Please e-mail all Comments to me at Swarri1349@aol.com
Thanks,
Stephen
                                            CHAPTER 5
                             The Meeting

The Red River steamer Miss Lou steamed slowly down the log-jammed
river to her destination, Belle Bend, 25 miles south of Shreveport,
Louisiana, then on to Vicksburg, Mississippi. Before the outbreak of war,
the steamer would have stopped at the mouth of the Red River and
transferred her cargo and passengers to a Mississippi River packet but now
she made the entire journey to Vicksburg.

      A young man dressed in a broadcloth suit stood on the hurricane deck
with his boot propped on the rail. He was watching the river and a long
way from home. At seventeen, Michael Hunter, now on a steamer headed
south, hailed from Arizona territory. His mother and father hated it when he
packed his bags and headed east, after reading in the newspaper that
Arizona had joined the Confederacy. Now as he looked at the river, one
bigger and fuller than any he had seen before, his mind wandered, thinking
of his Ma and Pa and little brother back home and what now lay ahead. It
was not time for idle minds but action. He took his foot off the railing
and began to walk toward the bow of the little steamer. Michael wanted to
avoid the card dealers and cheaters in the main cabin; he already had one
run-in with a big Texan who was drunk and spoiling for a fight; the captain
took care of the Texan by kicking him overboard, plus he did not want to
waste what little money he had in gold coin. The steamer slowly pushed
forward, her paddle wheel biting into the muddy water and her wood smoke
darkening the gray skies overhead, and the hiss of steam and rumbling of
her engines set the slow pace. Neither the steamer nor the river cared a
war was being fought over who controlled them.

      Michael continued to the bow of the steamer, lost in deep thought and
dreaming of Arizona. He saw, in his mind, his father dressed and prepared
to leave home for work in his carriage, the two mares, both solid white,
hitched to the fine black lacquered carriage with the family crest
emblazoned in gold on the doors. His loving mother downstairs in the
kitchen, finishing up the morning dishes, and his little brother playing in
his high chair, and Marco, the hired hand, working in the gardens and
minding to the chores, while he slept in his bunk all morning, trying to
avoid most of the other passengers on deck.

      Now here he stood at the bow of Miss Lou, over 1000 miles from home,
watching the clouds and the river float by. He looked down onto the boiler
deck and saw the deck hands playing cards and smoking their pipes, the
crates of muskets stacked here and there along with medicine, whiskey,
flour, and hay. Then there were the kegs branded with a triple X, the black
powder for the guns at Vicksburg. Then Michael looked where they were
stacked right beside the long rows of cordwood used to fire the steamer's
boilers. Michael saw one of the smoking deck hands sitting on one of the
kegs. Michael was not a person afraid of anything, but this did bring a
sweat to his brow. Now he began to wonder, 'What in the Hell was I
thinking?'

      As Michael's thoughts raced through his mind, he saw a stunning
sight. A boy about the same age as him stood on a small wooden wharf,
waving a white rag to hail the steamboat. The Miss Lou tooted her whistle
and turned toward the wharf. As the steamer pulled closer, Michael could
start to make out the boy's features. He first noticed the shoulder length
curly hair, the handsome slender face, the tanned muscular arms. Michael's
thoughts of home and if he made the right choice faded from his mind as his
teenage hormones took over. God had blessed Michael in many ways and
now one of those endowments was waking, stretching the fabric of his pants.
Michael chuckled to himself, 'Thank goodness for strong buttons'. The
teenager on shore looked up from the wharf and looked Michael directly in
the eyes. Michael found his knees wanting to buckle as he held onto the
rail. Michael had never seen such beauty before.

      The gangplank was unfastened from the deck and swung out toward the
wharf. The teenager jumped onto the gangplank and began to walk on board.
The little steamer never stopped, just slowed down a little. The mud clerk
walked out to help the teen with his bags and of course to collect his
fare. "Welcome aboard the Miss Lou, sir," the clerk grinned, his pipe
cocked to the right side of his mouth.

      "Thank you, sir," replied the teen.

      The clerk sat the teen's bags on deck and grabbed his clipboard off
a crate. "Where are you headed?" asked the clerk between puffs on his pipe.

      The teen looked for a moment, still holding his carpetbag. "To
Vicksburg, sir."

