Until Every Drop of Blood Is Paid: A More Radical American Civil War
- Thread starter Red_Galiray
- Start date
Hello,
Woul we see how Reconstruction would be organized from administrative roles to personnel and resources on the ground? Would there be noticeable differences from OTL in who would oversee the entire process and what external organizations would be allowed to participate? Finally, would there be greater security to safeguard Reconstruction's work, either by a separate entity organized and outfitted by the administration or by the US Army?
Woul we see how Reconstruction would be organized from administrative roles to personnel and resources on the ground? Would there be noticeable differences from OTL in who would oversee the entire process and what external organizations would be allowed to participate? Finally, would there be greater security to safeguard Reconstruction's work, either by a separate entity organized and outfitted by the administration or by the US Army?
That’s where I got the idea. Lincoln looking slightly uncomfortable with the spectacle, Grant smoking a cigar , Thomas looking every inch a general ,Fredrick Douglas allowing a smile . A military band plays John Browns Body as the piled flags are burnt.
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The British were hosting people who were actively formenting revolution in their own wartime allies during the Napoleonic Wars. States just didn't track things like this that closely, particularly Britain and France, so long as it wasn't domestic insurrection they were planning. If the Americans try to get the British to give him up then they'd probably just laugh in their face, thinking who on earth are they to tell them what to do? Border controls weren't really much of a thing, so Beauregard could easily slip into London and build a small government-in-exile while being little noticed because it's not like he'd be a threat to Britain which is all they really care about. Don't forget that the British upper class had no shortage of sympathisers for the Confederacy so he won't have any trouble making friends and thus gaining protection from those close to the levers to power.I doubt that very much. What government in Europe would both grant Beauregard asylum (Judah Benjamin got asylum from the Brits) AND allow him to operate as a Confederate "government-in-exile"? The British would never do it, and I could easily see an eventual Third Republic France even handing him over to the AmericansIF Beauregard ever tried such shenanigans whilst living in Paris!
EDIT: IF the British did so, you would be poisoning Anglo-American relations for many years to come. Not to mention that the Brits would be setting themselves up for an eventual (ITTL version) Easter Sunday seeing survivors fleeing to America. With rich Americans (and the US government?) supporting their "Free Irish government-in-exile"!🇮🇪
We forget that we're looking at the ACW with a little bit of hindsight bias and with a particular viewpoint here. Though this has been unquestionably historic world-changing event, I doubt it would have been seen that way in the great European power capitals at the time. America just wasn't that important to them, and the capacity of states to know what's going on in every corner of the world much constrained compared to today.
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Uncle Billy is throwing back with the troops around the fire while they troll him with Marching through Georgia.
Maybe thrown in Lincoln at the end of it announcing Battle Hymn of the Republic as the new national anthem to top it all off.
I forget, but what's the policy of posting creative work inspired by this TL? I know it's been done a few times, but do I need to get @Red_Galiray 's approval first? Do I just post it?
One wonders. What would media like Gone With The Wind or C.S.A.: The Confederate States of America look like in this universe?
Gone With The Wind was born out of a romantic viewpoint of the South, something that things like the Famine or the Jacquery would certainly do a lot to ruin. I figure that, in this universe, it would change to show the viewpoints of three families - the O'Haras with a combination of naivety about their world and their attitudes towards the enslaved in their lands, the enslaved that waver between their diminishing loyalty towards the O'Haras and their growing desire for freedom represented in the approaching Union Army, and a local poor family that is initially supportive of the Confederacy but becomes Unionist when the true cost of war hits them.
C.S.A. would possibly be similar, but since this US is going to become more egalitarian, it is going to lose a bit of "punch", since the main point of the mockumentary is to show that racism is still an ongoing issue in the US. Maybe there could be more of a point about the treatment of other minorities?
Gone With The Wind was born out of a romantic viewpoint of the South, something that things like the Famine or the Jacquery would certainly do a lot to ruin. I figure that, in this universe, it would change to show the viewpoints of three families - the O'Haras with a combination of naivety about their world and their attitudes towards the enslaved in their lands, the enslaved that waver between their diminishing loyalty towards the O'Haras and their growing desire for freedom represented in the approaching Union Army, and a local poor family that is initially supportive of the Confederacy but becomes Unionist when the true cost of war hits them.
