Chapter 20 – Trial in the Block Out-Building, Around 7:30pm, May 11th 1864
Silence fell. Sampson ceased his provocation and the slaves looked on open mouthed at the close proximity of Massa Sherman. The General knew that he couldn’t take Catherine to one side and have a private chat with her. This matter was already out in the open, and the success of his army might well depend on the authority he was able to command and the justice he could deliver at this very moment. But he could stop the spectacle.
“You private, get everyone out of here. This is a matter for the Lieutenant, Sergeant Oak and I.” His tone was assertive and the private jumped to it.
“Give her a good whuppin’ the uppity cunt!” It was Shepherd’s voice that could be heard above the general din as the block was quickly emptied.
Sherman regarded the poor girl on the floor. Was this really what his pretty, decorous Goddaughter had become?
“You hit her feet Lieutenant?” It was a question but it was very clearly rhetorical.
“Yes Sir. The Bastinado is one of the quickest methods to …”
“And did you discover anything new?” Sherman cut into his officer’s further words.
Lieutenant Sampson paused, then replied, “She admitted to being a Reb Spy Gen’l.”
Sherman nodded slowly, and said, “Well she would, wouldn’t she if you were hammering the soles of her feet. She would have admitted to anything.”
The small gathering went silent until once again the General, looking down upon the girl, spoke.
“Tell us what this piece of paper represents and why you have it, Catherine.” He waived the sheet before her eyes. “Catherine is this the codebreaker that you use to decode the messages in the notebook?”
She shook her head and continued to look at the floor. Sherman knelt to her level and looked at the dishevelled, shivering, beaten, and still very naked figure that was his Goddaughter.
“Fetch this girl a blanket.” The instruction was echoed out of the block until a soldier quickly returned with the requested cover.
Placing the tartan, wool blanket around her shoulders, Sherman slipped a finger gently under Catherine’s chin and tipped her head upwards to look at him.
“Please tell us what this is child,” he said quietly indicating the shapes and letters scribbled onto the page.
A shake of her head indicated the girl’s answer.
“You have no idea how serious this is Catherine. Espionage against the Federal Government is a crime punishable by death. You need to tell me now what this is.”
“It … it … looks like … j … just a g … game. Maybe the slaves … I … I … have n … never seen it before in my life. Y… your men, they are the most atrocious mon … monsters I have ever met, and they must be pl … planting all of these things just to g … get me to …”
“To get you to what Catherine?” Sherman pushed for a complete answer, not believing his Goddaughter’s assertions for one minute.
She had no more to say, and so the General Stood. They would need to formalise things as best they could. “Sergeant Oak, please make a record of the trial of Catherine McCown, at 7:45pm on this day, Wednesday the 11th May in the year of our Good lord, 1864.
Finding her voice Catherine glared at Sherman. “How dare you mention the Good Lord? He will judge you Uncle Billy and all of your degenerate soldiers …”
General Sherman had assumed a formal air and now sat down next to the Lieutenant on a chair that looked bizarrely ornate for the surroundings, while Oak chained Catherine’s neck collar to the floor, causing her to bow down low. The Sergeant then sat at the table ready to record proceedings.
Privates Blake and Hill, the ones who had discovered the coins and buttons in the Peach Grove, were also on hand to officiate if required.
“The accused will look up to receive her sentence.” Sampson opened events. A large fist gripped Catherine’s hair and twisted her to face the self-appointed judge and jury that the General and Sampson had become. Tears rimmed her eyes as she waited …
The Lieutenant continued his introductory words, in which he now seemed to be revelling.
“Catherine McCown you stand accused of being a traitor to the United States of America, keeping anarchical secrets, harbouring traitorous criminals and acting in an illegally dissenting manner. If your behaviour goes unchecked then it is certain to result in more of these misguided deeds,” he declared, baring his teeth, holding her frozen with his gaze, “… and you must be disciplined accordingly so that we can ascertain the truth.”
“Will you plead guilty to this atrocious act of subversion and sedition, Miss McCown?” The General had maintained his formal disposition, but was now attempting to put Catherine in a position where he could at least help her. If she admitted her guilt, he could call upon whatever precedents were available to have her life spared.
But the girl simply shook her head.
“For the love of God Catherine, help me to help you.”
But there was nothing.
“Catherine … please. Tell us what you know.”
Slowly she raised her gaze to look at her Godfather. “I. Have. Done. Nothing. Sir.”
Her words were individually enunciated, her sentiment clear, and momentarily Sherman was taken aback by the emotion with which her speech was infused. But then he turned to his Lieutenant and whispered into his ear.
The junior officer stood to address this small, hastily gathered kangaroo court, and spoke directly at the girl as he looked down upon her.
“Despite clear evidence to the contrary, Catherine McCown has failed to confess to being a Confederate Spy. It is of paramount importance that we are able to understand the items that have now being discovered inside White Orchard Mansion, and the potential nature of their implication and impact …” Sergeant Oak was scribbling away manfully, as the Lieutenant continued. “… Accepting that, until she is proven guilty, we cannot execute her, I therefore sentence this girl to the highest other measure of corporal punishment possible under Federal law. For her punishment, and so that we can find out the truth of this very serious matter, she will be flogged …”
Catherine began to swoon, suddenly feeling dizzy.
“… She shall be continuously whipped in rounds of twelve strokes. Following each round, she will be interrogated for information. This will continue until we have the answers we seek or until the presiding General, Major-General William Sherman, calls a halt.”
At the end of this pronouncement, Catherine felt her entire body go rigid with fear. She trembled visibly, aghast, her mouth open, her eyes wide as she tried to take in the words. She could hardly believe this man had been referring to her as he spoke.
Tears of fright streamed down Catherine’s face as she listened to the General, her Godfather, speak … and with every word he increased the burden of her punishment.
“Miss McCown will receive twenty-five lashes for her first round of whipping, twelve in each round thereafter. To maximize the overall number of strokes possible, the lashes will be applied not only across the bare back but spread across her entire body from her shoulders to her ankles ...”
Catherine’s sobs turned into louder crying as she absorbed what had been said. She was to be strung up and whipped in a more brutal way than anything she could have ever witnessed or even dreamed of before. And what Uncle Billy had said about her entire body meant that she would be totally bare! At least they would spare her breasts and down below, between her thighs … wouldn’t they?
“Oh God help me,” Catherine whispered to the Almighty.
“Even He can’t help you now you fucking Reb cunt,” Private Samuel Hill whispered into her ear as he leaned into her.
“Lieutenant, you will organise the flogging to commence at 7:30 am precisely tomorrow morning. You will assemble the entire estate once again to witness the event …”
Did Uncle Billy really just call her impending flogging an ‘event’? Catherine was beside herself. She had never felt so lonely, so vulnerable and exposed in her young life as she did right now.
Her tortured feet cried out for attention, but she guessed they would receive none. ‘Uncle Billy’ continued to speak, and every one of his words was a stake through her heart.
“You, Mister Sampson, have the privilege of administering the flogging of this girl. You have full discretion as to the whips, from this fine collection hereabouts, you deem it necessary to use on her, but make no mistake, I want answers.” Sherman seemed to have disavowed all previous relationships with his Goddaughter in favour of the matter at hand.
