uniform neat and spotless. "Follow me, Davie."
Davie stood up and followed Liam out the door. Once again Davie found himself in the long hallway, heading deeper into the massive building. They passed a narrow stairway leading up to the second floor. Two soldiers were just stepping into the hall, carrying a crate. Davie read what was stamped into the rough wood: 'United States Army 1855 Springfield musket.' The soldiers smiled at Davie. "I thinks the gun is going to be taller than our new recruit," said one, and they both laughed.
Liam smiled, "Well. me boyos, this fine Irish laddie is going to be a crew mate on the U.S.S. Benton." The two soldiers smiled again. "Well, he will be a fine seaman. The best thing is he won't have ta sleep on the ground in the cold and the rain and the damned mud." The soldiers congratulated Davie on his choice and both said, "Welcome to Uncle Sam's War." Davie thanked both men. Then Liam and Davie turned a corner to another long hallway. Soon they came to a large room full of men and boys of all ages. They were lined up in front of recruiters, filling out forms and processing new men. The room was noisy with the voices of men shouting to be overheard by the next one. Davie just stared at the sight. Liam clapped Davie on the shoulder, "Come with me, you did the smart thing, my lad. Sergeant Jonestone processed you and signed you up. Few people look him up on that side street. Let's go get your Navy blues." Liam led him into a small windowless room. There were two other boys standing by the coal stove, naked. "Davie, if you would, strip so you can be checked by the doctor and be properly fitted for your new uniform. Davie began to strip. He removed his worn patched coat and unbuttoned his yellowing linen shirt and pulled it off.
Liam was watching Davie, noticing the pale smoothness of the skin, the brown nipples on his well-defined chest, the light trails of red hair running from his belly button to the top of his trousers. Liam walked around Davie, looking him over more closely than any of the 100's of the young lads he sent off to war. Davie had an unspoken pride in his step and actions, a boyhood charm that many Liam had seen seemed to have forgotten. Davie still had his, but for how long? Davie was stepping out of his trousers and he sat down on a wooden stool and finished pulling them off after he removed his shoes. He stood in just his long underwear bottom. Liam let out a slight smile. 'Oh, what a handsome lad. Davie would be perfect for my daughter Kate.' Davie untied the strings holding up his underwear and pushed them down over his bubble butt and down his strong legs, then he finished pulling them off. He stood now, completely nude, with his hands at his sides. He was not ashamed of his body.
Liam walked around Davie once more, looking the red headed boy over from top to bottom. Davie's muscles stood out beneath his tight milky skin. Liam now could see where those fine lines of red hair trailing from his belly button led to at the other end. Davie's manhood hung low and uncut over a heavy set of balls, surrounded by fine curly red hair. Liam thought again, 'maybe he is better suited for me.' Liam nodded to Davie, "See those two boys over by the stove? Go and join them, and Doctor Watson will check you out and fix you up with your uniforms. Then all three of you join me outside in the main room."
"Yes, sir," replied the three boys.
Davie joined the two younger boys by the wood stove. "Hi, I am Davie Phillips."
The two boys looked Davie over from top to bottom. "Hi, I am Ernest Martin and this my brother, John." Both brothers had dark brown hair almost down to their shoulders. Ernest stood about four foot seven inches, with hazel eyes, while John stood slightly shorter, about four foot five inches and had piercing blue eyes, almost a gray-blue like a stormy sea. Both were pale and slightly built, weighing about 130 pounds each. Fine hair covered their legs and groins but they were baby smooth from the pubes up, with only hints of hair beginning to grow. Even their cocks could have been twins, both 3 inches soft and uncut.
Davie looked both boys over and then stuck out his hand and shook both of the brothers' hands with a firm, solid handshake. Davie had to ask, "How old are you two?"
Ernest smiled, showing his perfect teeth, "I am 16 and John 15. You, Davie?"
Davie smiled back, "I am 17 but the sergeant said I would pass for 18. So what branch are you joining? Army, Navy?"
