THE SWEET FLAG
Jeanne Barrack
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The Sweet Flag
Jeanne Barrack This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215
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Copyright © May 2008 by Jeanne Barrack
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 978-1-59632-694-1
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: C. B. Calsing Cover Artist: Marci Gass
Dedication
This story is dedicated to the many different people who affectedme in some way -- personally, professionally, profoundly, or emotionally.
To the guys I grew up with in Brooklyn who walked to the sound of a different drummer.
To my relatives who faced discriminationand overcame it and to those who faced destruction and didn’t make it.
To Antonio Banderas and the films he made with Pedro Almodovar, from which I learned that men loving men could be beautiful.
To Josh Lanyon for his gentle advice.
And, as always, to myhusband for his incredible support.
“…the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.” Walt Whitman
Prologue My name is Brandon Keats. I’m a freelance journalist specializing in Civil War paranormal activity. The last case I worked on concerned a little known legend referred to locally as “The Vigilant Soldier.” Approximately every twenty years on Memorial Day night, a Civil War soldier returns to the Thorndale Cemetery, in Garrickstown, Pennsylvania, to stand vigil over the grave of a fallen comrade. Sightings began in 1908 and continued over the course of the twentieth century. It was said that if anyone visited the grave that night, he or she would be killed in exchange for the resurrection of the dead soldier. This part of the anecdote began after WWII, but no deaths have been recorded, and no missing persons have been reported, ever…
I began my investigation armed solely with the name of the soldier, Matthew Hardesty, whose grave was the location of the sightings, and then dug further. Delving into public records confirmed that Hardesty joined the 205th Regiment New York Volunteer Infantry in 1861 as a captain. One of the first recipients (posthumously) of the Medal of Honor, Matthew Hardesty was the son of a well-to-do Southern tobacco planter. As was customary for many wealthy young men, he traveled to Europe to “broaden [his] horizons” (quote taken from a letter to his sister, Susan Marie Hardesty Grayson, from her collection of letters and documents gathered under the title A Southern Woman’s Courtship, Florida State University Library). Apparently, something out of the ordinary occurred during his travels. In letters to her fiancé, Alonzo Grayson, Hardesty’s sister wrote of her brother’s “unnatural behavior” and that her father’s hopes were pinned on her to “continue the family line.” In this same letter, she begs her fiancé to “refrain from mentioning my brother’s name” in polite company.
The Medal of Honor was sent to his sister (as recorded in one of her last letters to her daughter). I found her acceptance of the award ironic, since both she and her father considered Matthew a turncoat for sympathizing with the North and hardly the typical picture of “manly” behavior. Yet she decided to claim the medal after the war. Could his heroic death have whitewashed his “questionable” activities?
Reading between the lines, it appeared likely that Matthew Hardesty might have engaged in homosexual behavior in Europe, reports of which somehow filtered back to his family. This was the first reference, however oblique, to paranormal, homosexual Civil War activity that I had encountered. Being a gay man myself, it fueled my interest for the project and I felt compelled to continue digging. Using the Internet, I found an indistinct image of Hardesty’s headstone. I could barely make out the inscription, so I was grateful that there was a caption beneath the photo. His regiment and rank were listed on the headstone, as was the date of his death in an inconclusive skirmish at Wapping Heights.
Hardesty was the only Civil War combatant killed in battle and then buried in Thorndale. Unlike most of the gravestones in Thorndale, no cross was incised on the stone, and the wording was also out of the ordinary: “The beauty of Israel is slain upon the high places.” Could Hardesty have converted to Judaism? There was no record of this anywhere, and even after sifting through his sister’s voluminous letters, I could find nothing to support this speculation.
The headstone was raised, according to cemetery records, with funds provided by “an anonymous friend.” Who was this friend? Could it have been Hardesty’s lover? Was his lover Jewish, I wondered? Or did the quote simply refer to a warrior killed in battle?
The scene carved on the headstone was quite worn. Thorndale, unfortunately, had been subjected to vandalism over the course of the years, and this stone was a favorite target. I continued my search and tracked down a local company engaged in the manufacture of headstones. Ciavoli Memorial Company had been in business for over one hundred and seventy-five years. Since the company was so close to my home in D.C., I decided to investigate, personally, whether they were involved with the creation of Hardesty’s headstone.
Discussion with the present-day owner provided me with an exciting piece of information: the actual sketch of the engraving on the tombstone. Ciavoli’s great-greatgrandfather had kept the sketch because he admired the artwork. Ciavoli agreed to meet with me at his family business on a Monday when it was closed to the public.
I approached the locked door and rang the bell, feeling like a pizza deliveryman waiting to get his money and tip and leave. A high tenor voice responded to my call and, when I announced my name, Ciavoli buzzed me inside.
Blank headstones, waiting for the next dearly departed’s name to be engraved, lined one side of the showroom. A fine layer of dust covered the furnishings and iced the photo albums lying upon a counter.
“Use the gate on the right and go straight to the back after you hear the buzzer.”
