Savannah Affair Ch 02

Savannah Affair Part 02

Bo Meets Hank

This story is entirely fictional--as any real student of the history of the Civil War will attest. Warning: I have done only a little research to ensure the accuracy of the history or the geography. All characters in this story are over 18 when the actions described took place. This is part of a longer story. There is more seduction than sex in this chapter. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

Two young men, after enjoying some pretty terrific sex are separated. Bo goes to The Citadel, an all-boys military academy, preparing your guys, at the time, for officer positions I the Confederate Army. Joshua, a slave, is sold by his plantation Massa to a Savannah brothel. Bo goes to war; Joshua goes to exactly the opposite.

4

In Bo's voice (almost four years later)....

Savannah was in flames. The end of the war was near. Sherman had just dealt a blow to the economy and people of South Carolina and Georgia from which it wouldn't recover for years. The early rumors were quickly becoming fact among the few of us remaining in the city. The wide path of his army from Atlanta to the coast was in ruins, smoke still ascending from various hollowed-out buildings. Virtually everything had been destroyed. Trees had been cut down and burned. Roads dug up. Bridges blown up. Livestock eaten, stolen or just killed, carcasses lying in the sun, rotting. Even the streams were polluted with the tailings of ammunition, destroying all the fish. The landscape was totally desolate, like the least habitable place in the world. Savannah had been under siege briefly, burned and was now occupied. And the Army of the Confederacy, at least in our parts, is decimated. Really, it no longer exists. Many are dead.

Thousands are in makeshift hospital wards, piled in jails, shackled, penned or otherwise deprived of rights. I knew some of them; some may even have been in the platoon that I had commanded. Fortunately or unfortunately, I had not been with the platoon during the march. I didn't think it was good fortune at the time, but when I had been wounded three months ago, it probably saved my life. Leg wounds were particularly dangerous since we had little access to antiseptics and little ability to transport those who couldn't walk. The typical procedure was: "Cut it off, before it infects more tissue."

And, of course, now it seems that the South is losing, perhaps disastrously.

So, Momma had insisted and Daddy had reluctantly bought out my service requirement from the Army of the Confederacy. Even though I was a "quick" lieutenant, thanks to my few relatively undistinguished years at The Citadel, it wasn't too difficult since I was worthless tothem with the leg injuries. I came home to our city house in Savannah where my mother and a few servants were my nurses. I was recuperating at home--now the basement of a grand, but damaged, ante-bellum home.

When we got news that Sherman was headed for Savannah--what turned out to be Sherman's inexorable march of destruction, Mother had joined my father and the others and had taken refuge at our plantation, probably outside the wide swath of his scourge since it was on the South Carolina side of the Savannah River. I wasn't considered well enough to travel. River travel had been halted, so it would be overland and rough. She didn't want to leave me, her baby, but I insisted. Taking me would add days to her dangerous journey. And the doc advised her that a long trip might kill me. We hadn't heard from them for weeks. We suspected the worst. I had been left with a few house servants to care for me. Only one remained, Priscilla, my oldest servant and childhood nursemaid.

Sherman had arrived and was bivouacked in the oldest part of the city, only a few blocks away. So the two of us were holed up in the old place, in the root cellar, no less.

Fortunately although most of Savannah was burned, the Union army had left a few blocks of old residences mostly intact--planning, I assumed, to occupy them after the onslaught. Our "city" home was old and distinguished, on one of the four fashionable streets facing the park. It was largely spared--with only a few broken windows and some damage to the brickwork on one side, although it had been stripped of most of the furniture by my father when the war had started.

I let out a melancholy sigh when I describe the beautiful square I had played in as a boy as a park. The Union Army had bivouacked on the green and is now denuding the park of trees for firewood. The only remaining "green" was the muddy color of the tent canvases. Meanwhile, bluecoats, in groups, were roaming the streets stealing anything portable or edible. Fortunately most of the young ladies had been evacuated, or we'd soon have a crop of half-breed (blue/grey) babies to deal with. (At the time, we assumed Northerners were a different breed, maybe not even human.) We knew they were undisciplined ravishers and rapists--our leaders had told us so. No one from north of the Mason Dixon Line was a gentleman.