John spoke this time. "We're joining the Navy to serve on the Ironclads as drummers and cook helpers."
Davie smiled, "So am I, mates."
A tall slender man walked out of the rear partition of the room, wearing a long white coat. "Hello, lads, I am Doctor Watson." He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up on his long pointed nose as he spoke with his clipped British accent. "Hello, sir." replied the three boys.
"Well, my lads, you know what I must do and the reason why you're all standing here as you were born. "Damn, why do you Americans insist on burning one out when indoors? It is hot as blazes in here."
Both Ernest and John looked nervous at what Doctor Watson had said about doing a physical inspection of their bodies. Neither one had ever had someone to touch their naked flesh except their mother when they were just babies. Both wondered what it would be like. They were raised in a strict religious family. Their father told them never to play with their penises, it was an immoral and evil sin.
"Davie, why don't you go first so the two younger boyos will see what is involved in the physical?"
"Yes, sir, Doctor Watson." Davie walked forward as Doctor Watson motioned to the table with his hand. The table had a thick white covering on it. "Please sit on the table, Davie."
"Yes, sir." Davie climbed up on the table, pushing his young firm butt back on the rough cloth covering until just his legs dangled over the side.
Doctor Watson walked over toward Davie. "Please spread your legs, Davie." Davie opened his legs and Doctor Watson stepped between them. "Shall we begin, my boy?" Davie nodded his head. Doctor Watson lifted Davie's right leg and he ran his hands along it, feeling the muscles and light hair, looking at the perfect skin for signs of disease or infection from any wounds. He moved down to the foot, looking at the long toes, running his fingers between them. Davie squirmed at the doctor's fingers. He was very sensitive around his feet and toes, and the doctor was taking his time. He looked at the bottom of Davie's right foot for dry, cracked skin or other signs of foot disease as the doctor checked Davie's foot. Davie did his best to sit still but it was not easy. Finally Doctor Watson let his foot go, then he picked the left leg. 'O God,' thought Davie, 'the 2nd half of the torture begins.' Doctor Watson repeated what he had done on the right leg on his left and once again he squirmed on the table, his smooth cheeks rubbing the rough covering.
"Ah, Davie, my lad, I see you're ticklish around your feet." Doctor Watson smiled and ran his long fingers up and down Davie's foot, making him jerk on the table and his cock bounce and rub against the rough covering.
Davie did not know what to make of this sadistic bastard. Doctor Watson released his left leg and let it dangle, hanging off the table while he moved closer to Davie. Soon Watson was pressed against the edge of the table so close to Davie that he could smell the doctor's foul breath.
"Open your mouth, Davie, so I can check your pearly whites."
Davie opened his mouth wide. Doctor Watson took his middle finger and pulled down Davie's lower lip, exposing the gums. Watson roughly ran his other fingers along Davie's teeth, yanking on each one to make sure it was firmly in its socket. Davie wanted to bite down on the doctor's probing fingers. The doctor was making his mouth hurt like hell. Watson smiled. "All is fine with your pearly whites, my lad. Now, how is your heart and lungs? Those will be checked next." Doctor Watson put his head close to Davie's heart and listened for the proper rhythm, then he listened to Davie's easy breathing and found both to be fine. Doctor Watson stood back up straight but left his hand on Davie's smooth chest, slowly rubbing it. Davie thought if anyone but this Damn Doctor was doing it, it would feel good to have his chest rubbed, but with this fiend of a doctor doing it, he felt dirty. Doctor Watson saw the smirk on Davie's face. "What is wrong, boy? Never had someone to rub your baby smooth chest! Well, all I got to say is you better get used to it because you and the other two" - he jabbed a finger at Ernest and John - "will be favorites on board one of our ironclads!" The two brothers moved closer together and held each other closer when the doctor's evil tone of voice mentioned them as being favorites of the other sailors. "Enough of this chit chat with dirty Irish lads. I must finish you and those two little scamps and continue to inspect the real fighting men, not mere boys wanting to be soldiers and sailors." Doctor Watson reached down between Davie's legs with his free hand and savagely yanked Davie's cock. Davie yelped in pain as Doctor Watson continued to hold it tightly and twist it. "SHUT UP, BOY! This is nothing compared to what I have to check next."