Once more, a disembodied voice directed me onward. I walked toward a slightly ajar door and entered a workroom. In the rear, a man sat on a plain, wooden bench with his back to me. A sleeveless, black T-shirt strained across broad shoulders, flecked on top with dust from a stone cherub, and dust covered the floor around Ciavoli while he carved into a small marble block. As I watched the play of heavily developed muscles in his upper arms, I felt my cock stir.
“Be with you in a second. I like to use Mondays to do some custom work for people who want stones other than the mechanically produced ones we turn out nowadays. Find yourself a seat.”
I was more than happy to relax and observe this craftsman work, enjoying the beauty of his movements as he did so.
After several minutes, he set down his chisel and stretched his arms above his head. Christ, the ripple of his muscles was mesmerizing. H
e turned and smiled, revealing blazing white teeth in a tanned face. He looked like the picture I had seen at my grandmother’s house of Perry Como, a popular singer from the fifties -- wavy black hair, brown eyes, and utterly desirable. He rose from his seat and came toward me, hand outstretched. When he shook my hand, he held it for just a few seconds too long, and I knew he knew what I was feeling.
I got right to the point and asked him about the headstone sketch.
Once again, that dazzling smile.
“I have it here in the back office. My great-great-grandfather kept it with some of his other original work. Come on. I’ll show it to you.” I followed him to a small office crammed with old filing cabinets and a stand designed to hold artwork flat. A large drafting table filled up almost the entire center of the space. A framed picture of a curly-haired man with a handlebar moustache hung on the wall above a battered, wooden desk. Ciavoli gestured to it.
“Umberto Ciavoli, my great-great-grandfather. I’m named after him, but you can call me Bert.” He grinned again, a dimple appearing in each cheek. “I probably wouldn’t come if you called me Umberto.”
He was wrong.
He relinquished the sketch soon after he discovered how good it felt to hear his name whispered as my mouth sucked and released his cock. “Ummmm-berto.”
I often wondered if, afterward, he asked other lovers to use his birth name when they were down on their knees?
* * * * * I waited until I returned home to examine the sketch more closely. The sketch was in pencil on brown butcher paper. The dimensions were true to size and measured three feet by two feet. The drawing was quite good and depicted a low-rising hill, a stand of cypress trees in the upper left hand corner, and a sun casting out stylized rays in the background. In the foreground, two male figures were garbed in Biblical garments. One figure supported the other in his arms, in a pose reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Pieta. The inscription was beneath the picture and below that, a faint, tiny signature in the lower right-hand corner. With the aid of a magnifying glass, I made out the name, Aaron deMonde, and the date of 1863.
Had I found the missing vigilant soldier?
I carefully put away the sketch, determined to learn all I could about Hardesty’s anonymous friend.
* * * * * Through archived newspaper and magazine articles, I learned that Aaron had become one of the most promising young baritones in France, performing at the Paris Opera and touring throughout Europe and France as a concert artist. In 1856, at the height of his career, he disappeared.
Had he met Hardesty at one of his performances, fallen in love, and left Europe? Among the evidence I unearthed was a faded, hand-tinted daguerreotype of deMonde. Unfortunately, his features were quite blurred. He must have moved slightly. It showed him leaning against a marble pillar in the stilted poses so popular during the nineteenth century. His manner of dress reflected the epitome of sartorial splendor. Displayed on his trim form was a fancy silk vest, decorated with an elaborate pattern and buttons. His frock coat had a wide, velvet collar and turned up sleeves. A soft, silk ascot was tied beneath a firm jaw. On his right hand, an ornate ring graced his long, supple index finger. I couldn’t tell the design of the ring.
I wished I could discern his features. And I still lacked the most crucial answer to my question: were Hardesty and deMonde lovers? Then a gift fell into my hands. My contact at the Florida State University library found an early family picture of the Hardesty family. Taken circa 1850, it was a typical stiff portrait of Hardesty’s father, mother, sister, and a young Matthew, approximately fifteen years old. One could see from whom he received his good looks. His features reflected his mother’s. A straight nose, square jaw -- softened in his mother’s face -- wavy, blond hair above a high brow, and a slight smile with a small dimple revealed a wide difference between the siblings.
Unfortunately, Susan took after their father. A handsome man with a strong Roman nose, piercing eyes, and dark, straight hair, his features, repeated in Susan’s small, feminine face, looked overly large. Could she have resented her younger brother’s appearance? After examining the daguerreotype more closely, I noticed that both he and Susan had their hands on their mother’s shoulders, as she sat between their standing poses. Their faces were turned toward each other’s just slightly. Susan was also smiling, and this smile lightened her features. At least when they were younger, there seemed to be affection between them.
I wondered how he had looked at age twenty-one when he set off for Europe? Then I hit a roadblock digging up any further pertinent information about Hardesty and deMonde. There were no descendents of either one. Hardesty’s last living relative had died several years ago and there was no further reference at all of Hardesty in the family history other than those few lines in his sister’s letters. I tried to find mention of Hardesty in letters from other soldiers and officers with whom he may have come in contact, but could find nothing.
