The Colonel (Pt2)



Author’s Note
This work cannot be leased, resold, ripped off, creased or folded without the author’s express permission.
Furthermore it is entirely a work of fiction although I have used some historical characters to add an air of 
authenticity.



Continuing my reading of my ancestor’s diary, Colonel Thomas Macfarlane
Of the 3rd Tennessee Cavalry in the army of Nathan Bedford Forrest during the War Between the States.



Lieutenant Elijah Briggs was from an old family traditionally associated with mine. We all hailed from 
Chester County NY but my father, becoming alarmed at the growing overcrowding and poverty he saw in 
eastern cities, emigrated west.



We were a rich mill-owning family and the Briggs had been our managers. My father had bought the Pine 
Estate and bred the finest horses in the State. The Briggs had assumed their old role on the estate as 
managers, this time in the breeding of horses. Elijah was the third son and had enlisted in the Tennessee 
militia, like myself.



The South’s society is more like 17th century pastoral England in it’s manners. The emphasis on breeding 
and bloodlines, it’s codes and ethics, and the Cavalier spirit of it’s young men. To sit on a thoroughbred 
horse is to raise one’s standing in society, and my father produced the means.



Elijah Briggs died on active service on the 30th January 1863, somewhere among the swamps along the 
Wabash river in Southern Illinois. Killed by an old flintlock blunderbuss with the lock-cam bearing so worn 
it jumped free from the trigger-release at the slightest movement. Standing a mere pace away from the 
muzzle, the blast and birdshot took most of his head off. A pointless death at the hands of a stupid, 
frightened woman living way out in the swamplands with her two young daughters.



The Federal conscriptors had taken Rosemary McCaskill’s husband into the Infantry. Some sharp jokester 
had sold them the swamp as a farm. They did their best, augmenting their meager living with trapping and 
fishing.



All this she tearfully related to me in between bursts of remorse for the terrible accident. The gun barrel of 
my Colt had raised a good bruise across her face and I bid the lady an apology. She offered to show me the 
way south providing I escort herself and her family from that god-forsaken place to some fair-sized town 
along the way.



31st January 1863, Southern Ill.



Rosemary was true to her word and escorted me free of the marshes. I led the horses while she and her 
children rode along behind on their dray. We were barely free of the swamp when I called a halt to the 
party. 


One develops a sixth sense when at war in the forest. I became aware of an unnatural quiet about us. No 
birds, animals and even the sound of the wind through the trees died away. I drew my Colt and motioned 
my companions to hush. Just then there was a click followed by a whispered voice.
“Colonel”?



Suddenly around fifty southerners lifted up from the surrounding foliage, grinning and flinging their arms 
wide in greeting. Although joyous in finding me they made hardly a sound, true hunters. They were mostly 
Arkansas boys and a few from my regiment tasked with gathering survivors and looking for me. They told 
me that some 600 or so of my command were at the meeting place although stragglers were still coming in. 
It was not more than 7 miles away.



Evening.



Oh the joy of our reunion. There was much hugging and renewal of acquaintances. I resolved to leave 
straight away lest we attract unwanted attention. We thus headed south for the Ohio.



2nd February 1863 North bank of the Ohio River.



We are encamped 3 miles from the river. There is heard the dull booming of a cannonade from somewhere 
along the riverbank. I have sent Captain Harris and a sergeant to reconnoiter the ground and to establish the 
state of affairs. Stragglers have been catching us up all the time and I have established lookouts down the 
way to guide them to our location.



Capt. Harris reported that there is a battery emplaced on the riverbank engaged with one of ours on the 
southern bank. A regiment of infantry distributed somewhat haphazardly along the river protects it. Most 
appear to have eyes only for the southern bank. We are all agreed that we should attack it and relieve our 
friends.



Evening.


Oh what a glorious day it has been! The Roughriders charged in on horseback from along the bank, taking 
their infantry and Artillery people by surprise. A stiff fight ensued, which was more of a fighting retreat for 
the Federals. They re-grouped some distance away and formed close-ranks to meet a Cavalry charge, or so 
they thought.
Our men had no intention of charging a hedge of bayonets, indeed, the horses would have refused to do so, 
intelligent creatures that they are. 
At the signal, the pennant-bearer threw the spike of the staff into the ground, the Roughriders dismounted, 
dropped to their knees, and commenced a rapid fire into the close ranked infantry, all in one fluid 
movement.
The Union troops quickly dissolved into chaos. At that point The Tennessee Cavalry erupted on their flank 
and charged headlong into the fray.
Simultaneously, as if by design and quite unexpectedly, the river crossing suddenly filled with whooping 
troopers from General Forrest’s army.
Beset on all sides, and with the help of some enterprise from our boys, who discovered some of the 9-
pounders were charged and ready and began to turn them towards the enemy, the union infantry fled.