C.S.A. would possibly be similar, but since this US is going to become more egalitarian, it is going to lose a bit of "punch", since the main point of the mockumentary is to show that racism is still an ongoing issue in the US. Maybe there could be more of a point about the treatment of other minorities?
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That would be a Gone With The Wind I'd like to read. Rhett would probably come to see the confederate as nothing but good for nothing power mongrels who would sacrifice everything to keep slaverly and would come to side with the union probably even join them instead of going to fight for the confederates till the end of the war
Why assume Gone With the Wind would be anything other than reactionary racist propaganda? Mitchell didn’t write the book that way because she hasn’t done the reading, she just liked a society where blacks knew their place.
There will still be plenty of people who romanticise the antebellum south, even if their own families suffered due to the Junta’s degradations.
Let the novel stay as is- and let it be destined for remainders, for a tatty paperback in a second hand store remembered only by graduate students writing about the sad little attempt by some southerners to whitewash the slavers.
We’ll lose a few good lines, but frankly my dear I don’t give a damn.
There will still be plenty of people who romanticise the antebellum south, even if their own families suffered due to the Junta’s degradations.
Let the novel stay as is- and let it be destined for remainders, for a tatty paperback in a second hand store remembered only by graduate students writing about the sad little attempt by some southerners to whitewash the slavers.
We’ll lose a few good lines, but frankly my dear I don’t give a damn.
We could have both.
Mitchell writes Gone with the Wind, which gets sold somewhat well - but gets completely overshadowed by the idea I suggested.
I imagine rather than OTL's near-universal stream of Lost Cause-ism and Antebellum Romanticism in late 19th C & early 20th C Southern fiction, and you will get some of that too, you'll see a mixed fare with a lot more nuanced or critical stories of well-meaning poor white Johnny Rebs getting dragged into a war they don't understand by amoral, self-serving plantation owners, or Tales from the Jacquery, or Poor Little Rich Belle learning hard lessons about the nature of her pampered life from some hardscrabble poor neighbor wives keeping her alive in the famine after her plantation got torched. Lots of tales of Brave Southern Soldiers being needlessly sacrificed by Gutless Gentry. Probably a much richer literary landscape than OTL.
Gimme a Gone with the Wind that is the Come and See of Civil War films
yeah no thank you I'd rather see a Gone With The Wind that showed the reality of the civil war not some propaganda bullcrap
Side-story: "A deserter and a freeman."
I wrote this after reading about the Jacquery and the complete collapse of government authority in the South. This is a bit more visceral than I've written before and I'll admit I'm a bit anxious given some word choices I've put in the mouth of a character. If this is off base or if I should have waited until Red gave the go ahead, I'll delete this.
Otherwise, I hope people like it.
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-Somewhere in South Carolina, Winter 1865-
The rifle was heavy and the strap was cutting into his shoulders.
The soldier, though he supposed he wasn’t a soldier anymore technically, trudged along the road. He watched as his breath fogged in front of him, it was times like this that he both blessed and cursed the long beard that sat in a tangle on his lower face. On the one hand, it kept his face warm, sorely needed as the night drew closer. On the other he kept having to reach up to wipe the wet dew from his nose and breath from his mustache. His beard and hair had gotten long, it’d been almost two months since he’d had a chance to properly shave.
He pulled his jacket closer to himself as he shifted the weight of the rifle on his shoulder. He had forgotten how grateful he had been to receive the gray wool jacket, how proud he had been to be one of the first men in his unit to receive a proper uniform, not the improvised hodgepodge the other men had been wearing until then. Now he was mostly glad for something warm to wear. He was even more thankful for the sturdy shoes he was wearing, still holding together even after marching across half the south.
As the soldier trudged, he saw a figure in the distance. The soldier felt himself tensing. He’d met people on the road before now. Most gave him a wide berth, seeing the ragged uniform and keeping their heads down. But a week back he’d had to beat a man who had convinced himself that soldiers, even ones whose uniform hung as loosely on their emaciated frames as his, must have rations in their packs.