The doctor grabbed Davie behind the neck and pulled him roughly off the table. Davie tried to fight back but the doctor was stronger than him. "Stand up, you Irish trash!" Davie weakly stood on shaking legs, and Doctor Watson turned him so he was facing the rough table. You two Street Rats, move your asses over here now!" Ernest and John moved quickly over by the table. "Take off the covering from the table. This Irish Dirt needs no protection from a few splinters in certain places." Watson flashed a bloodless smile toward the brothers as they removed the cloth covering as quickly as possible. "Move your pale ass, Irish Trash," and he pushed Davie toward the table. Davie's stomach made contact with the rough wood and he let out a loud grunt. "You, over here now. Grab his legs and hold them in the air as he crawls onto the table. It is time to inspect his little asshole. I got to make sure it is clean." Davie crawled up on the table, being careful as not to brush his cock and balls against the rough wood. He grabbed the other side of the table with his hands and lay flat on the rough wood, the raw lumber digging into his flesh of his chest and stomach. He felt it increase once John and Ernest picked his legs off the floor and as they spread-eagled them, and felt the rough fabric of the doctor's trousers brush the insides of them as he stepped closer to Davie's exposed ass.
Then Davie felt the doctor's hands spread his ass cheeks and run his middle finger along it, sending shivers coursing through his body. Davie tensed when he felt the doctor's finger brush his exposed bud and press against the outer rim. The ragged fingernail pushed its way past the outer rim muscles and the tip of the finger entered inside his virgin ass. Davie screamed from the pain and tried to kick his feet but the two younger boys held on in fear of what the doctor might do to them if they disobeyed his commands.
Outside the door, Liam O'Conell heard Davie's scream and burst through the door. The sight before him appalled him. The two younger boys dropped Davie's legs and stepped back as the big Irish quartermaster entered the room. Ernest grabbed his brother and they ran to a corner of the room and dropped down, shaking with fear.
"WHAT IN SAM HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE, WATSON?"
Watson spun around at the booming voice of the quartermaster. "This Irish Trash here!"
"WHAT WAS THAT, WATSON? GET AWAY FROM THE BOY NOW, YOU BRITISH BASTARD, AND REMOVE YOUR FILTHY HAND FROM THAT BOY, YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A MAN!"
Watson yanked his middle finger from Davie's asshole with a sickening plop and was about to wipe his finger on one of Davie's cheeks.
"I DON'T THINK SO. SUCK IT CLEAN, YOU BASTARD." Liam reached under his great coat and pulled his 36-caliber Navy Colt revolver from the holster. He cocked the hammer back and aimed for Watson's forehead. "You heard me. Suck your dirty finger clean now."
"I refuse to obey any command from dirty Irish Trash like you or him," and Watson slapped Davie's bare ass with such force it left Watson's handprint in the pale flesh. Davie screamed.
"You're out of here, Watson, and I will make damned sure you never practice your so-called medical license again."
"Over my dead body, you Irish Pig Whore!" Watson reached under his lab coat, just as Liam pulled the trigger on the pistol.
Dear Readers: I must apologize for taking so long with this chapter and to tell you it will be written in sections since it is such a large one. I have been very busy with life and writing a new story, High Iron, which will soon appear on Nifty in the Historical section.
I would like to thank Ed for his help on this chapter. I would also like to thank Willy and Chris for their support while writing this story and the first chapter of my newest saga, High Iron. I recommend Flak Bait, Flip, and Mile High by my good friend Willy. Also I recommend Different by my wonderfully sweet friend Chris in the High School section in Nifty.
And, as always, comments are welcome: Please let us know what you think of what we write. E-mail is still the same: Swarri1349@aol.com
PS: We're still looking for an artist who may be interested in helping to do illustrated versions of some of our stories. Happy Reading. Stephen