      The clerk smiled, "To the end of the line, fare $2.50 in gold coin or
$3.50 in confederate paper money."

      The teen slowly sat his bag down and dug deep into his trouser pocket
and pulled out 3 gold coins and handed them to the clerk.

      "Thank you, lad." He began to write out the ticket.

      "What is your name, lad?"

      "Conway James, sir."
 
      "That is Irish, very Irish."
 
      "Yes sir, it is. I am half Irish and half Indian."

      The clerk finished the ticket and handed it to Conway. "There you go,
laddie. You will have to find someone to bunk with or sleep out on deck
since all the cabins are full."

      Michael, standing on the hurricane deck right above them, heard it
all. He was mesmerized by the angelic voice of one Conway James. Michael
leaned over the rail. "Mr. James can bunk with me, sir."

      "Very well, Mr. Hunter, Mr. James. Cabin C3 right in the center on
the port side."

      "Thank you, sirs," replied Conway and he smiled. Conway picked up his
bags and climbed the stairs leading to the hurricane deck and to the door
that led to the main cabin.

      Michael left the bow and headed down the deck to the door that led to
his cabin. Michael pulled the tarnished brass key from his pocket and
unlocked his door. He quickly looked around the small room. Then he began
to stash his books and other personal items, including the long woolen
underwear that he refused to wear in this heat. Dry heat out west was not
so bad, but this humid heat would kill a man or so he thought. Michael then
dumped the china wash basin and refilled it with cool fresh water from the
pitcher. Then, looking at himself in the large mirror, he unbuttoned the
first three buttons of his shirt. Then it hit him - there was only one bunk
in the small cabin. 'I guess we will have to share,' as a smile broadened
across his handsome face.

      While Michael was cleaning up the cabin, a large-busted girl stopped
Conway in the main cabin. She spotted him the minute he topped the stairs.

      "Hello, handsome," she said; her bosom bounced with each step she
made.

      "Afternoon, Miss," replied Conway as he continued to walk toward
Michael's cabin. The young lady smiled, "Miss Ann White," as she extended
her gloved hand.

      "Conway James at your service." He sat one of his bags down and took
her hand and gently kissed it.

      "Why, I do declare, there are some true gentlemen left in the South."

      "Why, thank you, Miss White." Conway picked up his bag and had
begun to walk toward the cabin.

      "Mr. James, I would love for you to join me for a drink once you have
stored your bags."

      "I would love to, Miss White, once I am settled in. I am sharing a
cabin with Mr. Hunter. Have you met him?"

      "The Western gentleman? Cabin C3, I believe?"

      "Yes, that is the one."

      "Well, Mr. James, I did run into him last night at supper. Charming
boy, but very quiet, also very handsome just like yourself." She batted her
eyelashes as she spoke.

      "Miss White, it was a pleasure to meet you."

      "Thank you, Mr. James, the pleasure was all mine." Then she turned and
walked back toward the roulette wheel. 'Finally,' thought Conway, 'Women
are all the same, all they want to do is talk until they can get you to their
room for a quick screw. Conway did not have the slightest interest in them.
'Now, Mr. Hunter, just how quiet is you?' as he smiled.

      Conway continued toward the stern of the steamer, down the long wide
cabin, passing card dealers, card players, and black servants. Doors lined
the main cabin, each with a nicely painted scene, wild deer, flowers, birds,
or a steamboat plying the river. Above the paintings, the cabin number was
carved into the rich oiled wood. Conway smiled at this homely little
steamer, slugging her way to Vicksburg. All the big grand Mississippi River
packets named their cabins after states and were called staterooms and the
deck above where the officers' quarters were was named the Texas deck. He
continued his slow pace and soon made it to cabin C3. The door was closed,
so he sat his bag down and knocked.

      Michael wiped his face to remove the sweat that was forming back.
He heard the knock and scanned the small cabin. He was nervous of meeting
Conway James.

      Michael straightened his clothes and turned the brass door knob and
there Conway stood. Michael felt his knees turn to jelly.

      "Hello, Mr. Hunter, I must thank you for your kindness you have
already shown me." Then Conway walked into the room and used his boot to
push the door almost closed. "I can tell you're not from the Deep South,
since most people aboard would like to see me sleep with the deck hands,"
and with that said, he sat his bags down and reached out his hand to
Michael.