As he drew closer, he could see the man more clearly. He was a black man, wearing roughspun pants and shirt, a battered and torn coat, no shoes. His hair and beard were wild and long just like the soldiers, but where the soldier’s drooped, his had formed a mad bush upon his face. On his shoulder, he carried an ax. When he looked back at the soldier, his face carried a look of suspicion. For some reason, the look of mistrust put the soldier at ease. The man had other business and it didn’t concern the soldier.
As the soldier moved forward, the man with the ax kept his pace. Eventually, the soldier had caught up with the man as they marched side by side down the road in silence. As they did, the soldier caught the black man occasionally stealing a glance at him sidelong and despite his brief calm, the soldier felt suddenly very aware of the ax and the fact that he was down to two cartridges, all the same though, the ax stayed put.
It was the soldier who broke the silence.
“So, you got a name, boy?” The soldier asked, earning another sidelong glance from his travel companion. Once again, the soldier felt somewhat aware of the ax on the man’s shoulder, but once again, it stayed put, instead, he seemed to now be considering something, after a time, he spoke, answering the soldier’s question.
“John Brown. You?” John said offhandedly. The soldier stared in confusion at John, earning a level stare back. Eventually, it was the soldier who broke the silence, letting out a snort of laughter which John obliged with a smile.
“Francis, Francis Marion.” Francis responded wryly. John nodded, if he was aware of his travel companion’s war record against the British, he didn’t say. Silence reigned once more.
“You’re a long way from Pottawatomie.” Francis said with a smirk. John didn’t respond to the jest, letting silence dominate once again. Franics continued to march, wondering at the strangeness of it all. Had it been even six months ago, he would have... what would he have done? Gone to the sergeant? Reported a runaway? Then again, six months ago, would this man have been walking on the road so openly, no freedom papers, holding an ax? Francis had seen negroes on this journey south back to Georgia before now, but they had given him a wide distance, and they never traveled alone as they made their way northwards, hoping to find the Union lines.
“So where are you headed then John?” Francis said, unable to let the silence smother him for another moment. This time John responded, lifting his free hand and pointing towards a side road. “I’m gonna get somethin’ to eat from there.” He said simply. Francis followed the finger to a tree lined side road, at the end of which Francis could see a large and impressive house. As they reached the crossroads, John stopped, looking at Francis, eyeing him up.
“Could use a man with a rifle, if y’all’s willin’ to use it.” John said cautiously. Francis blinked, considering the offer laid before him. He almost discarded it out of hand. But at the mention of food, he felt his stomach growl at him for his foolishness. Francis looked down the road at the house. It looked nice enough, he didn’t see anyone else down that way. He chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking.
“I only got two shots John, not sure a rifle will help much.” John shrugged. “They don’ need to know that, you want food or not?” He said, seeming impatient now. Without thinking, Francis nodded. He could see John’s shoulders lower slightly, relaxing. As he did, Francis could see to his discomfort how John’s grip on the ax loosened, and he drifted to a more casual stance once more, he wondered how John might have reacted had he said no, or hesitated for too long. On some level, he couldn’t blame him for that. Francis hesitated and reached into his cartridge belt, pausing and buttoning it again and instead grabbing his bayonet, fixing it to the barrel as John waited. He nodded and the two turned, heading towards the house.
They didn’t take the main road, instead slipping into the trees, creeping closer to the house. John moved through the undergrowth deftly, familiar with the terrain. Francis wasn’t quite as deft in the undergrowth as his namesake might have been, but he managed to not make a fool of himself. He stopped at the edge of the trees at a raised hand from John who seemed to be looking around. John nodded and waved for him to follow and the two men crept across the twilight drenched lawn towards a shed.
The shed was locked, but a swift blow from the ax took care of that. The two men set to looking around. There wasn’t much, a potato or two, but even so, the two men eagerly snapped them up, tucking them into pockets. Francis was starting to wonder if the risk had been worth it when he heard a sharp mechanical click from the doorway.
“Eli? That you boy?” A man’s voice said, freezing both men in their tracks as they slowly turned to face the door once more. A new man stood in the door frame, a revolver trained upon the two would-be thieves. He seemed as surprised as them to see them, but his surprise was giving way to narrow eyed hate with each passing second.