Cowering, Catherine clenched her uncovered thighs together to contain something of the fear overpowering her and filling her bladder. She fumed as Sergeant Oak’s gaze raked over her bared, shaking body with a clear hunger fuelled only by his debauched lust.
“It will be my pleasure, General ...” Sampson responded with gleeful relish.
Catherine peered at the brute through the narrow slits of her tear-soaked eyes, and breathed in a hoarse whisper, “... Pl … please, have … mercy …”
The Lieutenant gave no answer to her imploring words, and Catherine saw a chilling smile grow upon his face.
She struggled to pull away as Sampson moved from his chair and knelt by her side, slowly sliding his fingers in light caress down one dampened cheek ... his touch felt like the searing tip of a white-hot branding iron.
“As always, when the whips threaten such beauty, bravery and daring vanish very fast.” Looking to his troopers, her newly appointed punisher issued an order.
“Take her to the slave pens and secure her there for the night.”
As if waking from a long, drugged sleep, Catherine opened her eyes and shook her head in denial of his latest instruction.
Taking deep, staggering breaths, she attempted to stabilise her legs so that she could at least walk. Private Blake unfastened the leash from the floor ring and pulled upwards. Stumbling after him on her broken feet, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, Catherine was taken away.
Chapter 21 – The Slave Pens at White Orchard, Around 10pm, May 11th 1864
"Get off me!" She cried, as one of the monstrous troopers, following the Lieutenant’s directive, dragged her stumbling body to the slave pens and bundled her into the small, confined space. Each pen was only three feet wide and four feet in length, even less in height. Manacles adorned every side and so a sufferer's stay inside could never be comfortable.
Catherine had managed only sporadic sleep, crying so much that she was totally drained, both physically and emotionally. Her mind was careering from one dread to the next, and her feet were battered and bruised.
"No miss, I cannot do that. I have my orders."
"I said get off me you bastard!" It was very rare that Catherine cursed, but right now times were exceptional, and as this soldier continued his manhandling of her, she felt compelled to yell at him.
"Miss McCown, I said no!" Then he hit her across the back of the head, more of a slap really. It wasn’t hard, but it was delivered with enough force to shock her.
"Ahhhhhrrgggghhh!"
Catherine screamed and struggled as long as she could before the last vestiges of hope finally left her. Exhausted and consumed by anguish, she collapsed upon herself, curling into a ball, gasping for air as the surrounding crickets continued to chirp their mocking song.
But then he shackled her left wrist, and now she lay curled on her side, alone, save for the guard, who sat a few feet away on an upturned crate … hers was the only cage in use.
The large doors of the outbuilding were opened outwards towards the open space of the estate. A cloud blew slowly across the bright moon and the only discernible detail in the blackness was the sight of the orange glow at the tip of one of those new little white cigar things that the war had introduced. When it passed, and light returned to the clearing, Catherine could see the soldier smoking it, his shadow cast against the dusty floor from his makeshift seat.
She was still without clothes, and terrified for her safety, but she felt a just a little gratitude that the soldier hadn’t violated her. He could have and no one would have known. Maybe she could gain his trust. Maybe he would let her go …
“Hello, sir … hello …” she attempted to attract the seated trooper’s attention but he simply ignored her.
“Please, could I … I need to … go to the toilet … please, sir,” Catherine affected her best Southern Belle accent in her attempts to attract his attention.
He turned and grinned at her. “Then go, I am not here to stop you. But if you do not shut up with the chatter, I will gag you Miss McCown.”
Catherine slunk back into the shadows of the pen and hoped that she could hold onto her bladder until the morning! The night wasn’t cold by any means, but dry air chilled the naked girl. After a while she could no longer stop herself from shaking, burying her head in the crook of her arm she tried to distract her mind. But with her wrist manacled to the bars it was impossible to get comfortable. Huddled against the side of her pen, Catherine prayed for the strength to endure the agonies to come …
******
Sampson couldn’t sleep. Spending a second night on the floor of the main house didn’t help his slumberous cause, but equally the thought of what the morning would bring was exciting him beyond the ability to even doze.
He stood and stretched his body. A quick check of his pocket watch told him that it was thirty minutes after eleven on this warm May night. He moved to wake Sergeant Oak who was sound asleep just a few feet away from him.
“Outside with me, now Oak,” he whispered, keen not to wake the others.
In a stupor that swayed between the waking and the sleeping, Oak opened his bleary, heavy eyes and took a moment to recall where he was and comprehend what was happening.
Dragging his heavy body off the floor he followed the Lieutenant outside.
“We need to shave her Oak.”
“Sorry, Sir, what?”
“Her body … not her head of course, but we need to shave her between those creamy smooth thighs.”
The very thought excited the Sergeant but he was still confused.
“Listen Oak, I asked Private Hill to make a special adaptation for the whipping post. You will see what I mean tomorrow, but in the meantime, go collect these things, then come with me to the slave pens and we will shave her mound.
******
Time seemed to pass with incredible slowness. Catherine closed her eyes, longing for a sleep that would not come. This is not real, she thought. It must all be a dream ... but the stark reality of her confinement in the small cage pressed upon her nerves. Things were harder to bear in the darkness, and her mind grew feverish alternating between thoughts of escape and acceptance of the horror she was due to face. Despite the doors to the building being open, the slave pen was deathly dim. The only source of light coming from a flaming torch, which provided barely enough to see beyond the bars and the wooden ceiling with its high overhead beams.
The building was designed to exacerbate a captive’s feelings of helplessness, and this it achieved well. The tormented girl never thought for one second that she would be the victim of its ghastly bearing. The irony of her situation was the realisation of how meagre in human terms a slave’s life was, even those handled with fairness and even-handedness like her father had done when he was alive. There was no wonder that they behaved in a more feral way than true ‘Southern people’. But it was too late now for her to be ‘learning lessons’ from this experience, far too late indeed.
Then Catherine heard voices and before she could turn and look towards the entrance, the large beast of a Sergeant slipped his hand through the bars and grabbed a fistful of hair, twisting and forcing her head to the side. He pressed a cold, sharp blade to her throat and instantly, any brief thoughts of resistance or struggle were gone from her thoughts.
"Well now, this seems to have gotten your attention, hasn't it, you Reb scum?" Oak sneered as he purposefully ran the blade across her neck, gently though, so as not to cut.
"I'm going to take a look at you now and you're going to be totally still, and quiet, for me, aren't you, cunt? Nod if you understand."
Catherine nodded and, thankfully, he withdrew his blade. She exhaled.
"Good girl."
Once she had stopped struggling, the Lieutenant stepped out of the shadows and, kneeling alongside his Sergeant, they began their inspection. There was no subtlety in behaviour and no politeness in approach. Sampson’s penetrating gaze began at her legs and then slowly took in every inch of her body, from the ‘V’ which split her thighs, to her firm, round breasts. He paused only to look into her beautiful blue eyes, and the coldness in his own expression made her wince.
Then the monster slid his hand between the bars, grabbing onto the mound of her womanhood. Suddenly, Catherine could feel the sharpness of Oak’s blade biting into her soft, sensitive flesh and she dared not move. Lieutenant Sampson gently squeezed and for a split-second, she forgot to breathe.