      Michael took Conway's hand and shook it, feeling the smooth skin.
Michael released it but he wanted to hold it forever. "Thank you, Mr.
James, and you're quite welcome and please call me Michael."

      "Thank you, Michael, and please, it is just Conway then."

      "Conway, you said that most people aboard would like to see you
sleep with the deckhands. Why?"

      Conway's head dropped as he listened to Michael's question. "Well,
Michael, I have tainted blood, as it is said in polite society."

      "Tainted blood?" asked Michael. "What does it mean?"

      "Well, Michael, tainted blood is a mix of white, Indian, and French
Canadian and others. Most people of the Deep South and other areas think
we are no better than the slaves that they own and we are in the same
class, since we do not come from some blue blood over in England or
somewhere." Conway continued to look at the floor. "Well, thank you, Mr.
Hunter, I will now go find me a place on the deck. Thank you once again,
sir." Then he picked up his bags as tears began to flow down his dusty
cheeks.

      Michael just stood there speechless for a moment, trying to take in
everything he just heard. He thought, 'So this is what is meant by closed
society.' "Conway, please wait! I am not like one of them. I do not care
what runs inside you. I see from the way you act, you are from a noble
clan of people. I do not care that you do not have a link to some dried up
Duke or whoever in some far off country. You are a wonderful person, no
matter what the closed-minded assholes of high society think."

      Conway looked up. "Really, Michael, you're the first person to tell
me that outside my family." Conway smiled, "Thank you, my wonderful
friend."
Conway sat his bags back down and walked forward and grabbed
Michael into a bear hug and let his tears flow freely. For once in a long time
he felt safe and had a friend in the world.

      Michael hugged Conway back, holding the boy close, inhaling his
boyish scents and feeling the muscles under his shirt. "Everything is going
to be fine, Conway. I will be here as your friend as long as you need me,
for now I am not alone either. I have someone to talk to, someone to share
my adventure with, and, in trying times like these, we need a good friend
to lean on."

      Conway smiled and pulled gently back from the embrace. He knew that
Michael had accepted him for who he was. "I smell like a pig, all sweaty
and dirty, and here I am getting your fine shirt filthy. That is no way to
treat my friend who has just welcomed me to bunk with him and who
accepts me for who I am."

      Michael smiled, "Conway, it is only a shirt and it can be cleaned,
but yes, you do need to freshen up." Michael covered his nose and smiled,
then winked.

      Conway laughed and walked over to the wash basin and poured some
more of the cool water from the pitcher into the bowl and reached for the
soap. Michael noticed the door was still open just a crack and walked over
and locked it. Conway looked over and saw Michael close and lock the door.
Michael then walked past Conway, brushing him across his back. Michael
then sat down on the bunk and kicked off his boots. Conway watched
Michael in the mirror while he scrubbed the dirt from his face. Michael
caught Conway looking back at him through the mirror and smiled as he
pulled off his socks. "Changing for dinner already, Michael?"

      "Umm, no, just getting comfy for a nap. It is too hot to wear wool
socks, and my feet are burning up."

      "Ya, I know the feeling. Usually when I am at home in the bayou
country, I go shirtless and shoeless."

      Michael felt his cock twitch in his trousers. "Conway, I hope you
don't mind if I get comfortable, do you?"

      "Why no, Michael." Conway unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off,
dropping it on the floor. Michael let out a soft moan when he saw the
broad back, the tight muscles under the tanned skin. Conway heard the moan
and turned to face Michael and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, then
turning to face the mirror once more, he began to wash his chest and
stomach. He looked back at Michael who was unfastening the buttons that
held his trousers and stood to remove them, letting them slide down his
legs. Then Michael unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. Michael saw
Conway's eyes get bigger in the mirror but was surprised that Conway's eyes
never turned away. Once he saw Michael looking at him, he just smiled.
Conway swished the cloth in the water and began to wash his back,
watching as Michael laid down on the bunk and turned to face Conway,
watching him. Conway laid the cloth down and walked over to the bunk and
sat down close to Michael and leaned over to untie the laces holding his
shoes on and then removed his shoes and socks. Conway's butt rested
against Michael slightly, and he could feel the lump forming in Michael's
drawers. Conway stood and removed his worn trousers, dropping them to the
floor. He had trimmed his underwear to be more comfortable; unlike the
style, he had cut them off above the knees. They now ended right below the
beginning of his ass. Michael's eyes were wide as he looked at the sight
before him. He moaned and Conway turned to look at Michael and smiled at
him. Michael blushed, his pale cheeks turning bright red. "Sorry, Conway,
don't be mad."

