Summary:
Winner of the Book of the Year Bronze Medal for Gay Literary Fiction
Unmentionables tells a powerful and poignant story set against the turbulent backdrop of the American Civil War. It follows two couples whose lives and loves challenge the boundaries of race, class, and societal norms: a wealthy, white, straight couple and a Black, enslaved gay couple..
Jimmy, a field hand, gradually develops a deep fascination—and ultimately romantic love—for Cato, a house servant on a nearby plantation. Their relationship explores themes of forbidden love, resilience, and hope amidst unimaginable hardship.
Praise for Unmentionables:
"One of the best novels of the year for any grown-up—a truly life-affirming read." — Kindle Nation Daily
"Superb gay historical fiction with a contemporary relevance. An enlightening exploration of the hidden aspects of our past. Five stars." — Foreword Clarion Review
"A moving and profound novel that shows how love can triumph over cruelty, even in the harshest conditions. The characters are beautifully crafted, their emotions genuine and compelling. An emotionally resonant and redemptive story, with richly detailed minor characters that breathe life into every page." — IndieReader
Love knows no boundaries—even in a nation divided by war.
1862: As the Civil War tears America apart, a different battle rages for Jimmy and Cato—one of survival, sacrifice, and undying devotion.
When Jimmy is violently abducted from the relative safety of Chicago by the notorious slave-catcher Horace Hogan, he finds himself sold into bondage in Confederate Georgia. His new "owners"—an eccentric brother and sister with unconventional motives—have plans that extend far beyond mere ownership.
Meanwhile, Cato makes the unthinkable choice to venture deep into enemy territory, risking his own freedom and life on a desperate mission to find the man he loves. With every step into the heart of the Confederacy, the perils mount and discovery means certain doom.
All to Pieces weaves a tapestry of historical drama, forbidden romance, and high-stakes adventure that will captivate readers from the first page to the last.
Note: This is the second installment in the critically acclaimed Unmentionables series and contains spoilers for Book 1.
Praise for the Unmentionables Series:
"A masterful blend of historical accuracy and emotional resonance."
Unmentionables #1
Chapter 1
Sammy Speaks
“Stop your fussing, Ella,” Wally said.
“Just swat a fly, mama.”
“Must be the sugar. They smell that sugar you spilled on your dress. Now you’ll have no end of flies.”
The sugar was for a bowl of raspberries that Wally picked from a bramble. The raspberries were in a new bowl she bought in town with her Sunday money. Slaves were not obliged to work on the Sabbath, but if they did, it was the custom to remunerate them with modest pay. Over the years, Wally had devoted most of her Sunday money to the purchase of wooden bowls, which she prized especially because they did not break if someone should drop one.
Ella settled back with the bowl, and pondered whether to eat one berry at a time and make them last or just …. She stopped, and turned toward the sound of a horse’s hooves behind her. Mr. Holland maneuvered the buggy into the yard from Christmasville Road, towing a clapboard utility wagon. He whistled to Willis to come unhitch Maple. Ella and Wally went to see what Mr. Holland had in the wagon. There in the back, wrapped in a gray blanket, was a small dark boy, a stranger.
Wally was the first to speak, “Well I’ll be ….”
Willis ran up alongside Maple and took the rein from Mr. Holland’s hand. He looked at the boy in the back. “And who’s that you brought along here?” he asked.
The boy clutched the blanket around his shoulders. He turned and shot a glance at Wally, Ella and Willis, who stood around the wagon to inspect him. He turned his eyes away and stared straight ahead at a spot where no one stood. For a moment no one spoke. Leaves rustled from a light breeze in the courtyard.
“This is Samuel,” said Mr. Holland at last. “Boy of five years old. Regrettably, the boy’s mother passed away in June. So his people sent him up to Memphis with traders. And when I got into town, I ….”
He stopped. Aroused by the sound of the buggy, Mrs. Holland had come out of the big house with Sarah and Dorothy. They walked quickly toward the wagon. From the other direction, Jimmy strode out of the slave cabin and joined the group. In the twilight, Mrs. Holland squinted at the boy bundled in a blanket.
“George, what in the world …?” Her hand waved.
“I was just saying,” said Mr. Holland, “that this boy is named Samuel. His mother passed away in June and ….” He paused, trying to anticipate his wife’s reaction as he considered his words.
George Holland’s wife wore a pale blue dress with lace trim, which she often wore in the evenings, but which was nevertheless insufficient for the cool night air. She put one hand around her bare shoulder, and the other firmly on the wagon’s sideboard. She scanned the wagon’s contents. “George, did you purchase this …?”