“Soldier, come over here and unshackle her. We want her laying on top of the cage. Arrange her so and then you will secure her arms and legs back into those manacles for us.”
“No, what? Please, you can’t do this …” Catherine protested. Having endured the savage indecency of a man’s touch between her legs for the first time in her life, she was now to be subjected to further humiliation.
They were about to rape her. It was obvious, why else would they be securing like this.
With the blade never leaving her body for even a moment, the helpless young girl was secured, spread eagled, across the top of the metal cage. The top bars of the pen were causing her back extreme discomfort, but she knew that ‘discomfort’ was about to become the least of her worries.
The sight of Miss McCown with her legs wide open was a treat indeed for the soldiers.
“Look at her legs and under the pits of her arms Lieutenant, already smooth as a baby’s bottom. She’s already removed the hair from those parts.”
“Hmmm some girls do Sergeant and Miss McCown is a young lady, I expected nothing less from her,” Sampson’s tone ridiculed Catherine, before he added, “Did you bring the cut-throat?” The Lieutenant asked of his Sergeant.
Oak chuckled and set down the razor on a small table that had been brought to their side.
"I'm going to have to touch her though to do this, Sir."
Sampson grinned, "Yes Sergeant you are, just don't get any ideas of sticking your dick in the slut. That is not for now."
“What? No, please, you cannot do …” Catherine was beside herself with a new found fear. They were not going to rape her, but they were going to shave her pubic hair. Why in God’s name … this was an unbearable humiliation …”
“Here give me your Spruce gum Oak.”
The bound girl looked to her side to see the Lieutenant rolling sticky pieces of chewed Spruce gum between his fingers before pressing the masticated substance onto a piece of hide. She was repulsed and had to turn away. But Catherine was still able to see as the monster at her feet took the hide, pressed the gum to her pubic hair and then ripped it away.
It took a moment before the pain registered, but then a feral yell came from her delicate throat as the gum tore out a clump of hair from her mons.
“Oh please, stop!” She pleaded. But they didn’t.
The hide was pressed to her mound once more and again ripped away. Gritted teeth subdued Catherine’s cry, and stoicism helped her cope with the agony.
The action was repeated several more times and, craning her neck to look down her body she could see the raw, tufty mess that had been left behind.
Listening to the sound of heavy breathing coming from these two brutes, Catherine closed her eyes. She shuddered when she felt a hand on her abdomen and then again when Oak ran his touch over her skin, just above her private area. She felt his fingers on her soft folds, softly gasped and inadvertently lifted her hips, resulting in chuckles of laughter from the soldiers.
Humiliated … Degraded … Terrified. She was all of these things.
Oak was having a ball, taking his time to touch her, open her and expose her. Catherine squirmed in agony, both real and psychological, as the Sergeant provided a stealth like touch … making the abused girl gasp.
"Sergeant, quit playing with the bitch and just shave the fucking hair off ... please. And you, you Reb cunt, open your eyes wide and watch him."
Reluctantly Catherine looked down past her heaving breasts, her nipples having become unwittingly and regrettably erect, to the now sparse hair above her slit.
The prostrate girl saw both men peering down at her, smirking. From her position on top of the cage, she had at her eye level, the sick, burgeoning erections in each pair of dust covered pants.
She lay helpless, legs spread, and watched Oak soak a cloth in a bucket of water, wring it out and then place it over her mound to wet the skin. She yelped … it was freezing cold!
“Oops, sorry about that Miss McCown, the water should be heated, but hell, we ain’t got none of that warm water round here right now.” Sampson mocked her.
With a lascivious grin playing on his lips, Sergeant Oak removed the soaked cloth and grinned down at the hapless girl. “We ain’t got none of that cream either, too much of a luxury in these here times.”
His grin spread into a laugh as he let a long thick drip of tobacco imbued saliva drop slowly from his thick lips onto her abdomen. And then, with clear delight, he smeared the spit over her mons, extracting every ounce of pleasure for himself and ensuring maximum humiliation for poor Catherine.
“Pl … please …” Catherine’s breath was ragged as she squirmed under his ministration. She had hardly ever touched herself down there before, and now this brute was pawing at her without thought or care!
Catherine groaned, her anguish coming to the fore.
Oak picked up the cut-throat razor and touched it to her sensitive flesh.
“Now bitch, do not move one inch or else you will be cut.” The Sergeant released more of his thick spittle onto her body and spoke with undisguised glee as the poor girl watched in horror. She held still, hardly daring to breathe as the blade scraped over her skin, removing the last vestiges of hair, completely exposing the pink folds of her sensitive flesh along with her unfortunately engorged clitoris.
The rasping of the razor was sheer torture as it ran over the same areas of her mons time after time, scraping and biting, scratching and grating.
“Please, owwwwwwwwwch! Stop this madness, pleeeeease!” The rough treatment meted out by the brutish Sergeant was appalling, yet she couldn’t help but crane her neck to watch as her pubic hair disappeared, no doubt leaving her lower abdomen, mons and labia totally bare …
After demonstrating a surprising ability with the cut-throat, Oak finally finished, wiped the hair away from Catherine’s body with the wet cloth and smiled at his Lieutenant.
“Excellent work Sergeant,” the surprised intonation could not be kept from his voice.
“You don’t get whiskers like these without knowing how to wield a cut-throat Lieutenant,” he grinned in response.
Sampson and Oak looked down at the bound, naked girl. Her hairless mound was red-raw, but not one droplet of blood spoiled the effect of her denuded flesh.
"Like it, Catherine?" As she strained to see what they had done to her, the Lieutenant ridiculed her once more.
"N … n … no …"
"Well, we do and the Sergeant here has thoroughly enjoyed himself, is that not correct Sergeant Oak?”
Oak chuckled, "Yeah, I’ve never done that before, it was ... stimulating, Sir."
Catherine grimaced but the iron shackles around her ankles stopped her from closing her legs. She had been naked in front of these thugs for what seemed like an age, most of it with her thighs wide open. Was now the time for them to rape her? She wanted to cry out for Uncle Billy, but he had proven himself also to be a rogue by turning his back on her. She was all alone, and she was very frightened.
"Catherine, I think you should thank the Sergeant for the wonderful job he did shaving you. Why don't you suck his manhood for him to demonstrate your gratitude?”
Her eyes opened wide. What was the lieutenant asking? Surely not … surely … not …
“Noooooooo!” Her shackled body was pushed and pulled towards the edge of the cage so that her view on life became inverted as her head spilled over the end, releasing a waterfall of long, dark hair that brushed against the dusty ground.
A sharp twist of her neck towards the entrance showed that the soldier guarding her was looking out towards the fields, not witnessing any of this dreadful deed. There was to be no help at hand.
Sporting a huge grin and a matching erection, Oak moved from her feet to her head, as Sampson stepped out of the way to swap positions.
“I want you to take it in your mouth Catherine,” the Lieutenant was still offering his guidance.
“You can’t do this, it’s against the … mmmuuummpphhh!” Any further words were cut off as simultaneously her nose was pinched, her mouth fell open and the sergeant’s penis pushed inside her warm, oral embrace.
