Mirepoix

A man avenges his brother in one of the wars that defined our nation.

Mirepoix

On a cold foggy Wednesday’s dawn, September seventeenth of eighteen sixty-two, luscious corn fields, breezy wind, stout robust men, with groomed mustaches and shaven beards readied for so-called glory; it was a day where destinies were born and vanquished. The Southern Confederates fought Union men behind the bleak Antietam Creek. Both forces vehemently clashed around a solemn white church. The Union veered the Confederates into a crippling crutch; the slave owners prostrate before their cannons and clutching onto their pistols like Catholic monks grasp onto their golden crosses.

…

 

The year was eighteen fifty-two. Lloyd Roy Johnson lived with his wife and two daughters on a plantation in Calhoun, Georgia. At that time the man was twenty years old. The Southern man owned two Black slaves; they were twin brothers; identical twins. Both were eighteen years old. The Confederate grew up witnessing the misery in which both slaves and their parents were treated by the man’s father and mother. He envied both children, growing up seeing them grow erect, broad and healthy. When the White man’s parents along with the Blacks’ parents perished, he inherited the land, and inherited both Blacks along with it. The slaves were treated as degenerately as He’d seen his parents treat theirs.

Eighteen years of servitude and humiliation; picking cotton and pecans, with nothing but grits to consume, meat seldom eaten, except on the holidays, and they ate leftovers. Your only name was “n****r.” The slaves’ parents named one of the Blacks Benjamin and the other Elisha, but it was always “n****r,” and both heads would turn until one was singled out. Elisha grew intolerant and decided to flee north:

“Don’t do it brother. If they find ye, they’ll whip you like ye ain’t worth nothin,” Benjamin warned Elisha.

“I done made up my mind. I’m goin north,” Elisha said.

“Then I’ll go with ye. I can’t let you do this alone.”

Both brothers faithfully toiled on the fields to show good faith and hide their intentions. On a dawn of a Wednesday, they fled north; both men burdened the mule on evenings in stealth, crossing plain fields in the lonesome dark, and when they encountered other Blacks, “Master just moved up north,” they said. The dusty mornings were timeless, spanning for ages, and the evenings hurriedly slipped, without leaving any trail of consciousness.

Maryland awkwardly welcomed their presence after an endless journey. They arrived with pockets eager for humble service, as liberated men. They were reborn after millennia of unearthly suffering. They welcomed the cleansed wind of freedom, liberated from the rancid stables, and stinking sweat.

When Lincoln called upon the free men of the nation, they gladly obliged, in hopes of an end to extortion and exploitation. They were the black retinas in the eyes of a Northern map; peering with contempt toward the rebellious owners of men, whom their mothers had given birth to as free men.  

…

 

Antietam; after timeless ages, the owner has met the free slave. Johnson sternly frowned upon both Black men in contempt. The Confederate pulled a Georgia made Southern Percussion six-shot cap and ball revolver, wound the hammer, rammed the pistol against one of the Blacks’ throat, smirked, and let loose; “A n****r’s a n****r. Don’t matter which side he’s on,” he stubbornly and coldly said. A mute thud preceded an amply gushing artery.

“Oh s**t! You son of a b***h!” one of the Blacks yelled; “Ye killed my brother!”

The Black dropped his rifle and drew a blade from the throat of his boot, and pinned the Confederate to the dirt:

“That’s for callin me a n****r, so ye’ll never forget the day ye called a free man one;” he forcefully engraved a bloody “N” into the Confederate’s neck.

Another Confederate soldier struck the live Black on the forehead with the butt of his rifle. Johnson held his bloody inscribed neck and stood up retreating, for one of the White Union soldiers had shot the aiding Confederate straight through the head; the dead man’s eye crossed in dazzle, while staring into the limitless oblivion above; he crumbled to the ground.

“N****r lover,” Johnson wheezed retreating.

The Confederate had vanished into the over-populated corn fields. Men were slitting each other’s throats, drilling bullets into hearts, losing heads and brains alike; beautiful pictures were being painted in artless red.  The breadthless ground was soaked with blood, cluttered with brains, intestines, and torn, nameless limbs. Both armies continued fighting through an endless dawn.

The Southern army skirmished in retreat. The invisible Angel of Death consumed countless souls in a mourned afternoon. The sunset bled into the horizon to coherently paint a gruesome masterpiece of gore. The sun sank, drowning along with it faceless souls of a lost cause. Nocturnal men skirmished along throughout the dismal night. An unforgotten day had come to a timeless end. Antietam was won by the Yankees, and the Confederates came undone on a restless day.