Time froze as all three men took stock of where they were and all came to the conclusion that the man in the door held the superior hand. The master glowered at John.
“I knew you’d be back, you lazy no-good nigger. Couldn’t hack it out there, so now you’re back to steal from me again. ” The master spat out, leveling the pistol on John. John stared back, his hands up, but his eyes boring into the master’s. Francis stood stock still, hoping on an unconscious level that if he kept silent, this whole thing might just pass him by.
The plan didn’t work as the master looked at him, taking in his gray uniform and rifle and gesturing with his pistol to John. “You there, make yourself useful and arrest this here nigger. Do as you're told and I’ll let this all go.” He said with a note of beneficence that hadn’t been there previously. Francis froze; the master tilted his head impatiently. John was staring at the man with the revolver, his dark eyes boring into his soul. As the seconds dragged by, Francis felt his own eyes drawn towards the master’s silk embroidered waistcoat, the gold watch chain, how well fed the master was.
“Are you listening sir? I said arrest this ni-” The sentence was abruptly ended as John tackled the master with a growl of fury. The pistol cracked and the shot went wide as it fell to the ground. Instinctively, Francis hopped behind the door frame as the other two men wrestled. Francis looked into the shed, he could see that John, for all his tenacity, was starting to fail. He was tall, but he clearly hadn’t eaten in some time. The master however, snarling, was using his superior bulk against John, pressing down on his throat, drawing pained gasps from John, his legs kicking. Francis looked at the treeline, then back to John.
A rifle butt cracked into the side of the master’s head, sending him tumbling off John who gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air. Before he could get up, Francis was on the master, raining blows on the man. As his fists pummeled the older man, he saw the faces of his lieutenant, his captain, slowly working up the chain of command until he had broken General Jackson’s nose. Now it was the master who was gasping for air, blood streaming from his shattered nose as Francis closed his hands around his fat neck, gritting his own teeth so hard that it hurt.
“No” A voice wheezed out, Francis barely heard it. “Get off him, he’s mine.” the voice wheezed again. Francis looked up at John who was massaging his bruised throat with one hand, holding his ax in the other. His eyes were cold.
As Francis loosened his grip, the master gasped, tugging at his collar, his eyes flicking from Francis to John, back to Francis again. “Please, I, we ca-” he started before John, in a fluid and practiced motion raised the ax and brought it down once again, burying it in the master’s skull, splitting it and sending a wet splatter out from the jagged wound. Francis winced as bits of brain hit his pants leg. John stared down at the corpse, his eyes still cold before planting his bare foot on the silk embroidered chest, pulling the ax free and going out, slumping by the outside of the shed.
Francis looked down at the corpse, blood, skull and brain leaking out onto the packed earth. He found that he felt nothing, he’d felt something when men next to him were shot, he’d felt something even for the Yankees he’d killed in ways more brutal than this, rolling in the mud with knives. He looked down at the master and saw his watch chain.
John was still sitting by the outer wall when Francis came out, tucking the gold chain into his pocket. “Anywhere else he might’ve hidden somethin’?” Francis said flatly. The other man was quiet for a moment before nodding and standing back up, using the still bloody ax to steady himself. He pointed to the house, motioning for the other man to follow. They only paused long enough to clean the ax in a horse trough.
The door was still open as they walked into the silent entry hall, lit by the setting sun. Francis took a moment to note a picture of a young man in a captain’s uniform, and another of an older woman in a fine dress. He saw the black bands on the frames before passing them by. They made their way to the kitchens and found what they were hoping for in the pantry. Francis hadn’t seen so much food in months. He quickly scrounged up two burlap sacks and the pair set to work.
In silence they stuffed the bags and then hefted them onto their shoulders as they made their way back out of the kitchens and towards the main hall once more. Francis noted that the other man had gotten a pair of new boots at some point, likely while he had been looking for the sacks.
“So what now, Eli?” Francis said, setting down his sack in the entryway and stretching his back in preparation for whatever came next, only to start when he saw the look the other man shot him.
“I done told you, my name is John Brown, call me Eli again an’ see where it gets you,” John said with a snarl. Francis took an involuntary step back, before pausing and nodding. They were silent again before stepping out the front door, heading down the plantation path towards the main road.