“If he as much as feels your teeth bitch, I will slit you open.” She felt the point of a blade pushing at her labia. She doubted very much whether they would ‘slit her open’, but it was a chance that she wasn’t willing to take.
The poor girl was entirely uneducated about matters such as the task that was now being performed, but that mattered not one jot because with his hand pressing down on her throat to tighten the sheath effect, Oak fucked her mouth. The capability required from the captive girl was nought as Catherine’s sweet lips were stretched around his inflamed shaft.
He took her hard. He was more than ready … stimulated, engorged, turned-on, juices rising. It did not take long. She felt the first spurt and gagged, bringing a groan from her assailant. Oak tightened his grip on her throat as Catherine struggled to pull her mouth off of him. The burley sergeant’s hips thrust once, twice and then several times after that. Each plunge reflecting a release of thick white seed into the poor girl’s mouth and throat. Oak held her tightly until his climax had subsided and then he let go of her. Catherine jerked her head to the side and gagged once more, before puking back the entire contents of his discharge.
“You filthy fucking Rebel bitch,” Sampson laughed at her predicament, “I hope you enjoyed that. Would you like me to release one of your hands so that you can masturbate for us?”
They were still mocking her. Her mind was a confused myriad of emotions and feelings. She felt sick and dirty. A line had been crossed in their treatment of her. They hadn’t visited her with any intention of conducting an interrogation, they had come here purely to gratify their own perversions. Thoughts about just how far they might go beyond that line terrified her.
Catherine turned her head away from them, and as tears rolled down her face to drip through the bars of the cage, she could muster no words of reply.
Laughing, the Lieutenant gave instruction to the soldier on guard to ‘get her back into the pen’, while he and his Sergeant left the building.
Chapter 22 – Movement around White Orchard, Around Midnight, As May 11th Becomes May 12th 1864
Sitting sharply up from the commandeered bed in which he attempted to rest, General Sherman let out a gasp. The night was turning out to be a very long one. Reaching to his neck he loosened another button on his grubby, creased linen shirt, freeing the perspiration that was pooling there.
He had been entrusted with bringing this damnable war to an end, and all the grave aspects that go along with such designation, but he was now finding sleep elusive because of the fate of one young girl!
“Damnation Catherine, how could you do this!” His mind slipped to thoughts of days gone by, when the wide porches at the front of White Orchard Mansions were bathed in sunlight, and young Catherine ran around squealing and laughing while he and his wife sipped tea with the McCowns.
Yet here they were. Catherine was no longer a young adolescent but a grown woman, and one standing accused of spying against the Federal Union. How he hoped that she admitted her alleged, but undoubted, offences early in tomorrow’s proceedings, otherwise he feared for her life.
Momentarily he pondered what more he could do. But there was nothing, not without appearing to favour the girl, and with over sixty thousand men to command, to do that was inconceivable.
******
When Sampson arrived back at his bed feeling satisfied with his work, and that of Sergeant Oak as well of course, he was ready to snatch a few more hours sleep before the anticipation of the morning unfolded in lust-fuelled reality for him.
In the gloom he saw that a wooden object had been placed on the blanket of his makeshift bed. As he knelt, once more readying himself to lie down, he took the object into his hands and ran his thumb and forefinger along the considerable extent of the smoothed wood.
“Good work,” he whispered to himself as the route of his touch took his digits into an upwards trajectory following the curve of the thick, wooden length. “This will do just fine.”
The little vignette at the slave pens with the cutthroat was not the only movement around White Orchard that night.
“Please Massa Shepherd, not again, she sick, my chil’, let her rest, I beg you. Take me …”
But Tom Shepherd was on a mission. His lust had been fuelled by the sight of his bitch Mistress being beaten earlier this evening. The fact that he had raped young Mercy whilst watching the enthralling scene had simply heightened his desire to further degrade the poor slave girl.
“I don’t know why they let your little pup stay with you. Slave bitches that look like she does should be sold off, that’s what they’re good for, well that and one other thing …” His words were vicious but not as vicious as his actions when he pulled Mercy from her cot and threw her outside the crude hut in which she and her mother lived.
“And you too bitch … you get to watch.”
Mercy’s mother leapt from her own bed and stumbled outside into the warm night, lit only by the light of the moon. The rains had stopped but the darkness still aired an ominous presence.
The slave huts were a distance from both the pens and the main house, and so, other than a few prying eyes that briefly looked out through other cabins, only to quickly disappear when they saw the overseer, this scene was played out in relative isolation.
“Move to it,” Shepherd herded the two female slaves from their hut to the secondary whipping post, a smaller affair than the one by the block.
“No Massa please,” it was Mercy’s mother who spoke once again, as the girl herself simply looked forlorn through wide, scared eyes.
Mercy’s lustrous, thick black hair tumbled over her face as she moved toward the dreaded post, her pace slow, faltering.
“Stop.” She stopped.
“Strip.” She paused.
“I said … Strip!” Shepherd repeated in a more angry tone. Mercy’s hands, fingers stiff, like claws, reached for her shoulders ... but the shock, the humiliation of standing in the nude, knowing that she was about to be whipped for no reason at all, proved too much for her. Her weakened fingers shook so badly she was unable to grasp the sleeves of her torn shift to pull it off ...
After a few moments of panic-filled struggling, Mercy’s hands fell away, and she simply stood, engulfed in a deep, sobbing fit of frustration.
“You ...” He gestured to her mother with a slight lift of his chin. She stepped forward, distraught at the awful duty of helping her daughter out of her skimpy covering. With both hands, she drew the brief shift down.
Mercy’s pert breasts, high still with the fresh firmness of youth, tipped with dark areola, bounced free. The girl trembled and teetered as her mother tugged the taut garment down over her daughter’s quivering hips. The dirty, white apparel fluttered to the ground.
“Now fix her to the wood.” Shepherd growled his instruction.
The Mother gently grasped her daughter’s hands, and pulled towards the vertical beam. Naked, the dark-skinned slave girl of Imabangala origin, wrapped her arms obediently around the post, and allowed her mother to fasten the shackles that would hold her in place. Mercy’s smooth face was tear-stained and tight with horror, her breasts, abdomen and thighs pressed against the rough timber.
Sobbing, distraught beyond comprehension, her mother backed away, watching Shepherd advance upon her pitiable daughter. Grasping the handle of his bullwhip in one hand the overseer experimentally ran fingers across the leather with the other, showing as much disregard as he could towards the bound girl now stripped of the last vestiges of decency.
The overseer took position to Mercy’s left, and tested the weight of the lash in his right hand. He regarded the strength of the thick coiled leather length, and, with a smirk, released its serpentine length.
He raised his arm and thrust it downwards ... A practice swing. The bullwhip emitted a portentous swish through the hot, humid air. Mercy tensed at the sound, twisting her head back at him with a maniacal, almost feral look in her eyes.