Essentially, life as I had known it was over.

Incidentally, my name Bo, is for Beowulf, not Beauregard, as most think--Mother was a avid fan of old literature. Beowulf Thomas Howell. (Beau, Bearegard is or was my Daddy.) I'm 23 now, the son of a sixth generation planter. Since my two older brothers have been killed already, I'm it--if there is to be a seventh. I guess it depends on whether Daddy considers my time at the Citadel and in the Army as sufficient redemption for taking one of his boy whores from him. I'm now a decommissioned Lieutenant in the Army of the Confederacy, a fugitive, and if I weren't injured and hidden, a POW.

I'm so typical that it's almost trite. Before the war and the wound, I was just your average Southern boy, born in the country to wealthy farming parents, living winters in the city, carefree, not political, a good boy, playing around with others my age--particularly one handsome slave only a few months older than I for a few months, gambling, partying--and if the truth be known, whoring around, mostly with young "fallen" girls, but occasionally with a buddy. Not terribly ambitious. I had barely survived The Citadel, chafing under the discipline. Average height. Very light complexion with lots of freckles. Clear blue eyes. Reddish blonde hair. Broad-shouldered and lightly muscled from genetics, exercise and out of vanity, not work. Definitely, a ladies' gentleman. Or at least I was.

However, now I'm a little thin, emaciated even. My cheeks are hollow. And no fat covers the muscles of my torso--so I'm actually not bad looking in that sense--starvation helps to produce deep cuts exposing muscles and gives a young face character, I'm told. And fortunately the leg wounds are healing. There doesn't appear to be any remaining sepsis. I can walk a little. I won't lose my leg! Maybe someday I'd even dance again--one of my loves and one of things at which I really excelled. But Pris keeps me covered in bed--for security, she says. If I'm able-bodied (and discovered), I'd be taken away in shackles.

Earlier today, our tentative security ended. It wasn't entirely unexpected. We had a brief visit from a Union Captain, together with two younger soldiers. He introduced himself as Captain Henry Morris. He didn't request permission to enter. Just rapped on the old mahogany door and pushed it open. His accent labeled him instantly as a Bostonian, and probably of the upper class. He was dressed in a clean dark blue uniform with more than a dozen shining brass buttons--the outfit of an officer. Incredibly arrogant. Privileged youth tends to be that way--and then you give them a uniform and authority! Reveling in his victory and position. A handsome lad of about 25, obviously quickly promoted because of the war, his dark blue uniform decorations competing with the bright brass buttons. Probably a hero. He was inspecting the house--to determine its utility to Sherman's forces and the coming "administration" of Georgia by the Army, then by the Yanks.

He typically had not found any owner inhabitants. He came upon me in bed. Needless to say he was surprised to find a man remaining in Savannah. I'm pretty sure he thought I was hiding a weapon under the covering. While Pris looked on in horror, he yanked the quilt from my body--exposing my naked body. The wounds were still swathed in bandages--the outermost cloths left deliberately bloody as part of Mother's ruse, but my manhood and the rest of me was completely exposed. He stood there, staring, for a long time, not at the bandaged leg, but at my cock, uncut, thick and long, even in its quiescent state. A banana, arching over two plums. I knew it was large, very large--and that my present emaciated state probably exaggerated its size. Many young guys had been hypnotized by it before. Actually, I was quite proud of it normally. But the circumstances....

Then, his eyes shot up in surprise. He smiled a knowing smirk and slowly recovered me, never taking his eyes from my cock, with a fake apology--not to me, but to Pris. She had seen it, many times, as my nurse, but his Bostonian "sensibilities" caused him to recoil at offending an older woman with exposure to male "privates." He, on the other hand, appeared both very interested and above it all. He peaked his eyebrows at me, winked and turned. What an arrogant bastard! What the fuck did all that mean? I suspected immediately that I hadn't seen the last of him. Was the innocence and prudery a ruse?

He immediately stammered an apology to her, not me, "I understand your desire to protect your boy. But, I shall need to place a guard and return every day to determine when he can be moved. He cannot stay here. We need this space for our troops. He belongs in confinement with the other rebels." Then he tipped his cap. "I shall return tomorrow. Be ready. Make sure you've found some britches and dress him in them. Unless he wants to parade his nakedness on the streets of this fair city. He looked into my eyes as if to say, "I think the nakedness might be interesting."