“Make sure you rest your feet every now and again as you break in them boots, or they’ll give you blisters. John.” Francis said casually as they approached the crossroad again. John gave him a searching look before nodding.
“I’ll try to remember that. Francis.” Francis snorted derisively in response.
“That ain’t my name.” John frowned thoughtfully.
“Well then, what do I call you?” They stood at the crossroads. The soldier was silent for a time.
“I don’t even know anymore...” he finally said, sighing. “I don’t even know if it matters.”
John and the soldier were silent as they sat at the crossroads, watching as the sun continued to head towards the horizon. Their sacks filled with food, enough for each man to last a while.
“I’m going towards Georgia, got family down that way. Where’re you headin’?” The deserter said. “North” John responded simply, earning a nod of comprehension from the deserter, no further explanation was required.
After a time they both gathered up their sacks, John walking north and the deserter walking south, now with food and his rifle cutting into his shoulder, a step up from where he had been a few hours ago.
They never saw each other again.
Otherwise, I hope people like it.
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-Somewhere in South Carolina, Winter 1865-
The rifle was heavy and the strap was cutting into his shoulders.
The soldier, though he supposed he wasn’t a soldier anymore technically, trudged along the road. He watched as his breath fogged in front of him, it was times like this that he both blessed and cursed the long beard that sat in a tangle on his lower face. On the one hand, it kept his face warm, sorely needed as the night drew closer. On the other he kept having to reach up to wipe the wet dew from his nose and breath from his mustache. His beard and hair had gotten long, it’d been almost two months since he’d had a chance to properly shave.
He pulled his jacket closer to himself as he shifted the weight of the rifle on his shoulder. He had forgotten how grateful he had been to receive the gray wool jacket, how proud he had been to be one of the first men in his unit to receive a proper uniform, not the improvised hodgepodge the other men had been wearing until then. Now he was mostly glad for something warm to wear. He was even more thankful for the sturdy shoes he was wearing, still holding together even after marching across half the south.
As the soldier trudged, he saw a figure in the distance. The soldier felt himself tensing. He’d met people on the road before now. Most gave him a wide berth, seeing the ragged uniform and keeping their heads down. But a week back he’d had to beat a man who had convinced himself that soldiers, even ones whose uniform hung as loosely on their emaciated frames as his, must have rations in their packs.
As he drew closer, he could see the man more clearly. He was a black man, wearing roughspun pants and shirt, a battered and torn coat, no shoes. His hair and beard were wild and long just like the soldiers, but where the soldier’s drooped, his had formed a mad bush upon his face. On his shoulder, he carried an ax. When he looked back at the soldier, his face carried a look of suspicion. For some reason, the look of mistrust put the soldier at ease. The man had other business and it didn’t concern the soldier.
As the soldier moved forward, the man with the ax kept his pace. Eventually, the soldier had caught up with the man as they marched side by side down the road in silence. As they did, the soldier caught the black man occasionally stealing a glance at him sidelong and despite his brief calm, the soldier felt suddenly very aware of the ax and the fact that he was down to two cartridges, all the same though, the ax stayed put.
It was the soldier who broke the silence.
“So, you got a name, boy?” The soldier asked, earning another sidelong glance from his travel companion. Once again, the soldier felt somewhat aware of the ax on the man’s shoulder, but once again, it stayed put, instead, he seemed to now be considering something, after a time, he spoke, answering the soldier’s question.
“John Brown. You?” John said offhandedly. The soldier stared in confusion at John, earning a level stare back. Eventually, it was the soldier who broke the silence, letting out a snort of laughter which John obliged with a smile.
“Francis, Francis Marion.” Francis responded wryly. John nodded, if he was aware of his travel companion’s war record against the British, he didn’t say. Silence reigned once more.
“You’re a long way from Pottawatomie.” Francis said with a smirk. John didn’t respond to the jest, letting silence dominate once again. Franics continued to march, wondering at the strangeness of it all. Had it been even six months ago, he would have... what would he have done? Gone to the sergeant? Reported a runaway? Then again, six months ago, would this man have been walking on the road so openly, no freedom papers, holding an ax? Francis had seen negroes on this journey south back to Georgia before now, but they had given him a wide distance, and they never traveled alone as they made their way northwards, hoping to find the Union lines.