The slave girl then threw her gaze forward, waiting fitfully … trembling, licking frantically around her dry lips. By the time Shepherd drew back the whip for real, her mother’s heart was pounding. As she watched her already abused daughter about to be beaten, blood coursed through all her extremities, against the tips of her fingers, the tips of her toes, her body seeming to spring away, out of itself …
The overseer swung his arm forward in a wide, horizontal arc. The leather cracked with shocking volume on tender flesh. Mercy threw her head back, tossing her loose mane of hair into further disarray. Her body vibrated, the force of the blow driving breath from her lungs in a toneless shriek.
Her Mother’s body leapt in time with her daughter’s and she looked down to the dust beneath her feet in alarm and fear. The lash painted a lengthwise streak of scarlet across the bound slave girl’s dusky hips. Shepherd drew back his arm to strike again, wrapping the strand of leather just above the crease between her clenched buttocks and tightened thighs, and then jerked the lash back towards himself … its harsh crack like a thick cord of wood snapped into two.
“Please Massa Shepherd, do not do this …’ but these words were whispered by the mother in fear of angering the overseer even more should he hear them.
Mercy’s body jerked rigid with pain once more, gasping frantically. The third stroke came down with undiminished force.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”
The bound slave girl let loose another breathless but less intense screech. The fourth drew a high-pitched, scarcely stifled, scream from her lips. At the fifth, Mercy was yelling out ear-piercing, harrowing sounds.
She gripped the post in a desperate effort to remain standing, grasping the wood so fiercely her knuckles turned white, her nails digging and scratching into the grain like hooks.
Her mother should have turned away, but, emotionally compelled, she kept her gaze fixed forward, watching the next strokes rain down at a relentless pace of snaps and cracks.
Mercy flung her head from side to side, her plaintive cries growing from shuddering whimpers to agonized shrieks. After a while, Shepherd paused to catch his breath and observed the bright red welts that had begun to emerge on the lashed flesh. He was taking care to spread the strokes evenly so as not cross over too much and slice the skin too badly.
It was then that Mercy’s mother saw in Shepherd’s eyes a look of wanton cruelty. He was revelling in his dominance, relishing how terrified her young daughter was, offered up so easily as a target for his brutality, bound at the post, taking the full force of his release. With head tilted, his eyes narrowing to slits, the overseer jerked back the thin strand of leather even higher into the air and slammed it once more against the back of Mercy’s thighs.
The young girl lurched in spasm, twisting her hips at this unexpected assault on previously unmarked flesh, and began screaming, as if her very soul was being torn from her body. Struggling to regain her balance, she stood with feet far apart, her bare legs stretched straight, bent slightly back, almost on her toes, arching her back so that her pubis leaned forward and pressed against the wooden beam.
All the while the lash mercilessly struck the backs and sides of each thigh, bringing a fresh series of pitiful wails. Her mother flinched at each blow, tears spilled down her cheeks, but she continued to watch, sharing her daughter’s torment as much as she could. Imagining Mercy’s stricken cries to be her own, she choked back a sob as her daughter was whipped into complete submission by this monster’s masterful strokes, each one swifter and sharper than the one before.
Then, gasping, his own chest heaving, Shepherd stopped.
Exhausted, Mercy’s knees gave way, and she fell forward still clutching the post with legs sprawled far apart, her lashed buttocks shiny, striped with the colour of raw meat. She whimpered in pain as the skin of her scalded haunches burned with the flames of agony.
“Get her back inside,” was all he said, as refastening the whip to his breeches, he headed for the comfort of his own bed.
Never during all of the horrors that this war had delivered in its three long, awful years, not even upon the untimely and tragic deaths of both her mama and papa, had Catherine felt as numb as she felt now. Dazed through fitful sleep, she had been truly forsaken.
Brought up as a young lady, a ‘belle’, Catherine had come to expect masculine assertion from the menfolk hereabouts, and with a good helping of chivalry and respect to go along with it. But these louts, these rogues in blue had stripped her, beaten her and now violated her body in the most brutal manner imaginable.
They might as well have raped her; she may even have preferred that rather than suffer the feel and taste of his … his … and when he released … Catherine felt the bile rise once more from deep in her gut.
Her mind was a myriad of confusion while her body ached in more ways than she had ever thought possible. Resting her head on the crook of her arm Catherine squirmed as she shifted across the rough dusty base of the pen, trying her best to avoid putting the battered soles of her feet into contact with anything.
She knew what was ahead of her, and although she was afraid, if this thing had to be done then Catherine wanted it done. The anticipation was interminable. She wondered how many of White Orchard’s slaves had lain here before her, bound for the whip, scared out of their minds like she was now. She felt sympathy for those poor creatures.
Her entire body heaved as once more she dry retched. No … of course they would stop it. Uncle Billy could not let this happen. Not to her. Surely it was a trick to frighten her. Or he would realise that she could not endure such punishment ...
Naive though these hopes were, they helped to stay the enormous strain of waiting. Lingering was the hardest part, a severe punishment in itself, serving its malicious purpose to remind her that no appeal of emotion or reason would turn the Lieutenant’s intent, and persuade him to release her.
Catherine shuddered again, feeling her eyes water, acknowledging her trepidation and shame. She mumbled an earnest prayer. Her family were Catholics, like Uncle Billy’s, but visiting a church or chapel of any kind during these recent times had not been possible. However, right now seemed like the appropriate time to reacquaint herself with the Lord our God … her God, or at least she hoped that He was, for He was her only hope.
Voicing the benediction quietly to herself, and in her grainy half slumbering state, Catherine felt the warmth of sunlight that burst in through the opened doors and gleamed upon her place of confinement.
She raised her head to the dawn of the day that heralded the morning of her punishment.
Moments later as the guard leapt to his feet, the sudden movement caused her to look. As she balanced awkwardly on her elbow, upright in the pen, Catherine saw what the commotion was. Uncle Billy was here.
Chapter 23 – Outside the Discipline Block Out-Building at White Orchard Mansion Around 6am (a little while before Sherman departs to visit the block), May 12th 1864
“No, thank you, I am most definitely not hungry.” Sherman waived away offers of bacon and settled instead for a cup of warm coffee, which, despite the rigours of today’s burdensome schedule, he needed in order to heighten his attentiveness following a very unsatisfactory night’s sleep.
“The surgeon and the drummer have arrived just as you asked General.” Lieutenant Sampson buzzed around his Commanding Officer like a bee seeking nectar. He could hardly contain the anticipation that dwelt inside him, and he was keen to make sure that the General did not change his mind over the whipping of this young, nubile filly who, in fact, had turned out to be the General’s very own Goddaughter!
“Good. Let them avail of refreshments and then we will meet. Now Lieutenant, take me to the post. Let me survey the battleground.”
Sampson was delighted at Sherman’s analogous use of the term ‘battleground’, it confirmed that the planned punishment display would most definitely be taking place!
The discipline block was some way from the main house, and so the military pair walked for a not inconsiderable time to reach the whipping post. The morning of May 12th 1864 was bright and already warm, the sun having risen, clearing the early mist, over an hour ago. The previous day had seen several inches of heavy rainfall, and now, baking in the ever-increasing heat of the morning, the slippery, thick mud was beginning to harden and rut.
As the two men approached the small raised platform, the General stopped in those rutted tracks to stare. “Good God man, what have you done to the post?” Sherman’s brow furrowed as his junior officer’s heart rose into his mouth.