“Yes, Henrietta, the boy was put in the charge of two gentlemen who happened to bring him into the dry goods store where I was transacting business. They said he was a most obedient and right-acting lad at an especially low price … I ….” He turned to the boy. “Look at him, my dear.” He swung an upturned hand toward the boy as if he were presenting the Prince of Wales. “I thought he’d be fine with Wally and Jake.” He looked around the group. “We need to think of the future,” he said.
Mrs. Holland stared at the blanketed boy in the back of the wagon, who continued to look straight ahead, as if he couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. His wide eyes were two chestnuts set sunny side up in a face like dark chocolate. No one dared speak. The entire assembly waited to see if Mrs. Holland would be angry or not. The boy turned for a moment, bravely flashed his bug-eyes at her, and quickly turned back.
“Oh Lord help us,” said Mrs. Holland. “I hope he won’t be much bother. I hope he’s quiet.” She shivered, rapped her knuckles on the side of the wagon and turned to walk back toward the house.
Mr. Holland clambered out of the wagon to follow her. “Yes, yes,” he said. “He’s been as quiet as a mouse for two days. You’ll see, my dear, a good investment at a bargain price. The child cost but a trifle, Henrietta.”
The master and mistress disappeared into the house. Dorothy and the assembled slaves pressed in on the wagon, while the boy sat inside, not moving.
For a moment, no one was sure what to do. Willis led Maple away toward the barn. Wally reached into the unhitched wagon and put her hand on the boy's shoulder, “How d’ye do, young Sammy,” she attempted a formal tone. “Welcome to our house.” The boy didn’t move. “Looks like you’re going to live here now.” She rubbed his head. “We’re going to be your people.”
Wally shook her head as the weight of this realization sank in. She clasped her hands together as if she were about to pray. The boy sucked in a breath and craned his head back to look up at the sky. His chestnut eyes rolled around, searching for stars, some of which twinkled faintly in the evening twilight.
Wally unclasped her hands and climbed into the wagon. She was a slim, strong woman. She was short, but when she stood up straight in the wagon next to Sammy and looked up at the October sky she seemed tall. Wally surveyed the group around her. “OK now,” she said.
She knelt and took hold of the boy by both his arms. “They call me Wally,” she said. She looked at Dorothy, who was craning to see over the side of the wagon, bouncing on her tiptoes. “And down here is Miss Dorothy, Massa Holland’s daughter. And there on Miss Dorothy’s right is Sarah, the cook. Her husband, Willis, is the man who took the horse to the barn. Sarah and Willis live with the Hollands up in the house and they are the house servants.”
The boy cocked his head but did not speak.
“And over here on Miss Dorothy’s left is my Ella.” Wally pointed at Ella, who still held the bowl of raspberries in her hand. “And this here,” she pointed at a tall, crow-black boy with a bright orange rag tied around his head, “is my son, Jimmy. I reckon Ella and Jimmy are going to be your new sister and brother.”
Jimmy stuck out his hand and held it in front of the boy’s face. “Hey, brother,” he said.
Sammy closed his eyes, then opened them and looked around the group. He saw that Jimmy was holding his hand out and that he was supposed to shake it. He looked at the orange head rag on Jimmy’s head, and then into Jimmy’s eyes.
“It’s OK, brother,” Jimmy said. “We gonna look after you. You gonna be all right now.”
But Sammy closed his eyes again, pulled his arms out of Wally’s grip, took the blanket from around his shoulders, raised it over his head, and pulled it down until he disappeared beneath it.
“Poor child,” said Wally. “What a sorrowful time he’s had!” She put her hand over her mouth for a moment, then let it drop. “Oh I guess ….” She looked around the yard trying to think what to do next. “I guess we better take him in the cabin.”
Jimmy climbed into the wagon, scooped the boy up, holding him with one arm, and gently tugged the blanket off his head with his free hand. “I’m gonna take you in the house now, Mr. Sammy,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about nothing or say nothing.” Jimmy hopped to the ground with the boy in his arms and led the way toward a cabin across the yard from the Hollands’ house. The whole group, including Willis, who had returned from the barn, filed in a procession to the slave cabin where Wally, Ella and Jimmy lived with old Jake.
Inside, Jake snored in his wooden bed. It was unusual for a slave to have a wooden bed, but Jake had belonged to George Holland’s father, Walter, who in his lifetime was a furniture maker in North Carolina. Walter, when he died, bequeathed Jake not only the bed, but also a wooden table and three good chairs, which sat in the center of Jake and Wally’s cabin. Walter also bequeathed Jake himself to his son, George Holland, which, though not unexpected, had ended Jake’s unspoken hope that he might someday be set free.
Jake, as was his custom, had gone to bed early. But when the procession streamed into the room, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Jake, what do you think? We got us a new member of the family,” Wally said. “Massa Holland done bought this child up in Memphis on account of his mama passed away and his people sent him up to the traders in Memphis.”