“So where are you headed then John?” Francis said, unable to let the silence smother him for another moment. This time John responded, lifting his free hand and pointing towards a side road. “I’m gonna get somethin’ to eat from there.” He said simply. Francis followed the finger to a tree lined side road, at the end of which Francis could see a large and impressive house. As they reached the crossroads, John stopped, looking at Francis, eyeing him up.
“Could use a man with a rifle, if y’all’s willin’ to use it.” John said cautiously. Francis blinked, considering the offer laid before him. He almost discarded it out of hand. But at the mention of food, he felt his stomach growl at him for his foolishness. Francis looked down the road at the house. It looked nice enough, he didn’t see anyone else down that way. He chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking.
“I only got two shots John, not sure a rifle will help much.” John shrugged. “They don’ need to know that, you want food or not?” He said, seeming impatient now. Without thinking, Francis nodded. He could see John’s shoulders lower slightly, relaxing. As he did, Francis could see to his discomfort how John’s grip on the ax loosened, and he drifted to a more casual stance once more, he wondered how John might have reacted had he said no, or hesitated for too long. On some level, he couldn’t blame him for that. Francis hesitated and reached into his cartridge belt, pausing and buttoning it again and instead grabbing his bayonet, fixing it to the barrel as John waited. He nodded and the two turned, heading towards the house.
They didn’t take the main road, instead slipping into the trees, creeping closer to the house. John moved through the undergrowth deftly, familiar with the terrain. Francis wasn’t quite as deft in the undergrowth as his namesake might have been, but he managed to not make a fool of himself. He stopped at the edge of the trees at a raised hand from John who seemed to be looking around. John nodded and waved for him to follow and the two men crept across the twilight drenched lawn towards a shed.
The shed was locked, but a swift blow from the ax took care of that. The two men set to looking around. There wasn’t much, a potato or two, but even so, the two men eagerly snapped them up, tucking them into pockets. Francis was starting to wonder if the risk had been worth it when he heard a sharp mechanical click from the doorway.
“Eli? That you boy?” A man’s voice said, freezing both men in their tracks as they slowly turned to face the door once more. A new man stood in the door frame, a revolver trained upon the two would-be thieves. He seemed as surprised as them to see them, but his surprise was giving way to narrow eyed hate with each passing second.
Time froze as all three men took stock of where they were and all came to the conclusion that the man in the door held the superior hand. The master glowered at John.
“I knew you’d be back, you lazy no-good nigger. Couldn’t hack it out there, so now you’re back to steal from me again. ” The master spat out, leveling the pistol on John. John stared back, his hands up, but his eyes boring into the master’s. Francis stood stock still, hoping on an unconscious level that if he kept silent, this whole thing might just pass him by.
The plan didn’t work as the master looked at him, taking in his gray uniform and rifle and gesturing with his pistol to John. “You there, make yourself useful and arrest this here nigger. Do as you're told and I’ll let this all go.” He said with a note of beneficence that hadn’t been there previously. Francis froze; the master tilted his head impatiently. John was staring at the man with the revolver, his dark eyes boring into his soul. As the seconds dragged by, Francis felt his own eyes drawn towards the master’s silk embroidered waistcoat, the gold watch chain, how well fed the master was.
“Are you listening sir? I said arrest this ni-” The sentence was abruptly ended as John tackled the master with a growl of fury. The pistol cracked and the shot went wide as it fell to the ground. Instinctively, Francis hopped behind the door frame as the other two men wrestled. Francis looked into the shed, he could see that John, for all his tenacity, was starting to fail. He was tall, but he clearly hadn’t eaten in some time. The master however, snarling, was using his superior bulk against John, pressing down on his throat, drawing pained gasps from John, his legs kicking. Francis looked at the treeline, then back to John.
A rifle butt cracked into the side of the master’s head, sending him tumbling off John who gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air. Before he could get up, Francis was on the master, raining blows on the man. As his fists pummeled the older man, he saw the faces of his lieutenant, his captain, slowly working up the chain of command until he had broken General Jackson’s nose. Now it was the master who was gasping for air, blood streaming from his shattered nose as Francis closed his hands around his fat neck, gritting his own teeth so hard that it hurt.