The years drifted with unwritten souls chasing the pages of unwritten chapters of history; bloody Sketches to be drawn over a haunted canvas. The vultures’ beaks etched the finishing touches. Slave has met his owner in a call to the predestined, prewritten pages of the future. Pens drenched in blood for ink to scribe an ageless tale of perseverance.

…

 

On a sunny May the seventh of eighteen sixty-four, bitter rivals met yet again. It was a battle over the wilderness. Confederates, yet again, cornered with their backs into motherland, Richmond, Virginia. The Black peered into the unforgettable neck of the man who slew his twin, of his mother’s womb, from a vast distance. He forgot the matter of time and place and the forsaken laws of the universe, and rushed across endless men, to grasp onto the branded neck, thirsting for revenge; his unforsaken vendetta.

Johnson saw the Black rushing like a fuming freight train headed toward a destination where no apologies are accepted, where words such as amnesty, peace, deliverance are taken for granted, his horns interlocked on a sightless target; one that could only be seen through the eyes of vengeance.

“Son of a… I thought you was dead!” the Confederate gasped, reaching for his saber.

The Black threw his rifle and snatched his saber, wanting to go for the melee, and take his opponent down with blood-quenched dignity.

“You Negros just keep comin,” the White man exhaled.

“Name’s Benjamin Freeman. I’m free fool, and so was my brother that you killed. His blood stains your filthy hands, and I aim to lay his soul to rest by slittin your damned throat,” the Black frowned onto Johnson, peering into his pitiful eyes.

“That fool wente hell, and you’ll go right along withim.” Johnson pushed Freeman back.

The Black slashed with his right across the Confederate’s waist, but the man sidestepped, to only have the coat of his uniform torn. Johnson tried countering by vertically slashing, but the Black dropped his saber and caught the White’s arms before he struck, and they both struggled with their clutched arms in midair; each testing the other’s strength and pride.

The Black grinned with his visible white teeth, against his ebony dark skin, with his wide nostrils fuming in anger, and clutched Johnson’s left arm, which held the saber, and reached with his right into his right boot and took out a thick blade and swiftly slashed against the Confederate’s throat. The White man fell onto his knees, holding his plain white neck, with both jugular veins splashing plentifully, against his dull gray frock coat.

“Damn n****r!” Johnson gurgled, crumbling onto his knees.

Freeman kicked him to the ground. He picked up his sword and fought the remainder of the sacred battle with gratitude, knowing that he had redeemed his kin. The Black was one of the few of his kind to fight along the White Union men. The beasts ferociously ground at each other for the sake of dreams that only a few of them would live to enchant. The Black had lived to see them fulfilled.

The earth had soaked the blood slain, consumed the contributed flesh butchered for the alms of freedom and liberty, and certain deeply rooted ancient rules that define the universe; and the sun sank into the bloody outstretch of the horizon, reflecting the silhouettes of the tombstones of the martyrs that served a certain unheard calling.

 

Author's Note

This is for a friend who gave me quite possibly the best positive criticism ever on a review. Thank you Lubaina.

Reviews

[Riding the Rainbow]

You wrote an amazing story..It was really really good and you had the gift to express every single feeling on paper, perfectly..
Well done..

[Shane Mohamed]

Thank you Kejara.

[Ashleigh Nicole Evans]

Oh wow, Shane! You revised this piece so beautifully, I sincerely loved it because you drew me in with your characters. Todd is right, the historical back story provided a tangible link between that which had happened in the past with that which was taking place during the fight scenes. It was a wonderful read and thank you for the shout-out. It is always gratifying to know that the time and effort invested in formulating a constructive review is appreciated - so, I must be thanking you :)

[Shane Mohamed]

You're welcome dear friend.

[Keith McCormick]

Yes. I would agree. The addition of the historical back story punctuated and gave more meaning to this writing. Mirepoix? Still trying to digest that a bit (figuratively of course, since I have never had it literally).

[Shane Mohamed]

Both ethnicity have to mingle and intertwine, like celery, onions, and carrots. I wanted to add a Mexican, but they were far to the west; away from Maryland. Thanks for reading.

[Shane Mohamed]

And the name of the piece is sort of a satiric signature on the content.