Later we learnt that the General had taken advantage of the enemy’s dispatch of large numbers of men 
north of the Ohio and commenced his own operations. This was in part to facilitate our return to Tennessee 
via Kentucky and additionally to throw the Union off-balance and so relieve Vicksburg, then under siege.
Their General Grant was proving himself a pest in that part of the world because of his engineering 
expertise and unusual tenacity.
By nightfall we were all safely making our way south on the snowy Kentucky roads. 


Rosemary and her daughters had resolved to follow us, as by then she was feeling safe in the company of 
our gallant troopers. Indeed, our boys behaved most respectfully towards them. I felt also that she was 
taking a shine towards me in particular and seemed to delight in the smallest courtesy.


In wartime one can’t afford to give oneself over to grief for long for it is a constant presence. You become 
almost blasé about death, blasé but never indifferent. To preoccupy yourself with death would only hasten 
your own demise, or so we thought. Poor Briggs I deliberately put to one side. To do otherwise would not 
serve the dead, or the living.


Upon reporting the account of our operations to the General I was warmly praised and received a field 
commission of Brigadier. Indeed it was slightly unusual for a mere Colonel to have command of several 
Regiments, in fact a small Brigade. Unusual but not unheard of in these chaotic times. Additionally I was 
given three weeks leave.


During my time off I was expected to raise more recruits from the Chattanooga area and acquire horses and 
equipment.


I suggested I escort Rosemary and her family to some such peaceful area to which she readily agreed.   



4th February 1863, Tennessee.


We have taken the Nashville and Central RR to Chattanooga. A Lieutenant-aide and a Color Sergeant as 
befitting my rank escort me. I fear my servant Samuel has disappeared somewhere up north. He has 
probably run off, ungrateful fellow.
I find it strange to be called ‘Brigadier’ and find the deference shown somewhat off-putting. In my grubby 
campaign uniform, still with its Colonel’s insignia on my collar, I don’t feel the part and resolve to have a 
proper uniform made at my tailors in Chattanooga. I need a dress jacket, pelisse, sash and cape to go with 
my new position. I have in my pocket a Brigadier’s star and a new dress saber hangs at my waist, both the 
gift of General Nathaniel Bedford Forrest.


Across the compartment sits my female companions. They are reveling in the attention afforded them as 
part of the party of a Brigadier General. People have assumed that they are my family, an assumption I 
have not disabused them of as it saves awkward, and lengthy explanations.
Rosemary is not unpleasant to look at though a little time worn. Her life in Illinois must have been hard but 
she turns out to be not without style or deportment. She has rich auburn hair, which she has taken to 
wearing loose about her shoulders. She is wearing a new dress, made by the boys for her from white muslin 
liberated from some Union supply train. The neckline is cut low across her chest, which she conceals with 
her shawl. 


I have, however, caught enough glimpses over the past few days to convince me that she has an ample and 
attractive bust.


Evening.


It is a long journey by train, of some three days and nights, notwithstanding delays caused by snow and 
track. There was some embarrassment concerning sleeping arrangements as the Railway people assumed 
Rosemary was my wife. The two girls were ensconced in the fold-down cots, which left but one bunk. I 
gallantly offered to sleep on the floor however Rosemary would not hear of such a thing. She demurely 
assured me that she had full trust. So here I am writing this by the pale lamp as Rosemary rests peacefully 
beside albeit with her back to me.



5th February 1863. On the train.


It is morning. I am sitting on the train that has stopped at a station for breakfast. Rosemary and the girls 
have gone for a walk to stretch their legs. 
It was very cramped in the cot last night. It must have been twelve below outside and although there is a 
stove at the end of the carriage, it was quite cold. I was grateful for the warmth provided by Rosemary.
Pressed together in such a way my member adopted a mind of it’s own and proceeded to swell up. It found 
it’s way naturally into a position along the valley of Rosemary’s bottom. I was desperate to regain control 
lest she wakes and thinks I am taking advantage of her.  A slight flexing of her cheeks occasionally did 
nothing to alleviate the situation.



While I was pondering the dilemma I became aware of her hand sliding slowly between us to rest right over 
the offending organ. I was astonished to feel it begin to squeeze and grope my pink dagger over my long-
johns. It seemed like an age I held by breath when her fingers began to seek out the drawstring of my 
underwear and deftly unlace me.



