Julius and Tom

Reader alert: this is not an erotic story

I am conflicted about publishing this story. I do not mean, in any way, to trivialize the horrors a man like Julius would have dealt with. The idea came to me when I was half asleep, on a plane coming home from a meeting. I tried several times to tell it from Tom's point of view but I couldn't make it work.

I am also troubled about what category to place this story in. Sex is only mentioned in passing. It is gay sex, between gay men, but as noted above this is not an erotic story. I considered placing it in the "non-erotic" category but after consultation, elected to place it here.

It's not a story I can tell you to enjoy. I do hope you find it interesting.

None of the limited sexual activity depicted occurred in characters under the age of eighteen.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for his help with the editing.

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March 27, 1928

Chicago

I've debated with myself for many years, going back and forth in my mind, whether to tell this tale or not. I suspect that the time for debating is drawing rapidly to a close. I've never been settled in my mind as to the reason, or reasons, for debating the matter. I strive to be honest with myself. Of what use is lying to one's self? I feel neither pride nor regret for my actions. If that is, in fact true, why then the urge, even now, to lay my pen down, crumble this scrap of paper into a ball, and toss it into the fireplace?

Perhaps, one cannot avoid lying to one's self after all.

I'm old and I'm tired. I'm tired and the world makes no more sense to me now than it did when I first started to sprout hair in places other than my head. We finished fighting a war, uglier and with more killing and destruction than the one that figures in my tale. The recent war was sold to us as 'a war to end all wars' and a war that would make 'the world safe for Democracy'. And don't I just believe that to the bottoms of my feet. There is not a doubt in my mind that there'll be more war, more death, and death on a scale to dwarf the so-called "Great War". If I'm lucky, I won't live long enough to see it but it will come, don't you doubt it. Don't you doubt it or one blessed moment. There isn't anything man does better than kill. Don't you doubt that either.

The world makes no sense to me, not that it ever did made much sense. Girls prance down the street in outfits that would have gotten them tossed in jail, if not an asylum, when I was their age. There's less to their outfits than went into the Missus's petticoat. Radio, phonographs, telephones, moving pictures. Most of it isn't worth the powder to blow it to hell, except perhaps the phonograph. To be able to turn a crank, put your feet up, and listen to some blues or jazz without having to walk down to a honky-tonk is damn near the biggest miracle I've seen in my life.

"The Missus", she was always the Missus, always was and always will be. That troubles me, when I let it. It was easy to transmute "Master Tom" into "old Tom" and "young Master Tom" into just "young Tom", but that magic never worked with the Missus. Try as I have, I cannot turn the Missus into "Tom's mother" or "old Tom's wife".

As long ago as it has been and as old as I have become, I still smile when I recall how dearly she hated me. And how dearly she came to depend on me to look out for young Tom. Old Tom, he was the one who insisted I work in the house. Lord how that must have galled the Missus, seeing her husband's face, only black and under my nappy head of hair. If you feel any stirrings of sympathy for her, don't. She had my mother sold. As far as I'm concerned, the Missus can rot in Hell. Sadly, I don't believe in Hell any more than I believe in Heaven. I'll have to make do with knowing the Missus ended her days taking in sewing, as alone in this world as I am. I have given considerable thought to making my way back to Natchez, to see if I can find her grave and piss on it. If old Tom lies beside her I'll spare a splash or two for his sorry moldering ass as well. And if they catch me? I'll be eighty-six years old in a few weeks as best I can tell anyway. If they want to go to the trouble of lynching an old man, I'll see if I can't manage to piss on them as well. Young Tom, he might have a marker but I doubt there's anything under it. I know where he died.

Young Tom - I'm already sick of writing out 'young Tom'. From here on, Tom is the son, Thomas the father, and let's be done with this 'old' and 'young' nonsense. Tom was born on March 27, 1842, according to the glance I was able to get at the Missus' Bible. The older house slaves told me that Thomas had started visiting my mother regularly while the Missus was confined, as they called 'pregnant' in those days. They told me I was born six months, or there about, after Tom. So, I decided my birthday is September 27, 1842. We were both the spitting image of our father. That's the main reason she hated me.