I shall have a medic with me, and we will remove the bandages and have an assessment made. If possible, we will move him then. Good day, Mam." Pris blushed at the unusual deference accorded her. She had been a servant--my nursemaid--since my birth. She automatically mumbled a "Yes, Massa."

The next 24 hours were difficult on many fronts. First, of course, I considered escape. I got out of bed and walked around the room, limping only a little, but in enough pain that I knew a long walk would be impossible. I went to the window and noted that the Captain had left at least one guard--I could see his legs as he stood at attention to the side of porch from the basement window. (My bed was in the basement to avoid potential destruction of the upper floors.)

I was not going to flee, even if I physically could do so. And I knew that, although not fully healed, I would be deemed well enough to be incarcerated with other officers within a day or so. This might be my last night in bed on clean linen. And with the solitude to relieve my sexual tension.

During the early evening, my thoughts drifted to the Captain. Although a Yankee, he was actually quite a specimen. By then I was a pretty good judge of man-flesh. Handsome, clean, well-spoken. His uniform fit him well and emphasized his musculature. His dark black glossy hair, thin lips and dark eyes lent a certain mystery to his square face. The stubble on his cheeks and chin lent him seniority and seriousness. But, that smirk when he had stared at my cock! He looked ready to eat it raw. Or maybe to let me use it as it was designed. Surely he had been impressed, as all the others had been. And then there was that element of command--which had always been my weakness. Maybe there was something there after all.

I didn't consider myself gay. In fact, I've had quite of bit of experience with the opposite sex. I probably even had a few bastard kids. Fucking male slaves was an accepted perk of living on a plantation. It didn't make you gay. But, at The Citadel, as at many other all-boy military schools, we had experimented. In fact, I was rather fond of penetrating a tight virgin ass or unloading in a willing mouth--and it was always me doing the insertion. I had no scruples in that regard, but I was an anal virgin, protecting my rear entrance with a vengeance. I could seduce, or be seduced, as required if that is what it took--even an occasional instructor if that is what was needed for the passing grade, but when they saw my cock for the first time, they knew I was going to top whatever their plans before. I didn't disappoint.

But, fuck, he was such a supercilious bastard! No doubt he'd try to fuck me if given the chance, and, if he kept to that commanding presence, I'd probably succumb. He may need a little encouragement, and I certainly knew how to do that. But it might not get me anywhere. That was certainly true if he thought he had the advantage over me. It was a challenge: he needed to be seduced, but he needed to feel he was in command. Innocent, experienced, seduced. Fuck, how was I going to pull that off?

Somehow, I assumed he was a virgin, at least with respect to other men. Innocent. His shock seemed to be authentic. So had been his reaction. And we in the south assumed our northern friends were all prudes anyway. But, he had most likely been deprived of sexual opportunity for months--if he had ever known what it was! Then it hit me. I needed to play the coquette. Hard to get. Uninterested. Displeased, no horrified, by male attention--in that unique Southern belle way that simultaneously says "I am not open to your advances, but, if you try and force the issue, I'll probably succumb, you big strong handsome boy." That would be my plan of seduction. Particularly his. I had to get him hot and aroused if I wanted to extract anything worthwhile for my own future. He needed to perceive me as a rigid hetero. And when he finally took me, he'd be thoroughly discombobulated. Perhaps I might even get to use his Yankee ass someday. After he took mine, that is.

So I fell into sleep, the laudanum dulling the pain. Then, I heard footsteps on the stairs. He, or someone was back. This might get interesting after all.

5

Captain Morris (Hank)....

It's been quite a week. The day after tomorrow is Christmas, but it doesn't seem that we'll be celebrating. It's warm and humid. And there are no decorations. And mud, not snow everywhere. We've been on the march, effectuating Sherman's desire for revenge on the deaths of so many young Northern boys on the ruthless battlefields of the rebels, for almost three weeks. Burning, killing, rarely burying, pillaging. Sherman was an enigma. Cruel beyond belief. He'd shoot a man or a woman without blinking. Demanded discipline one minute and released his troops to ravage and destroy the next.