All this time she had otherwise not moved a muscle. Her regular breathing had induced me to believe she 
was still asleep. Once she had her hand on me she began to pull on it with gentle enthusiasm. Her touch 
was exquisite and I stood out like a branding iron. In my mounting passion I decided to seek out the two 
treasures she had concealed beneath her shawl. Her shirt now only covered them so I was able to confirm to 
myself their full weightiness. I cupped and squeezed them till I felt a stiff teat on the palm of my hand. I 
thought I detected a change in her breathing however I was preoccupied with the impending crisis. I tried to 
turn onto my back so I would not spill on her nightwear but she would have none of that. Consequently as I 
felt the seed rising I could do nothing but erupt across her bottom, wetting her and leaving her hand in a 
sticky state. I soon fell asleep.


Later on in that late night I awoke to find the train stopped at some crossing. No doubt the workmen were 
clearing some snow for the train to proceed. To my delight I now felt not cotton against me but warm flesh. 
Rosemary had raised her nightshirt and lowered her pants. I immediately supposed she had woken to 
discover they were coated in my emissions. Her bottom though was now rhythmically moving against me 
and consequently I immediately rose to attention.


Rosemary’s breathing was quick and shallow and she was sighing quietly. I then became aware of her hand 
moving between her legs and realized she was giving herself relief. My hands quickly sought her teats once 
again but this time they were soft and smooth and the texture of warm skin. This elicited a muffled gasp 
from her which satisfied me I was not unwelcome. She slowly turned onto her back and looked at me for 
the first time. Her lips made to open but I silenced them with my own. 


My mouth stayed glued to hers for a good five minutes as we wrestled tongues and danced with our gums. 
My hands were not slow to size up the situation and were soon exploring every inch of her I could reach. I 
discovered her belly was a little rounded and the flesh around her abdomen slack from child-bearing. Her 
thighs were fleshy but felt smooth and free of blemishes.  Eventually I replaced her hand at the junction of 
those thighs and found her hot and moist honey-pot. It was well accompanied with womanly bristle, now 
matted with her effusions.



Then she uttered the only words she spoke.
“Come over….. please”?
How could a gentleman ignore such a desperate request from a lady? so I heaved myself over to lie on top 
of her. On the way she found my tool with her hand to satisfy herself it was equal to the task. She then 
directed it to the place it would do the most good. 


We were careful not to disturb the children with our activities so we ground and slid ourselves together 
with as little rough movement as possible. Horse riding causes one to be supple around the hips so I gave 
her the benefit of much subtle pressure. I also wished to prolong my own experience so I delayed my own 
crisis by gyrating my pubic bone against her mons rather sliding myself in and out. This resulted in 
extended pleasure for her which she showed in her whimpers and cries. Every so often she would bite the 
back of her hand as her body stiffened in a crisis. My mouth was busy on her, alternating between breast 
and her own mouth. Eventually she signaled by grabbing my ass with her hands and pulling me into her, 
that she wished me to finish. Obliging, I offered her a series of rapid thrusts that quickly brought me to a 
conclusion.


We lay for several minutes afterwards exhausted and puffing away at one another. Eventually I slid off her 
and she rolled back onto her side, with her back to me. We finished the rest of the night like that, laying 
spoon-fashion.



10th February 1863 Chattanooga, Tennessee.


Rosemary and I made love at least seven times on our way to Chattanooga. I pumped so much seed into her 
that I am sure I have got her with child. Mistresses are a common sight in our society but one is expected to 
exercise discretion. I was much feted when I arrived at the train depot as word of my deeds up north had 
preceded us. Rosemary kept her distance as I retold again and again the tale of our campaign. My father 
welcomed me with open arms and promised twelve good cavalry mounts for me to take back. He even 
assisted me in finding a decent cottage for my ‘family’ and did not bother to ask too many questions.


Again no questions were asked as I took my leave at night to spend with Rosemary. When we retired she 
would quickly bring me relief by opening my trousers and putting my member in her mouth. This was to 
take away the 'urgency’ to enable me to give her the best possible fucking. She refused to discuss possible 
pregnancy except to say it would be ‘alright’ and I ‘needn’t worry’.


So at night I fill her with my juice from on top, behind, underneath, standing up, sitting down and any 
which way our imaginations can devise. She clings to me, stiffens, grunts and groans, and bites the back of 
her hand as she comes again and again. I find I’m enjoying her soft body more and more and for the 
moment want nothing else.


This is despite my elevated popularity with the ladies, particularly now that I’m dressed as befits a proper 
General. I’m not short of recruits for the Cavalry but they are generally of poor quality. It seems the best of 
them have already enlisted. You simply can’t turn an apprentice baker into a Cavalryman over a few short 
days. Nevertheless I sign up 30 of the best ones and endeavor to teach them how to stay on a thoroughbred.


I’m informed by Telegraph that I’m to get them ready in two weeks in preparation to join a relieving force 
for Vicksburg, Mississippi. Things are looking grave there and if it be lost then the Confederacy will be 
cleaved in two.