Thomas hated me and love me at the same time because I was more like him than Tom. Tom was weak. I don't mean he was weak because he preferred to play the woman in bed but simply that he was a weak man. There is nothing weak about most women. The Missus was tough as shoe leather and as hard as cast iron. Thomas, he was tough but, I'm compelled to say, he wasn't a hard man, or no harder than a man must be in order to own other men. He was never cruel for cruelty's sake, I mean beyond owning other people. That sounds almighty silly when I read it back but it's true nonetheless.

His boy, Tom, was weak. He had no gumption, no courage. I loved him after a fashion and he loved me but he was a weak man. That's how it was that, despite being a few months younger, I became his protector. Thomas referred to me, when we were older, as Tom's valet. My God, those people were desperate to imagine they were Lords and Ladies. Valet? I was his servant. I don't use that other word. I've heard it too many times to poison my ears with it from my own lips. I was there to make sure no stray dog frightened Tom. I was there, on a mule, beside his horse to make sure it didn't bolt on him. That's why the Missus tolerated me, and hated me even more, for needing me to protect her weak boy.

Tom, to his father's shame and horror, was afraid of the dark. I slept at the foot of his bed. I slept on the floor, on a straw tick kept under the bed, but I slept in the house. It was Tom who taught me to read. It was Tom that would sneak me treats. He brought me the first orange I ever tasted in my life. To this day, I can't eat one and not think of Tom, which is why I never eat them. Later, when we were older, he'd call to me in the night, tell me he was cold, ask me to crawl in bed with him. He never felt cold. Most of the time he felt downright feverish. And later, well you can imagine what came later. It was Tom that made sure I got a bath once a week, same as him. He explained to his mother he didn't want me stinking up his room.

Tom took care of me and I took care of Tom. I loved him. I think he loved me, I really do, in the best way he could in that world.

It changed when he went off to college. He'd already turned eighteen, which was old for college in those days. Most of his friends had been sent off when they turned sixteen, some as young as fifteen. Whether it was the Missus' idea, or whether Tom asked her to intervene with Thomas, I never knew. In any case, Tom was eighteen when he boarded the train to head east, to Virginia. He took his 'valet' with him. That wasn't unusual. I turned eighteen that month.

That was when I realized how weak Tom really was but more importantly I discovered how his weakness would affect me. In front of those fraternity 'brothers' of his, he treated me worse than his mother had ever dreamed of. He would holler for me, then smack me for being shiftless. Bend me over a table and cane me if his boots weren't shiny enough. He even had me bring a chamber pot to the parlor and hold it while he pissed in it, and on me, then made me scrub the rug on my hands and knees.

Oh, he was a weak man.

He would send me to draw his bath and then follow me. He'd almost cry, begging me not to hate him, begging me to understand how it had to be, begging me to forgive him. Then begging me to let him suck my big black dick. Or beg me to grease up that big black dick and fuck his white ass as he bent over the back of the tub. He'd play with himself while I fucked him, shoot his junk all over the side of the tub. That was something else I had to clean up after his bath.

He was a weak man and I'd decided what I needed to do long before we boarded the train to head home for Christmas. The Missus' sister lived outside Louisville. Tom had a cousin, Thaddeus, who he was almighty fond of, if you understand what I'm saying. I mentioned to Tom in passing that it seemed like it had been a long time since he'd seen Thad. I didn't take long before he'd convinced his mother to meet him in Louisville. They could visit with her family and then he and the Missus could take the train on to Natchez.

Now, it didn't matter whose dick he got fucked with. Once he'd been plowed right proper and spilt his seed on the floor, Tom was dead to the world. I waited until he returned from 'visiting' his cousin and crawled into his bed. Tom was damn near nineteen years-old by then and he still needed me to sleep at the foot of his bed. Weak. Once he was sleeping, I got up off that floor, quiet as a mouse. It was foolish, damn foolish, but I took a minute, standing there by his bed, and let my own seed spray across his covers. Then I eased open the window and slipped into the night.