But, he was also a prude. He never permitted his troops to rape and pillage. Not that my scruples would have permitted it anyway. He expected us to be celibate while under his command. Being caught with a woman, let alone, a man's dick in hand or mouth or ass, was an automatic court martial and the firing squad. There were no pansies in Sherman's army.

These last days have aged me as never before. I already feel older than my father. I've seen so much.

Two days ago we entered Savannah. First, we occupied the forts--there was little resistance as most of the soldiers had fled, and there was almost no ammunition. The Union Navy had already effectively closed the harbor with a blockade. Then we took the harbor with little resistance, burned all the ships and, after checking for valuable supplies, the warehouses along the shore. It would be years before Savannah was restored as a port.

We had left only a few blocks of old brick homes, mostly around a green, although we had cleared almost all of the few remaining inhabitants, mostly slaves left as caretakers. Two teams were assigned to root out the remaining residents (mostly house slaves and the infirm) and inventory the houses. I led one of the teams. Sherman intended to occupy, billet the troops in the old houses and give them a few weeks to rest before his next act. It was rumored that we were headed up the coast to Charleston in a few weeks, destroying the coast as we marched. Taking Charleston, we were told, would end the war.

Most of the places were deserted, except for a few house slaves that had been left behind. They were mostly bewildered at what was going on--and didn't know that they were now "free"--whatever that meant to them. We found little food, almost no furniture, no guns--the residents had taken almost everything to their country plantations or to Europe. If it had been to the plantations, we had probably already destroyed them and confiscated everything.

But, toward the end of the day, we entered one of the larger, older brick townhouses. It was almost intact, although there was little furniture on the upper floors and many windows had been broken. One of my guards called out to me, "I think there is someone in the house--food has recently been cooked in this kitchen." We looked and found the secret trap door which led to the root cellar, where, incredibly, we found an aged black woman. And then, in bed, a young man!

I entered the small room, lit only by high small windows facing the street at sidewalk level. Was it really a man or a woman? The body was prone, stretched out on gleaming white linens, under a pale blue coverlet. It was a boy, no a young man. He was like an angel fallen to earth. Although obviously in fear, his face glowed. It was clean and shaved. Maybe he had even used some makeup. Brilliant red puffy lips. And he had flaming red curly hair that seemed to be a raging fire on the top of his head. Huge clear blue eyes, framed with long dark lashes, that stared right into my soul. He was beautiful, took my breath away. I blinked a few times. Was he really there? Or an apparition? Not feminine. A rugged young face, but nevertheless beautiful. My cock, which had seen little exercise in weeks, jerked in my tight military britches and began to swell. It had already made its decision.

I snapped and my military instincts took over. Did he have a weapon? I reached over and swept the quilt from his body as my guard held his rifle at the ready. Bloody bandages covered both legs--one thigh and one lower leg. But, otherwise he was naked. Fucking naked as the day he was born! His torso was unblemished--no wounds and little hair. Erect nipples that betrayed play. But his cock! It was the biggest I had ever seen. Clearly not a girl. And not a boy's either! Like a full-grown banana arching over heavy balls--uncut and not even hard! I think I may have involuntarily stared or even licked my lips. Then, to cover, I winked and pulled the cover back over him. Winked? Really? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Well, deep down, I knew already. I had to have him. Or maybe he had me.

We searched the room for weapons--and found only a kitchen knife, not concealed, but obviously used for cooking or eating. I was very confused, although deep down I already knew that I wanted this boy. How, I wasn't at all sure. I instructed his caretaker that I would be back. I needed to think. And he needed to be moved to the stockade--but could I really move such beauty to that filthy hole? Where it would be nearly impossible for me to have him. I definitely needed to think. I left quickly, my day's work done, but left a guard. "No one enters or leaves this house, Sergeant. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

Then in a stroke of brilliance, I decided that I would need a ruse to keep him. "I myself will relieve you in a few hours so you can get some grub. But he is under total surveillance. He apparently is privy to the plans for a last suicide attack. I will question him to decide whether he is worth taking into interrogation custody. No one goes in or leaves. We'll need to move him. Maybe tomorrow."