“It’s an amendment to hasten her confession Sir. It’s based on the structure of a crucifix. The Roman’s …”
“Yes, yes, I know what it is Lieutenant Sampson, they call it a sedile I believe, but you cannot be serious about using it.” The General moved to the post and touched the point where the carved length of smooth upturned wood had been nailed to the upright.
“Remove it at once.”
Sampson swallowed. There was no way he could have it taken off now. He and the men had marvelled over its potential, fantasised at stories of how it would penetrate the little bitch to the core …
“Sir, it is for her own good.”
Sherman turned to face the Lieutenant, and cocked his head. “Pray do tell me how that can possibly be Mister Sampson.”
Sampson took a deep breath and replied, “General Sir, none of us wish this scene to go on for any longer than is absolutely necessary,” his duplicity was hidden inside the words, because of course the Lieutenant, along with every last one of his men, wanted Catherine’s torment to continue for as long as possible. “… and you said yourself that you wanted answers. So, the sooner we get them the better for everyone, including Miss McCown. If we make the earlier part of this experience as arduous as possible for her, the more chance there will be that she breaks sooner rather than later.”
The Lieutenant took a step back, placed his gloved hands behind his back and smiled. He had to admit that he was quite pleased with his response to the General’s objection.
“I don’t know Lieutenant, it seems so crude, so barbaric!”
“But General, this is war, it is crude and cruel, as you yourself often remind us. The hanging of those four troopers of ours was barbaric!”
Sherman frowned, creating even more furrows to his brow. With a shake of his head, he said, “Very well Mister Sampson, you may leave it in situ.”
“Thank you, General Sir. I intend to have the shackles raised to the very top of the post with the accused placed on a crate while her wrists are secured. The wooden phall … I mean the sedile, will be positioned ‘appropriately’ during my initial questioning so that she can anticipate what is about to happen. If she admits her guilt and answers our questions at that stage, she will avoid all further discomforts. However, if she refuses to speak then the crate will be kicked away and, left hanging only by her wrists, she will be impaled … whereupon the whipping can begin.”
Sherman closed his eyes and sighed. It was more than harsh, and this was Catherine McCown, his own Goddaughter. But they had come this far he reminded himself, and the matter was, after all, of the gravest importance.
“I will leave the administration of this affair in your hands Lieutenant. Come now, let us visit with the surgeon.”
Chapter 24 – The Drawing Room in White Orchard Mansion, Around 6:30am, May 12th 1864
“General, your welcome has been most amenable, thank you.” Major John Watson, the surgeon attached to the Army of the Tennessee’s XVII Corps, was a gregarious man. He enjoyed the convivial nature of army life and he had most certainly appreciated the bacon, biscuits, gravy and coffee that had been waiting upon his arrival.
“It is my pleasure Major Watson, now let us get down to the business of the day.”
“A girl, I believe General?” He responded with more than a glint in his eye. Sherman nodded by way of response.
“She stands accused of spying, and we believe that she aided bushwhackers to murder several of our men recently. However, we cannot simply hang or shoot her, because we know that she has information that could prove crucial to the battles that we will no doubt be fighting in the coming days.”
The Major nodded, an earnest look belying his own mounting thrill.
“She is, I understand, known to you General Sherman?”
Sherman stared at his officer without saying a single word in response, until finally he replied with quiet assertion, “She is indeed Major Watson, but that is of no material relevance to what we are here to do.”
Nodding his understanding, it became clear to the Major that this was the end of the matter.
“You, sir, are here to inspect her health before we begin, and also be on hand to perform spot checks during the flogging, as I, or you, deem necessary. Is that clear and understood?”
“Perfectly General …” Major Watson looked down at the table before him, coughed to clear his throat and then addressed his Commanding Officer once more.
“General might I ask, during the punishment … will the girl be … naked?”
Sherman frowned at the question, ran his hand loosely through his scruff of red hair, and nodded. “Yes Major, she will.”
The less senior officer nodded in response, his mind recalling how he had summonsed one of the young camp followers into his tent only the night before. His groin stiffened a little and the Major was forced to shift his position so that his considerable bulk could rest more easily inside his uniform.
“Then take me to her General, if you please, and let us begin this examination.”
Chapter 25 – The Slave Pens at White Orchard, Around 6:50am, May 12th 1864
It was time. There would be no more waiting. Suddenly Catherine wished the lingering could continue a little longer just as passionately as she had so recently wished for it to end. Yet she knew things would move quickly, leaving little time for thought … or hope.
Straining to look into the direction of the sound, to the large wooden-framed doorway where the General and his small retinue stood, her eyes shifted anxiously towards the jangling of keys. A slow click of booted footsteps grew ever louder as they approached.
Despite her being naked, chained and exhausted, two armed, blue-coated guards assumed positions next to the pen, bayonets affixed to their newly issued Spencer rifles. One of the troopers reached down and slipped a key into the small lock.
“You need to come out now Miss,” was all he said, as he used the same bunch of keys to unshackle her wrist. This one had been with her all night. He knew what had happened, knew how she had been appallingly used … but she detected not one morsel of sympathy for her plight.
Catherine recognised there was no point in fighting, and so she hurriedly slithered out from within the confines of the caged pen, her outstretched arms appeared first, then her bent body, poised on its knees.
A hand gripped her upper arm, making her wince, and pulled the girl to her feet. Looking up she saw Uncle Billy with the Lieutenant and a third, portly looking man along with them. Someone that she had not seen before.
Catherine felt trapped. She fidgeted apprehensively, the skin of both thighs rubbing nervously together. The warm, trembling flesh of her bare bottom bitten by the relative chill during the night, her back aching from being pressed down against the bars of the cage by those monsters.
She felt the slight breeze between her legs and suddenly remembered that she no longer had pubic hair. The memory of that particular act made her feel unclean and noxious … A bilious sensation rose once more into her throat, causing her to splutter as she coughed it away.
Defiantly, she eyed the silhouettes of the approaching group ... and with dismay sensed her nipples harden in the morning air, feeling thicker and longer than ever.
“Bring her to me,” said the stout man, clearly an officer, maybe a medic given his tunic, “… Where I can scrutinise her more thoroughly in the light.”
Seizing her arms, the soldiers wrenched the girl outside. As the realisation of what this was a prelude to, coupled with the cramping pains that permeated constantly throughout the soles of her feet, Catherine’s newly found fortitude evaporated. As a table was brought into the doorway of the slave pens outbuilding for her to lay on, her spirit felt thoroughly crushed.
He was here to examine her, she had already realised that, and the very need for such a thing caused her levels of panic to heighten. How bad was the whipping going to be?
Uncle Billy spoke.
“Catherine this is Major Watson, an army surgeon, and he is here to ensure you are of sound enough health to undertake the ordeal that is planned for this morning.
The General and Lieutenant Sampson took a step back.
Ordeal …
The word made the poor girl tremble. She was completely unfettered, but the close attention of the armed guard and her maltreated state of mind and body rendered any thoughts of escape futile.
With little point in delaying what was inevitable she hoisted herself onto the smooth wooden surface of the table and the Major looked at her with an appraising eye. Catherine flushed red and tried to cover herself with her hands.