You may believe me or not, as you wish, but I was not afraid that night. It was easy enough to get my bearings from the stars and I'd seen the Ohio river from the train. My Lord, that water was cold as death. If anything should have scared me it was that water. I didn't want to risk stealing a boat and waking some dirt farmer's white trash dog, so I hunted in the woods along the bank for an old log. I tied my clothes up along with my meager supplies, held them high with one hand, and set out kicking. The current most have carried me damn near to Missouri before I climb out on the other shore. I was north of the Ohio, Indiana, free soil.

I was far from being safe. The election that was about to tear the country apart was only a month old. South Carolina would vote to leave the Union before the month was out. More importantly, slavers were still catching runaways and dragging them back South. May you rot in Hell as well, Chief Justice Taney, you hatchet-faced, slack jowled, vermin. I was shaking so bad I could barely get a fire going. Sun up wasn't far off. I didn't know how fast the Missus would get someone across the river looking for me but I knew for damn sure she would. I said a prayer to a God I didn't believe in that Tom would sleep late and take an hour or two to realize I'd actually run off. Regardless, I had to have a fire. I had to burn away that cold black water and get some warmth in me. I spent the better part of an hour hunched over that fire, drying my body and warming up my clothes.

I didn't know if they would use dogs but I imagined it would be better if I assumed they would. I left my shoes off, rolled my pants up and waded back into that damn cold water. I walked a hundred yards or so back upriver to a creek I'd spotted cutting through the bank. I waded up it, fighting brush and hanging trees. I hoped whoever the Missus sent would figure I would try to get as far away from the river as I could, as fast as I could. I did just the opposite. I had me a small gunny sack of parched corn and jerky. I scouted around until I found a tree about to topple over into the creek. I made myself a hidey-hole amongst the roots, pulled dead brush over me for warmth and cover and settled in.

I stayed put for five days, five of the most miserable days of my life. I shivered so hard that I feared the noise from the brush piled atop me would give me away. I heard dogs, whether they were looking or me or not I can't say. I ate up my food. I snuck like a beat dog on my belly to the creek and sipped water that made me want to gag and within a day gave me the trots to add to my misery. I hadn't heard any dogs or any men for over two days. I hoped Tom and his mother had given up and headed on home. I was reasonable sure they had but I was even more sure the Missus would never give up. I wait until it was dark, crawled out of my hole, and started walking.

By the time, I made it to Indianapolis, South Carolina had seceded. I felt safer in the city but not safe enough. By the time, I made it to Chicago, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, and Georgia had joined South Carolina. I stayed in Chicago for the nearly three years, learning to be a blacksmith and learning that white folks were pretty much the same in the North as they were in the South. I made some friends, good friends if you get my meaning. I've never been a great fool. I courted the ladies enough to keep tongues from wagging.

By '63 I couldn't sit still any longer. The Union had been letting black men put on blue uniforms for nearly a year. The idea of walking back into that big white house in Natchez, with a rifle in my hands, was a dream I could no longer resist. I had no real expectation of fulfilling that fantasy because the Army will send you where it wishes. Your thoughts on the matter are neither sought after nor respected.

I never expected to see Tom again. But I did.

December the 15th, 1864. The Battle of Nashville.

I remember being grateful we were finally going to get to fight. I was grateful, not because I'm particularly courageous or because I was particularly aching to strike a blow for freedom. No, I was grateful because without someone to shoot at I was afraid I would kill one of the white officers that I was expected to respect and obey. Most of them were no better a master than Thomas, that is old Tom, and some of them were worse.

My sweet Jesus, did it feel good to go storming over those Confederate trenches, to see those southern 'gentleman' half-starved in ragged uniforms. And there I was in my clean, new, blue uniform, a rifle in my hand with a wicked gleaming bayonet at the end of it. That first day we ran those fine southern gentlemen back a good mile or so.