“No” A voice wheezed out, Francis barely heard it. “Get off him, he’s mine.” the voice wheezed again. Francis looked up at John who was massaging his bruised throat with one hand, holding his ax in the other. His eyes were cold.
As Francis loosened his grip, the master gasped, tugging at his collar, his eyes flicking from Francis to John, back to Francis again. “Please, I, we ca-” he started before John, in a fluid and practiced motion raised the ax and brought it down once again, burying it in the master’s skull, splitting it and sending a wet splatter out from the jagged wound. Francis winced as bits of brain hit his pants leg. John stared down at the corpse, his eyes still cold before planting his bare foot on the silk embroidered chest, pulling the ax free and going out, slumping by the outside of the shed.
Francis looked down at the corpse, blood, skull and brain leaking out onto the packed earth. He found that he felt nothing, he’d felt something when men next to him were shot, he’d felt something even for the Yankees he’d killed in ways more brutal than this, rolling in the mud with knives. He looked down at the master and saw his watch chain.
John was still sitting by the outer wall when Francis came out, tucking the gold chain into his pocket. “Anywhere else he might’ve hidden somethin’?” Francis said flatly. The other man was quiet for a moment before nodding and standing back up, using the still bloody ax to steady himself. He pointed to the house, motioning for the other man to follow. They only paused long enough to clean the ax in a horse trough.
The door was still open as they walked into the silent entry hall, lit by the setting sun. Francis took a moment to note a picture of a young man in a captain’s uniform, and another of an older woman in a fine dress. He saw the black bands on the frames before passing them by. They made their way to the kitchens and found what they were hoping for in the pantry. Francis hadn’t seen so much food in months. He quickly scrounged up two burlap sacks and the pair set to work.
In silence they stuffed the bags and then hefted them onto their shoulders as they made their way back out of the kitchens and towards the main hall once more. Francis noted that the other man had gotten a pair of new boots at some point, likely while he had been looking for the sacks.
“So what now, Eli?” Francis said, setting down his sack in the entryway and stretching his back in preparation for whatever came next, only to start when he saw the look the other man shot him.
“I done told you, my name is John Brown, call me Eli again an’ see where it gets you,” John said with a snarl. Francis took an involuntary step back, before pausing and nodding. They were silent again before stepping out the front door, heading down the plantation path towards the main road.
“Make sure you rest your feet every now and again as you break in them boots, or they’ll give you blisters. John.” Francis said casually as they approached the crossroad again. John gave him a searching look before nodding.
“I’ll try to remember that. Francis.” Francis snorted derisively in response.
“That ain’t my name.” John frowned thoughtfully.
“Well then, what do I call you?” They stood at the crossroads. The soldier was silent for a time.
“I don’t even know anymore...” he finally said, sighing. “I don’t even know if it matters.”
John and the soldier were silent as they sat at the crossroads, watching as the sun continued to head towards the horizon. Their sacks filled with food, enough for each man to last a while.
“I’m going towards Georgia, got family down that way. Where’re you headin’?” The deserter said. “North” John responded simply, earning a nod of comprehension from the deserter, no further explanation was required.
After a time they both gathered up their sacks, John walking north and the deserter walking south, now with food and his rifle cutting into his shoulder, a step up from where he had been a few hours ago.
They never saw each other again.
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This is probably the most likely outcome. Late 19th century authors taking on a finger-wagging, moralizing tone towards the pre-bellum and per-bellum South and then this gradually evolving as time goes on, and restrictions on what is considered appropriate for media loosen, that we see more bleak, frightening depictions of what things were like. Equivalents to Lost Cause works may exist but they will likely not find a widespread audience TTL and will remain obscure. The closer we get to the present, works like equivalents to the aforementioned Come and See or Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian are likely. It will be difficult to imagine the WWI-like effect it will have on the American psyche.
I suspect ghosts, cannibals, and (if they still become popular ITTL) vampires to be Southern Gothic, or whatever the movement becomes called, well-worn cliches in both fantasy and horror media.
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