      Conway continued to smile. "Michael, I am not mad one bit."

      There was silence for a few minutes, then Michael finally spoke,
"Man, you're beautiful, a perfect chest and those muscles. Wow."

      Conway sat back down on the bunk and took Michael's hand. "Here,
feel them if you wish." Then he placed Michael's hand on his chest.
Michael felt the smooth skin, the heat coming from it. His cock began to
grow hard. Michael at first wanted to stop and roll over to hide, then his
mind just said 'fuck it'. His hand did not want to leave the smooth chest
and tight muscles. Then he let his hand roam over Conway's chest, brushing
the two erect nipples the size of nickels. Conway sucked in a deep breath
and slowly let it back out. Michael's smooth hand was working its magic and
he felt his teen hood begin to swell. Michael continued to rub Conway's
chest and he noticed Conway did object to it. Michael thought 'If he was not
interested, he would have made me stop by now'. "Conway, tell me about
your family?"

      Conway motioned for Michael to move over on the bunk and he lay
down beside him. Michael hated he had to remove his hand from that perfect
chest. Michael rolled over onto his back. 'Hard-on be damned,' he thought.
Conway just smiled that handsome smile and got comfortable on the small
bunk and slowly began to speak of his family and past.

      "I grew up south of New Orleans in the bayous of southern
Louisiana. Ma and Pa were not rich. We lived in a three -room shack that
leaked when it rained. In winter you froze unless you slept in front of the
fire. Pa and I helped a plantation owner with his sugarcane crops and I
fished and swam when I was not working with Pa. Ma made clothes and
washed for some of the better-off folks around our little hamlet. No one was
rich, not any of us Cajuns anyway. The rich plantation owners had the
money and we worked for them, making enough money to buy what little
we needed. We raised our own meat and vegetables and Ma made butter
from the milk produced by our cow. I had two red-blooded hounds that I
used when Pa and me would go hunting for alligator and coons; they were
my real friends. There were few other children my age around there except
for the blue bloods of the plantation owners. Last summer Pa was killed
when the plow horse kicked him in the stomach. The doctor could not save
him, so Ma and me buried Pa out back of the cabin in a grove of willow
trees. The next eight months or so, Ma and me continued on alone, her doing
her washing and me helping the hands in the sugarcane fields. Then Ma
caught yellow fever and she sent me for the local witch woman, as we called
her, for herbs to heal it. I left that morning and by the time I got back that
afternoon Ma was lying in bed, dead. I wrapped her body and dug a grave by
Pa, and I buried her. As I covered her body, I cried; each shovel brought
forth memories of a happy time. After I covered her grave, I returned to the
cabin and took a ax and made a cross and I drove it into the ground. That
night I slept alone in the little cabin. The next morning I packed my few
belongings, the family Bible and what little money there was, and headed
west. I passed through east Texas and worked my way north, then I headed
east to Shreveport and still could not find steady work. So I continued
south to where the steamer picked me up. I worked on that small farm,
making a little money and the old man died and his wife packed her bags
and headed to New Orleans to live with her brother. She gave me enough
money to make it to Vicksburg and, before she left, she told me to join
the Confederate Army and make the South proud once more. That was this
morning. This afternoon I boarded this here steamer. I did not know if it
was the right thing or not until now." The tears streamed down Conway's
cheeks in a river of sadness and sorrow.

      Michael pulled him close. "Cry, my boy, cry. Let the sadness out, let
it flow. I am here for you, my friend, and you're not alone no more".
Conway sobbed into Michael's arms. Michael once again could smell the
sweet odors of soap and clean water but there was no sexual urge for
Conway, only love for the weeping boy. Conway's face was now resting
against Michael's chest. His tears continued to flow and Michael rocked
Conway, trying to comfort him the best he could. Soon Conway's breathing
grew quieter and Michael realized that Conway was sleeping. Soon Michael
joined Conway in a peaceful sleep as the little steamer continued south.