Jimmy held the bundled boy aloft and sat him down slowly on the side of Jake’s bed as evidence of Wally’s truthfulness.
Wally sat on the bed, too, and once again took the boy’s hands. “Sammy, this is Jake. When Jake was a boy, just like you, the traders got him in Africa. Them traders brought him over to North Carolina. Jake was the first ever slave of Massa Holland’s father. Back in Africa his name was Juba, so we call him Juba Jake.”
Juba Jake glanced at the child’s face. He bowed his head remembering his first encounter with the new world. He reached out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and closed his eyes. For a moment his eyelids trembled. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the boy tenderly. “Ain’t nothing I can say to make it better—but you gonna be better by and by.” Jake coughed to clear his throat. “You got to know you lucky to come here now. Massa Holland’s a good one, ’bout as good as can be, I suppose.” As he spoke, Jake realized Dorothy was standing in the group, along with the others. But he continued, “And we all had our lot thrown in here together and you got to know we gonna look after you. You gonna get by, child.” Jake looked up at Wally. “Is Massa Holland fixing to have him live here?”
“Yes, that’s what he said. He said, ‘He’ll be fine with Wally and Jake.’”
* * *
The next morning Jimmy and Ella gave Sammy a tour of the farm. Sammy held Jimmy’s hand.
“We live in the first cabin,” said Jimmy. “In the next cabin is Daniel, Jefferson, Little Andrew and Solomon.”
“One, two, three, four,” said Ella. “Four men.”
“They’re all field hands,” said Jimmy, “like me.”
“Me too,” said Ella.
“Nah, you don’t work in no field, Ella.” Jimmy turned to Sammy. “Ella is the water girl. That means she brings the water out to us when we’re working in the field.”
“Yup, I bring the water,” Ella said, “but nobody works today ’cause it’s Sunday.”
“Right,” said Jimmy. “And here in the last cabin we got Luke, Big Andrew, Paymore and John Henry.”
“John Henry has two names,” said Ella, “but he’s just one man. Little Andrew and Big Andrew are two men. Big Andrew ain’t really so big. But Little Andrew is short, so since he’s littler than Big Andrew, we call him Little Andrew.”
Sammy stared at the unadorned clapboard cabins, which seemed small to house so many men. He looked back at Jimmy and Ella, but said nothing.
“I don’t think he’s ever going to talk,” said Ella.
“He don’t need to. You talk enough for both of you.”
“I ain’t either.”
Jimmy continued. “Over in the big house is where Sarah and Willis live. They live behind the kitchen. Then upstairs is Massa Holland and Mrs. Holland.”
“And Dorothy,” Ella said.
They had come to the barn, a large painted wood building with a chicken coop attached to one of the exterior walls. Inside the barn were two horses, seven mules and a milk cow. On the right side of the barn were ten stalls, one for each animal. The first two stalls held the horses; then came a slightly larger stall for the cow, with room for a stool and assorted pails. Then came the smaller stalls of the mules. Bales of hay sat stacked like giant loaves of bread along the opposite wall with pitchforks stuck in two of the loaves.
They stepped inside. The smell of animals and hay was pungent. Jimmy led them to the horses’ stalls. “Little brother, this is the horse that drove you in last night.” said Jimmy. “Her name is Maple. And the dark horse, his name is Walnut.”
Sammy nodded, but still did not speak.
Ella tugged them on to the next stall. “This is the cow,” said Ella, “Her name’s Basheba.”
“Bathsheba,” Jimmy corrected, “Bathsheba is the milk cow.” Then he pointed at the mules’ stalls. “Massa Holland named the mules like a music scale. They’re names are ‘do,’ ‘re,’ ‘mi,’ ‘fa,’ ‘sol,’ ‘la,’ and ‘ti ’ I can’t say for sure which one is which, but Paymore knows each one by name. He says we got a pack of musical mules.”
A chicken waddled in through the open barn door. Ella pointed at it and giggled. “Jimmy, don’t forget rooster.”
Jimmy smiled. “Oh yeah, we got one rooster and we call him George Junior.”
“Cause even before it’s daytime,” said Ella, “George Junior, he wakes everyone up and Massa Holland’s name is George and so you can’t say nothing about it, cause Massa Holland don’t know about it.”
“He won’t say nothing,” said Jimmy.
Sammy tugged out of Jimmy’s hand and went to stare at Bathsheba more closely.
“I don’t think he ever saw a cow before,” said Ella.
“Could be there weren’t no cows where he lived,” Jimmy said. “Someday maybe he’ll tell us where he comes from.” He took the boy’s hand again. “But don’t worry, little brother; you don’t have to talk about it today.”
There were three short barks out in the yard. In through the open barn door ran a medium sized yellow dog with floppy ears just shorter than a rabbit’s. The dog’s tail wagged furiously as it rushed up to Ella.