Except for a brief reference in a local collection of folktales and legends, everything was word of mouth. The author of the collection was no longer living, and since the sightings only occurred every twenty years, interest had waned regarding this bit of paranormal activity. If my calculations were correct, this year marked the twentieth anniversary since the last occurrence. I had no idea why the specter had a twenty-year repeat pattern. Most likely, he was a residual apparition, doomed to repeat his actions over and over. Whatever the reason, the next step of the investigation was obvious.
I had to see for myself what would happen on Memorial Day night.
Chapter One Sunset came fairly late -- at 8:28 p.m., to be precise. I had two motion-activated infrared cameras, one to be placed on the headstone, one at the foot of the grave assuring pictures from two different angles. Also among my equipment were a Tri-Field ElectroMagnetic Frequency Detector and a voice-activated recorder to pick up any unusual aural phenomena. Armed with permission from the cemetery officials and my laptop, I should have been ready for tonight’s vigil.
I arrived early enough to set up my equipment and conduct a preliminary baseline reading to ensure that everything was in working order. Then I settled down on a small tarp with my laptop and a Thermos filled with coffee, black as pitch and just as bitter. Although a fine mist drifted in the twilight, I wasn’t too concerned. Weather reports showed no indication of rain, and I was comfortable enough in my all-weather jacket. I didn’t really expect to see, hear, or record anything. As I sipped the steaming, hot coffee, my thoughts wandered. Sepia-toned images of deMonde and Hardesty intruded on my concentration. DeMonde’s tanned limbs entwined with Hardesty’s fair-skinned ones. DeMonde’s pliant fingers caressed Hardesty’s face and neck, slid down his body along its muscles as he paused to suck his nipples. DeMonde kneading his flesh. Cupping his penis. The golden glow of gas lamps gilding Hardesty’s fair skin. When he bent to take deMonde’s cock into his mouth, I envisioned his wavy hair slipping against deMonde’s thighs.
I could hear their sighs and groans as they pleasured each other. I could almost smell the scent of sex in the air as their bodies moved against each other. I shared their accelerating heartbeats. I wanted to be there with them in their bed, feeling silk sheets against me. Feeling their lips on me. DeMonde’s velvet baritone murmured to us. His accented words became even more arousing as he switched to French. I was pressed between their hair-roughened chests. DeMonde’s cock nudged my ass, and his hands fondled my sac, cupping them, playing with them. Hardesty…I imagined Hardesty’s face as he must have looked at twenty-one. As his face drew closer to mine to kiss me, he smiled, the same smile in the photo, and the dimple peeked at me.
I wanted to kiss that dimple.
As his face overwhelmed my sight, I drifted off to sleep.
* * * * *
“Get up, damn you! Do you wish to drown?” A rough, angry, accented voice growled in my ear. A strong hand gripped the sodden hank of hair on my head and pulled. Hard. I opened my eyes to a torrential downpour, high winds, and an inky black
night.
“I said, get up! Merde! Do you wish to wallow in the mud like a pig?” A voluminous ebony slicker flapped in the wind like the wings of a bat, enveloping the figure bending above me. The faint backlight from the street lamp did nothing to reveal his features, hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. A raw, wet gust of wind blew in my face, and I came fully awake.
“Christ! What the hell is going on?”
“A rain storm, obviously. Grab your laptop and come with me.”
“Wait! The rest of my equipment!” An irritable snarl erupted from my reluctant rescuer, but he scooped up the camera at the foot of the grave and shoved it inside one of the slicker’s deep pockets. I grabbed up everything else, dumped it into my equipment bag and stood up.
Or at least, tried to.
The wind, increasing in strength, knocked me to my knees into the slick mud. His two powerful hands lifted me to my feet, tossed the equipment bag over one broad shoulder, and he dragged me into his arms. I felt his warm breath for only a moment as he shifted the bag to his other shoulder and shrugged off the right side of his coat. He draped it around me, barking out another command.
“Put your arm around my waist and hold on tight. We need to leave. Now!”
Insanely, I remembered the Thermos, still remaining at the grave.
“I left my Therm --”
“Enough! I will buy you a dozen Thermoses. These lazy fools have not trimmed the trees here for years. A falling branch could kill you! Vite!” We scrambled toward the gate. Each time I stumbled, he hauled me back up. At last, we reached the arched iron opening and the deserted street. I caught my breath while the stranger glanced up and down the wet pavement. A torrent created by the deluge roared by us in the road. The wind slashed our faces, trying to peel the skin off.
He bit out his words. “Where is your car? Give me your keys.” I responded to him automatically. The keys left my left pocket as I handed them over without a murmur. I nodded toward the right, and once more, he dragged me onward. At this point, I can’t say why I let him control me. I’m certainly no lightweight, and my sense of self-preservation is by no means lacking. But somehow, I felt so secure in his embrace I didn’t try to escape.
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