The touch of the surgeon was surprisingly gentle as he opened her legs, spreading them wide, following which he took her wrists in his grip and slowly drew Catherine’s hands away from her breasts.
"Lie flat on your back, please, Miss McCown" he said. She shivered slightly, but could not make herself comply, never had she felt so vulnerable …
Gently, softly, the surgeon placed his hands upon Catherine's shoulders. "Lie down, please." He pressed lightly but firmly, until she was lying flat on the table.
“Hold her by the wrists,” he instructed one of the troopers who stood at her head gazing down upon the prostrate girl’s very desirable nudity. He quickly acceded to the command and Catherine felt her arms pulled high, her delicate wrists secured in a firm, male grip.
“Now her ankles, please … and separate them.” The second guard and Lieutenant Sampson were now on-point for this subsequent order, securing Catherine to the table, her legs pulled wide apart.
“She has been shaved?” Major Watson looked up waiting for a response.
“She has, Sir.” It was Lieutenant Sampson’s voice.
“Might I ask why?” The Major continued.
Sampson did not have a ready answer and so he paused, but then somewhat cryptically replied, “I felt it appropriate in order to maximise the effects of her impending punishment. I have discussed this with the General.”
His logic referred to the fact that he had already had General Sherman sanction the sedile attachment, and a hairless mound would undoubtedly enhance the impact of its intended use, not to mention create a more pleasing aesthetic. The Major nodded, seemingly satisfied.
The Lieutenant once more gazed upon Catherine’s face as if daring her to contradict his story. She did not. In fact, her expression gave way to a gasp as the surgeon's touch slid down her body, over her breasts, along her sides, to roam across her smooth thighs. She let out a small squeak.
The Major stepped over to the other side of the table. His fingers stroked the girl’s inner thigh, before gliding slowly down her leg. The feeling of repulsion in her stomach was sickening. In one moment, as she turned her head away to the side so that she might emit a quiet whimper, she saw Uncle Billy standing apart from their little group staring into the space of the open fields before him.
Her attention was switched back to the examination when she felt the cold metal of a stethoscope being pressed against her chest. A quick cough from her seemed to satisfy the surgeon, who was now ready to move on.
"Open your mouth, please."
Catherine obeyed him reluctantly, her heart pounding furiously. The Major pressed her tongue down and peered inside, and then exhaled heavily.
"Dear girl, I am tasked by General Sherman with this examination. It is important that you answer all of my questions truthfully and completely." He took her chin in his hands and turned her to meet his gaze. "Did you engage in rough oral sex recently?"
Sampson felt his heart flip. Were the unpalatable details of his night time visitation about to be exposed? The Lieutenant stared down at Catherine, who returned his scrutiny with her own expression of defiance. Her heart beat faster, but then the whole situation got the better of her and she looked away, unable to provide the Major with an answer.
Sergeant Oak’s voice echoed in her mind, instructing her to do as she was told. In the jumble of thoughts and emotions within her head, the recollection of his words made her feel even more helpless than the hands now holding her to the table.
Quietly she whispered, "Yes."
"Did these men, whoever they were, also ejaculate into your mouth?"
She hesitated, but the surgeon increased the intensity of his gaze.
"Yes."
"Did you swallow any of the ejaculate?"
She shuddered. "Yes."
"At any point while these men were ejaculating in your mouth, did you experience sexual gratification?"
She could not hold his gaze when she answered. "No, I did not." Her voice sounded small and far away.
"I see,” the Major replied, his questions seemingly serving no other purpose than to provide titillation to service his own whimsical perversions. He turned Catherine’s head sideways, stiff, long fingers combing through her hair. He bent over to inspect her, his face so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. "There appears to be tiny traces of dried semen in your hair. Did they also ejaculate on your face or body?"
Catherine felt a new level of humiliation as these questions were posed to her. Was it not bad enough that she was to be flogged before her household and a group of gawking, lecherous soldiers?
"I … I … do … not th … think so,” she whispered.
Not once did the Major ask her for any names or de***********ions of ‘these men’ … much to Lieutenant Sampson’s relief, and the examination moved on.
Probing hands moved down the sides of the captive girl’s neck and over her collarbone. He peered closely at her as though searching for something. His fingers moved over her breasts, examining, fondling. Her nipples hardened even more, an involuntary response that both horrified and embarrassed her.
"There are small bruises on your breasts, consistent with the marks made by fingers. Did the men squeeze or fondle your breasts forcefully?"
Catherine opened her mouth, but no words would come. She nodded, then said, “Please sir, unless you are so-minded to bring these evil perpetrators to justice, would you kindly stop asking such questions, they have nothing to do with …"
But Major Watson ignored her pleas, and continued, in his own sweet way, with the task at hand. He examined each of her arms closely, from her shoulders all the way down to the tips of her fingers. Catherine felt dehumanised under his gaze, like an object being poked and prodded to reveal its secrets. The inspection felt clinical, detached, objectifying; but at the same time, being looked at in such a meticulously degrading manner seemed appallingly intimate. She struggled, trying to move away from his scrutiny, but the hands gripping her limbs held her immobile.
"I can see minor abrasions on her wrists, that is consistent with what might be left by shackles or manacles.”
“She was secured, Sir,” The Lieutenant offered.
The surgeon nodded, and then continued with his narrative.
"I see." He said, "I am now ready to begin Miss McCown’s internal examination.”
She closed her eyes and whimpered softly as he opened her wide … causing poor Catherine to groan when she felt the touch of him penetrating her.
… It was a short while later that Major Watson sidled up alongside General Sherman, leaving the girl to guzzle down the water now being offered to her.
“How is she?” The General asked without shifting his gaze one inch from the direction in which he was previously looking.
“She is, General, a fine specimen. Young fit and healthy.”
Sherman nodded his face expressionless. He turned around just in time to see Sampson and the guards pulling Catherine up from her humiliating squat position, the night’s urine still dripping down her thighs.
He watched as her wrists, neck and ankles were shackled once more in heavy irons and a collar, ready for her approach to the post. She was to be hobbled, which would, in turn, ensure that the degrading and terrifying walk was made at a slow pace.
“Major Watson, is she a virgin?”
The surgeon paused briefly, before responding, “Yes General, she is.”
The General recalled the sedile that had been added to the whipping post. Emotionally he was appalled at what Sampson had planned, but he agreed with the Lieutenant’s words, rationalising that the harder the punishment, the more certain the desired outcome would become.
“I suspected as much, she was brought up to respect her womanhood …” Sherman responded, “… but that makes no difference to her fitness for what we have planned.”
And with those words the fate of Catherine McCown was sealed.
Chapter 26 – Paraded from the Slave Pens to the Discipline Block, Around 7:15am May 12th 1864
Catherine stood, head bowed, just waiting. The corridor of soldiers and slaves with eager, prying eyes was gathered before her. Troopers with lust-fuelled grins and bulges at their groin, field slaves filled with anticipatory excitement at what they were about to witness … But those same negroes also looked wary, seemingly not quite sure why this was happening and wondering if, by simply being a witness to it, they too would suffer a similar fate.