“Venus!” Ella exclaimed.
Sammy clung to Jimmy’s hand, but Jimmy beckoned the dog over to them.
“Come on, Venus. Come over here; meet our new brother.” The dog approached Sammy with its mouth open in a silly grin. Sammy tentatively put one hand out. The dog sniffed it, and Sammy pulled away. “She won’t hurt you,” said Jimmy. “She’s a real nice dog.”
Sammy let go of Jimmy and leaned toward the dog. His eyes widened. With both hands, he brushed the dog’s back. The dog turned to lick one of Sammy’s hands. Sammy’s eyes lit up. He looked up at Jimmy. Jimmy nodded.
“Venus,” Sammy said.
Instantly Ella ran out through the barn door and down the line of cabins to the first one in the row. She burst into the room where Wally was scrubbing the table.
“He talked!” Ella shouted. “Sammy said Venus!”
All to Pieces #2
Chapter 1
“They both have the soup!”
“Young man!”
The elderly woman seated at the restaurant table wore a buckram-brim hat covered with chenille braid, crowned by periwinkle silk. As Cato approached, she untied the bow beneath her chin. Cato was dressed in a black waistcoat, white shirt, black bow tie, and a crisp white apron—a uniform meant to mimic the look of a waiter in a Parisian cafe.
“My sister and I”—the woman pointed across the table at her sibling—”have just arrived in Chicago this afternoon.”
Cato nodded. “Excellent, madam. Where did you come from?”
“Cincinnati.”
“How was your journey?”
“Most tiresome. The roads are terrible. There were so many interruptions.” She threw up a gloved hand. “The war, you know. There were Confederate soldiers, then Union soldiers, so much confusion ….” Her voice trailed off.
Cato frowned. “I imagine it was difficult.” Then he brightened. “But I hope you will enjoy your stay here at The Sherman House.”
“I intend to do just that,” the woman said. “Now then, I’m told that in this hotel every provision has been made for the convenience of ladies.”
“Yes,” Cato said, though his look betrayed his bewilderment. “Is there something in particular .…?”
“I hope that this restaurant contains a room d’toilette that is specially apportioned to the use of ladies.”
“Yes,” Cato said. “We do have a rest room for ladies.” He smiled. “The finest that civilization can offer.”
“Young man, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-two, madam.”
“Well then, I daresay you’re far too young to know what civilization may or may not offer. Nevertheless, would you direct me to its location?”
“Madam, you’ll find the ladies’ room located just there.” He pointed to the back of the room. “Through that passageway flanked by green drapery.”
“Very good,” she said. “I shall pay that room a visit in due time. Now, what have you on offer today?”
“Madam, we have oyster soup to start.”
“I’ll have that,” the second woman said, before Cato could continue.
The first woman glanced at her sister with annoyance, then said, “I shall start with the soup as well. If you bring the soups, we’ll decide on the rest later.”
“Very good, ladies.”
Cato hurried off to the kitchen. When he came back out he saw a well-dressed young man, not much older than himself, standing near the green drapery at the back of the room beneath the sign that read “Gentlemen.”
The young man waved his hand in summons. Cato nodded and approached him.
“I’d like to speak to you,” the man said. “If you have a moment.”
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
The man took Cato’s arm and pulled him back toward the Gentlemen’s room. “In private,” he said.
Cato resisted the man’s pull. “I’m sorry, sir. The staff is not permitted to use the Gentlemen’s rest room.”
The man looked around. “Is there somewhere else we can go? I have something confidential to tell you. It concerns your friend.”
“My friend?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know his name. A few months ago he told me that he was Miss Holland’s servant.”
“Miss Holland?” Cato was confused. The only man in Chicago who’d ever been Miss Holland’s servant was Jimmy. Miss Holland no longer regarded him as a servant, though he was legally still her father’s slave. Jimmy lived with Cato and worked as a stevedore on the docks at the Chicago River.
“There’s an alley behind the kitchen,” Cato said. “We can talk there.”
He led the stranger through the busy kitchen, past the aroma of roasting turkey and baking pot pies, and out a door into the alley.
“My name is Ames … Walter Ames,” the man began. “I work at D.B. Fisk, milliner. The shop is on Couch Place. Your friend came into our shop some months ago to buy a white ribbon for Miss Holland.”
Cato had heard this story. He was silent a moment, then he said, “My name is Cato. Jimmy told me about his visit to you.”
“Did he?” Mr. Ames seemed pleased by this. “Well, I remembered seeing him because he … Jimmy … is memorable in appearance.” He looked earnestly at Cato, as if to convey some deeper meaning.
Cato nodded as though he understood what Mr. Ames meant, but in truth he wasn’t at all sure.
“Back then,” Mr. