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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Action & Adventure
- Subject: Drama
- Published: 05/03/2022
If It Becomes Known
Born 1954, M, from St Louis Mo, United StatesYou don’t need to call me evil, I know I am. Pointing your finger at me and reminding me I am scum, a murderer and ought to be hung till dead, is not a fact I am not well aware of. You can not demoralize me in any manner worse than I do myself.
I have thought often that peace would come to me if I hung myself from the rafters of this very barn. The place I have hid in for the past few days. Running, hiding, wishing I was dead and yet glad I am not.
I refuse to end my own life, it’s not a matter of courage or method, it’s about a greater fear. Those who say death holds no fear might think that, yet, when death is at your door, only a fool is opening it with a smile. You say, I know my heart is right with God, I have heaven before me and hell behind me.
Really, you’re so sure that God will look at you, your life and say come on in? I think that is a fools way of thinking! Who has not told a lie, even since you were saved! What about that person you talked negative about, that border line profanity. No I don’t think you are as certain as you pretend. As you judge me, remember you too will face the creator.
I do know however my final end, and you are right in your assumptions it won’t be some place with streets of gold. A lake of fire is all I can look forward to, unless. Unless that old preacher was telling the truth. He shouted from his plank stage at some tent revival.
I thought it was Circus show, and perhaps it was, when I stopped in. He said, God, assuming there is one, would forgive a man of any sin. How can I be sure, can I be forgiven this tragedy I caused. I don’t know, the devil may well have me, but I am going to avoid death as long as I can and I hope break his hold on my soul.
I did not do it intentionally, knowing it was a accident due to my negligence or stupidity, does not bring back the lives of those death caught that night. That same old preacher said, forgiveness is faith that allows your soul to be cleansed. Ok, perhaps God can do that, but what about the mother of that little girl? What about the father who won’t see his fireman son again?
Someone once said, confession is good for the soul. Well to that point I can’t say. What I can say, fair is fair, and if death meets me before I am ready, the family’s left behind have a right to know the truth. It won’t purge me of my guilt but perhaps will allow my soul to rest until swallowed up by hell. Don’t pretend to sympathize with me, you don’t even know me.
I won’t give you my name, it’s not important, a nobody with a name is still a nobody. I stand about five feet six inches tall, of a muscular build, green eyes set close together, a blunt noise, wide forehead, thick wavy black hair, a light tan complexion in line with my Italian breeding. I guess most would say I don’t talk much, some would say I am often sullen and brooding.
I enjoy a good fight, especially if I am winning. If I saw real danger perhaps I would respect it, but doubt I would fear it. I have a scar over my right eye, from a bottle I was hit by, a scar on my arm from a knife, the one wielding it found it in his gut. One tattoo, a ships Anchor given to me by my ships comrades while I was in a drunken stupor.
Perhaps you guessed now, I am home on the river docks of any city along the mighty Mississippi or the length of the wide Missouri river. I am at home and welcomed by the salons that line the dark streets, and more than welcome in the beds of the ladies of the night.
I have worked on river boats as long as I can remember. My mother had me, if a woman that dumps her five year old on the deck of a ship is a mother. They say everyone has a father, if I had one I expect he was a kissing cousin of Lucifer. Left on the deck of Mikinda, a sweet graceful sailing vessel, with a 40 ft main mast.
The captain took pity on me and made me a scullery hand for a crabby cook. As I grew, I gained my sea legs, and my strength, soon I was a deck hand as good as any. As sailing ships were replaced by the power of steamboats, I took up my rightful place.
Now I have heaved heavy bales of cotton to the hold, bundles of fur, skins from deer and antelope, barrels of beer, whiskey and wine. I told you I am no prize mate you would want to call friend or invite home for Sundays fried chicken. My favorite cargo was on the slave boats.
Strong healthy blacks could avoid the hold, by willingly working the ship as a crew. The black women, called wenches, were every sailors delight. I went for the ones with big chocolate melons on the chest and a huge Behind that made a fine pillow when the pleasuring was done. Pleasuring because they enjoyed it as much as I.
So no saints aboard any ship I ever worked, yet not bad people, just a hard bunch. Most of my mates, like my self had done some ocean trips, but enjoyed the river boats far more. If there was ever a river boat without gamblers, I never saw it. On the fine ship I was then on, gamblers and ladies of ill repute abounded.
It was the year of Our Lord, 1849, May 17, the day that took me from the pleasure of the river to fleeing, lest this tale be told and I am hung till my neck cracks like a small branch in the wind.
The ships name, The White Cloud, a beautiful steam vessel she was. Her stacks pointing toward heaven, the coal smoke acting as cloud above us. We had hold full of soon to be slaves for plantation work in the South. We would soon be on the journey to Louisiana the docks of New Orleans.
There was a group of rich passengers in the main cabins and poor passengers in the lower cabins. A state’s senator was among the them, no doubt hopeful his gambling was better than his politics. A few professional gamblers, a couple of pick pockets, and ladies in fine dresses smelling of lilac.
Oh we were not alone, lining the St Louis Mississippi River docks were about 35 of us. Most not near as lovely as our lady, and certainly not with a captain and crew as ours. I was just 21, looking forward to someday being a captain myself.
On this night I had a deep black little dish on my bunk, her English was lacking, her smell not so good, but her melons as ripe as falls harvest. I had taken a free hand to a bottle of whisky and she was so drunk only a smile was on her face.
I lit up a fine Kentucky Rolled cigar, meaning to enjoy the view for a while yet. I curse myself for my stupidity the folly I now flee. I fell asleep and the cigar caught my mattress a fire. I got it to deck, doused it with water and carried it back to my bunk. She had stumbled away, and I in my stupor just dropped back on the bed to sleep.
I woke up again, my breeches was on fire. I did not look to see what else may be flaming away. I jumped overboard. when I came up from the muddy water the whole boat was in flames. The boat beside ours, the Bates, was in full flame. I watched in horror as it broke away and struck another ship. In all 23 Steamboats were on fire, many sunk that night.
The dock erupted in explosions as whisky barrels caught fire. I saw my favorite tavern on fire and people running up and down the streets. The whole city seemed to be on fire. I later learned one third of the city burnt down.
I had grabbed a timber in the water and holding to it swam to the shores of Illinois. Now I run, I hide, I read newspapers when I can steal them. My name I have not seen, but if it becomes known,…..
That night three city residents died, including a fireman that was a hero and saved some of the buildings that stand today. No record was kept of how many others on the boats or houses met that old friend death.
------
Note: The historic fire that destroyed 1/3 of St Louis is true, most of the events including how the fire likely started are true. Slave ships were common as the civil War was just a few years yet to come. I hope you found a bit of entertainment in a sad and heartbreaking day for many. What if you were the one responsible? That was my thinking in writing this story, what if it were me?
If It Becomes Known(Rich Puckett)
You don’t need to call me evil, I know I am. Pointing your finger at me and reminding me I am scum, a murderer and ought to be hung till dead, is not a fact I am not well aware of. You can not demoralize me in any manner worse than I do myself.
I have thought often that peace would come to me if I hung myself from the rafters of this very barn. The place I have hid in for the past few days. Running, hiding, wishing I was dead and yet glad I am not.
I refuse to end my own life, it’s not a matter of courage or method, it’s about a greater fear. Those who say death holds no fear might think that, yet, when death is at your door, only a fool is opening it with a smile. You say, I know my heart is right with God, I have heaven before me and hell behind me.
Really, you’re so sure that God will look at you, your life and say come on in? I think that is a fools way of thinking! Who has not told a lie, even since you were saved! What about that person you talked negative about, that border line profanity. No I don’t think you are as certain as you pretend. As you judge me, remember you too will face the creator.
I do know however my final end, and you are right in your assumptions it won’t be some place with streets of gold. A lake of fire is all I can look forward to, unless. Unless that old preacher was telling the truth. He shouted from his plank stage at some tent revival.
I thought it was Circus show, and perhaps it was, when I stopped in. He said, God, assuming there is one, would forgive a man of any sin. How can I be sure, can I be forgiven this tragedy I caused. I don’t know, the devil may well have me, but I am going to avoid death as long as I can and I hope break his hold on my soul.
I did not do it intentionally, knowing it was a accident due to my negligence or stupidity, does not bring back the lives of those death caught that night. That same old preacher said, forgiveness is faith that allows your soul to be cleansed. Ok, perhaps God can do that, but what about the mother of that little girl? What about the father who won’t see his fireman son again?
Someone once said, confession is good for the soul. Well to that point I can’t say. What I can say, fair is fair, and if death meets me before I am ready, the family’s left behind have a right to know the truth. It won’t purge me of my guilt but perhaps will allow my soul to rest until swallowed up by hell. Don’t pretend to sympathize with me, you don’t even know me.
I won’t give you my name, it’s not important, a nobody with a name is still a nobody. I stand about five feet six inches tall, of a muscular build, green eyes set close together, a blunt noise, wide forehead, thick wavy black hair, a light tan complexion in line with my Italian breeding. I guess most would say I don’t talk much, some would say I am often sullen and brooding.
I enjoy a good fight, especially if I am winning. If I saw real danger perhaps I would respect it, but doubt I would fear it. I have a scar over my right eye, from a bottle I was hit by, a scar on my arm from a knife, the one wielding it found it in his gut. One tattoo, a ships Anchor given to me by my ships comrades while I was in a drunken stupor.
Perhaps you guessed now, I am home on the river docks of any city along the mighty Mississippi or the length of the wide Missouri river. I am at home and welcomed by the salons that line the dark streets, and more than welcome in the beds of the ladies of the night.
I have worked on river boats as long as I can remember. My mother had me, if a woman that dumps her five year old on the deck of a ship is a mother. They say everyone has a father, if I had one I expect he was a kissing cousin of Lucifer. Left on the deck of Mikinda, a sweet graceful sailing vessel, with a 40 ft main mast.
The captain took pity on me and made me a scullery hand for a crabby cook. As I grew, I gained my sea legs, and my strength, soon I was a deck hand as good as any. As sailing ships were replaced by the power of steamboats, I took up my rightful place.
Now I have heaved heavy bales of cotton to the hold, bundles of fur, skins from deer and antelope, barrels of beer, whiskey and wine. I told you I am no prize mate you would want to call friend or invite home for Sundays fried chicken. My favorite cargo was on the slave boats.
Strong healthy blacks could avoid the hold, by willingly working the ship as a crew. The black women, called wenches, were every sailors delight. I went for the ones with big chocolate melons on the chest and a huge Behind that made a fine pillow when the pleasuring was done. Pleasuring because they enjoyed it as much as I.
So no saints aboard any ship I ever worked, yet not bad people, just a hard bunch. Most of my mates, like my self had done some ocean trips, but enjoyed the river boats far more. If there was ever a river boat without gamblers, I never saw it. On the fine ship I was then on, gamblers and ladies of ill repute abounded.
It was the year of Our Lord, 1849, May 17, the day that took me from the pleasure of the river to fleeing, lest this tale be told and I am hung till my neck cracks like a small branch in the wind.
The ships name, The White Cloud, a beautiful steam vessel she was. Her stacks pointing toward heaven, the coal smoke acting as cloud above us. We had hold full of soon to be slaves for plantation work in the South. We would soon be on the journey to Louisiana the docks of New Orleans.
There was a group of rich passengers in the main cabins and poor passengers in the lower cabins. A state’s senator was among the them, no doubt hopeful his gambling was better than his politics. A few professional gamblers, a couple of pick pockets, and ladies in fine dresses smelling of lilac.
Oh we were not alone, lining the St Louis Mississippi River docks were about 35 of us. Most not near as lovely as our lady, and certainly not with a captain and crew as ours. I was just 21, looking forward to someday being a captain myself.
On this night I had a deep black little dish on my bunk, her English was lacking, her smell not so good, but her melons as ripe as falls harvest. I had taken a free hand to a bottle of whisky and she was so drunk only a smile was on her face.
I lit up a fine Kentucky Rolled cigar, meaning to enjoy the view for a while yet. I curse myself for my stupidity the folly I now flee. I fell asleep and the cigar caught my mattress a fire. I got it to deck, doused it with water and carried it back to my bunk. She had stumbled away, and I in my stupor just dropped back on the bed to sleep.
I woke up again, my breeches was on fire. I did not look to see what else may be flaming away. I jumped overboard. when I came up from the muddy water the whole boat was in flames. The boat beside ours, the Bates, was in full flame. I watched in horror as it broke away and struck another ship. In all 23 Steamboats were on fire, many sunk that night.
The dock erupted in explosions as whisky barrels caught fire. I saw my favorite tavern on fire and people running up and down the streets. The whole city seemed to be on fire. I later learned one third of the city burnt down.
I had grabbed a timber in the water and holding to it swam to the shores of Illinois. Now I run, I hide, I read newspapers when I can steal them. My name I have not seen, but if it becomes known,…..
That night three city residents died, including a fireman that was a hero and saved some of the buildings that stand today. No record was kept of how many others on the boats or houses met that old friend death.
------
Note: The historic fire that destroyed 1/3 of St Louis is true, most of the events including how the fire likely started are true. Slave ships were common as the civil War was just a few years yet to come. I hope you found a bit of entertainment in a sad and heartbreaking day for many. What if you were the one responsible? That was my thinking in writing this story, what if it were me?
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- 7
Shirley Smothers
08/26/2022Rich I always enjoy your stories. Rich with detail. I often feel I am a part of your stories.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Rich Puckett
08/26/2022Thank you and what a joy to know you were able to visualize as if there. I love to read when I feel that way and I always hope to capture that kind of feeling. Thank you again
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kevin Hughes
08/26/2022Hey Rich,
I hope never to experience anything close to this. Every person who killed another by "accident", like texting while driving, or leaving a gas cap off a can of gas...only to have a smoker come in and burst into flames. Things that happen where you may not have planned it, but you were a cause in the chain of events.
How horrible would it be to live with that? I knew several people who wouldn't get the measels vaccine, or Polio either when I was a kid, and when their child got sick (or even died) they had to live with that the rest of their lives. Much like in your story...and that has to suck.
Okay, I am off for my walk to clear these thoughts from my mind, and you know you wrote a great story when folks have to work it out in their minds.
Smiles, Kevin
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Rich Puckett
08/26/2022Thank you Kevin, I admit when the idea hit me to write this, at times, it became to real in my own head. Such events that happen around us and then to live knowing you caused harm to others, it was long before I entered the world but the emotions were very real.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Louise Bader
08/26/2022This is an interesting tale. I liked how this historical fiction was told so artfully. Well done and congratulations on being Story Star of the day.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Madhu Mangal Sinha
08/26/2022Excellent expression, yes if I am the responsible person then .... I imagine just. Thanks a lot for such a good story.
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COMMENTS (8)