Her neck was encased in iron, as were her wrists and ankles. Hobbled and fully fettered her progress would be slow and ponderous, designed to be such by the monstrous Lieutenant, making sure to extract every last ounce of humiliation from her degrading walk.
Looking up she saw Mary. Poor Mary. Her House-slave was distraught, mouth agape, hand covering it, tears rolling down her cheek.
“Begin, boy …” Sampson issued the order to the young drummer, and so the drumbeat began its dramatic and spiteful cadence.
Catherine, with eyes closed, reflected momentarily upon her appalling situation. How had this been allowed to happen? These brutes surely could not simply come into her home, steal whatever they wanted and then enslave her! Especially not if Uncle Billy Sherman was at their head … could they?
“Move!”
The chained girl covered the distance from the slave pens to the discipline block in slow procession towards her planned merciless punishment. She did not yet know just how ruthless it was going to be.
It was hard for Catherine not to not sway with the horror of it all. The silent malice from certain quarters of the crowd hit her to the core. All that could be heard was the sigh of the early morning breeze, that clank of chains and the harrowing beat of the drum. The gathering throng now stood deathly hushed, an ominous herd of lecherous, gratuitous gawkers.
She choked on her own breath when she saw the loathsome Tom Shepherd grinning lasciviously at her. She stumbled, briefly losing her footing on the hardened mud ruts. He stared unabashed at her sensational exposure, noting every muscle, every little piece of her body moving and trembling as she shuffled along. Catherine knew her movements were provocative, that by facing whip torture she displayed a stimulating show of tarnished grace and femininity … and she knew how much that would turn the odious man on.
But, despite the appalling nature of the overall scene, it was the raw sheen of her reddened, shaved mons that shocked the most.
“Is that how she conducts her personal hygiene?” Said one abusive male opinion, for it was unknown to most that the deed had being forced upon her during her stay in the slave pen.
“A fucking Reb slut, I knew she was …” said another, the slurs so obviously coming from the vitriolic voices of the barbarous soldiers.
Then Catherine looked up to see the huge, protruding length of timber getting closer. A sight she had seen so many times before, but never through the eyes that she wore today. It had suddenly become a place of terror, the altar where all hope, all resistance to their will was extinguished. The Whipping Post!
Chapter 27 – The Whipping Post, 7:30am May 12th 1864
Catherine looked up and stared ahead. “Oh God, my God, have mercy on me Lord.” She whispered these words to herself when she saw not just the foreboding length of gnarled wood with the iron rings set into each side, but also the jutting attachment that had been added overnight. She knew from its positioning and shape exactly what it was for, and now realised why she hadn’t already been raped. They were saving her for this!
At her right stood the man who was to be her nemesis, the largest of the soldiers, already stripped to the waist, his torso gleaming with perspiration from the early morning sun … Catherine drew back in terror when the whip caught her eye. A long black handled bull whip with hardened leather that would rip through her skin like a knife in butter.
She struggled and recoiled as horror turned to panic, only to collapse into the clutches of her guards. The air around her had suddenly become thick with an overwhelming sensation of pain and suffering, compounded by anticipation and lust driven excitement. The crowd had followed her procession, closing in behind as she slowly moved along, and was now gathered attentively around the site of her impending punishment. Catherine’s whole world spun wildly around, and without realising it she was back on her unsteady feet, pulled upright by the soldiers, who now stood patiently by her side, giving her plenty of time to view the threatening post, and its hovering nightmare … a huge, dark symbol of barbarity and pain where, in times past, blood had dripped from countless victims’ bodies.
The nameless guards gave her a shove of encouragement. Shoulders bunched up, poised on tottering legs, Catherine took a deep breath, trembling, reluctant ... but still she retained a modicum of poise. For in these last moments she was determined to maintain a measure of dignity. She flung her arms upward, refusing the assistance of her escorts, and wrenched herself free of their hold. It was on wobbling legs and wounded feet that she staggered, unaided, the last few steps determinedly toward the whipping post, appalled at the sight of it … but with her head held high.
Looming before her, she had arrived at the appointed place. Now Catherine saw up close the smooth surface of the carved wooden piece, shaped to be like a man’s erect penis ... Once more she felt sick, realising that she was to be raped and whipped simultaneously … however would she be able to endure?
Body stilled, long hair blowing loose in the breeze, her escorts released the collar and separated her arm and ankle cuffs, temporarily freeing her from restraint.
The drumming stopped and with it the fearful cadence that had marked her demeaning parade to the post. You could almost hear a pin drop as every last man and woman in the gathered throng seemed struck by more than a little awe as they realised that this young, fragile girl really was about to be flogged … and in full public view!
“Secure her,” came the order. Catherine gasped, momentarily closing her eyes, before opening them to glare at the General, her Godfather. Sherman, clearly troubled by this whole occasion, looked away refusing to acknowledge the stares from his Goddaughter.
Catherine’s svelte body was hoisted upon the platform, and she was further manhandled onto the crate, unable to do anything to stop her arms being hauled high and her wrists tightened into the manacles. The sedile pushed and prodded at her thighs as she stepped astride it to avoid its penetrative presence from slipping unwittingly between her thighs.
The surrounding anticipation had risen to palpable levels.
Lieutenant Sampson approached her. Despite wanting to ignore his presence, Catherine felt compelled to look him in the eye.
“So, here we are at last Miss McCown,” he spoke in patronising tones, which Catherine proceeded to ignore, turning her head away from him.
As he spoke his right hand moved to her mound. There she felt his fingers and thumb massaging her, the not yet deflowered pleasure point of her body, her face twisting as her expression crumpled under his intrusive touch. She just had to remain firm … but, as his fingers opened her labia and positioned her body as he required, enveloping the wooden phallus with her soft folds, her situation was proving unbearable.
“Ohhhhhhhh, please, stop …” As his touch became more insistent Catherine unwittingly groaned, much to the delight of the onlookers, or at least most of them. It was no doubt just Mary who offered up a prayer to the Lord as she witnessed the unfolding of this appalling scene.
Her body began to twist and writhe. It was already an agonising experience, and the primary torment had not yet begun. Catherine knew that she could speak now, and save herself so much pain, or remain silent under the whips until she could bear no more...
The Lieutenant had invaded her home. Her Godfather had sanctioned it. If ever she needed a reminder that this entire army were the battalions of the devil himself, then these people were it! Catherine fought against the feelings rising inside her, and let fury consume her. The cords on her neck stood out as she garnered her remaining strength and spirit … and she spit in Sampson’s face.
Instantly the Lieutenant’s eyes glowed with indignant rage. Pulling his fingers from her now moist sex, he drew back his shoulder and slapped her full across the face with such vicious force that it threw her whole body sideways, scraping her thighs against the sedile. Catherine flinched at the blow, her cheek throbbing with pain, and she glared back at him, quivering in stunned silence as he addressed the crowd.
“Let the will of the Federal Union be carried out upon this girl’s sinful flesh.” Sampson’s voice almost glowed with righteous indignation, and at this final declaration of her fate, Catherine’s heart began pounding so hard it felt like it was going to explode.
Dragged inexorably onward to this very moment, she bucked and thrashed in tear-filled hysteria, arms held tight. “I have nothing to tell you! Nothing!” she shrieked ... if only to convince herself ...