The next day, December the 16th, we went at them again. If the day before we'd knocked them back on their heels, well that day we set them a running. Most of them didn't stop until they got to Mississippi. And that, my friends, was the end of the Army of Tennessee.

I found Tom cowering behind what was left of a small maple tree. He had a rifle in his hands. He half-heartedly raised it when I approached. I didn't know it was Tom at the time. I'd spotted what appeared to be a half-way decent looking grey uniform. I figured I'd get me a prisoner or maybe better, a souvenir. I recognized him before he recognized me. I let him lift that rifle. I wondered if he'd ever had summoned the courage to fire it. He gave up. I knew he would, and dropped the rifle across his lap and lifted his hands up.

I walked closer. I let go of my rifle with my left hand and push my cap back on my head. I stared at him. He stared back. For quite some time, he stared back.

His eyes widened.

"Oh, my God!" he cried. "Julius?! Is that you?!"

"No, master Tom." That was the last time those words ever past my lips. "Julius is dead."

I ran him through with that gleaming bayonet. I put the point in the pit of his stomach and leaned on it. She didn't go in easy or fast. She went in pretty much the same way my cock had gone in him, in fits and starts. He didn't holler or scream. He sighed, same damn sound he made when I stood behind his bent over form and did what he begged me to do. I felt a pop, when the point of the bayonet exited his back and through his coat. I pulled it out slow, as his eyes grew wider and wider until I thought they might pop as well, clean out of his skull, and roll down his checks. The bayonet must have been angled upward and pierced his gullet, because as his mouth worked, a bubble of blood, fiery red - there's nothing as bright shining red as fresh blood - formed between his lips and then popped. To this day, a child pops their gum and I see, clear as morning light, that bright shiny bubble on Tom's lips and hear it pop.

I hunkered down beside him. His eyes followed me. I peered at them, not blinking. I wasn't trying to torment him. I wasn't trying to be cruel. I was simply afraid I'd miss seeing a flash, a glimmer of understanding, regret, apology, or something.

His mouth worked and blood ran out of the corner and down his cheek and neck. He never spoke. Perhaps he couldn't.

I never saw a damn thing in his eyes. They just went out of focus.

I leaned over him, getting his blood on the knees of my pants. I kissed his cheek, the one without blood on it. I stood up, wiped my bayonet on his pretty grey jacket, and went to look for my platoon.

I did a little nosing around after the war. Thomas didn't make it past the first Battle of Bull Run. It's a shame. I'd much rather he lived to see everything he held dear taken from him. Does that make me cruel? I suspect it does, but that's one advantage to not believing in the Almighty., There's not a damn thing forcing me to turn the other cheek.

The Missus survived. I already told you that. I never went back to Mississippi. I stayed in Chicago but I took the Natchez paper. A blacksmith made decent money. I nearly busted my gut laughing when I saw an advertisement in the paper, her asking to take in folk's sewing.

I sent her a letter. I sent it atop a bundle of my holey, dirty, streaked and piss-stained drawers. I put a five-dollar bill on top. Dear Lord, the only thing that would have made it better was if old Abe was already on the five-dollar bill in those days.

Missus,

Here's some sewing for you, paid in advance.

Did you know Tom used to beg me to put my black prick in his ass? In his mouth?

I killed him, outside of Nashville, Dec. 16, 1864. I ran my bayonet in the front and out the back. They said the war was brother against brother. Now, ain't that just the damn truth of it?

Yours,

Julius

I suspect that makes me cruel as well. I don't care. I hope reading my letter was what put her in her grave.

I spent over forty years with Walter. I never told him that story. Walter was never a slave, not that he didn't suffer at the hands of white folks, but he was never a slave. More to the point, he was a good man. He'd not have understood the beast I kept chained and caged inside me all these years. He wouldn't have hated me; hate could not abide in my Walter. No, he wouldn't have hated me. Worse, he'd have been disappointed in me.

I suppose that's why I've waited all these years to tell the tale. Walter's been in the ground almost longer now than Tom lived.

I may yet ball these scraps up and toss them on the fire.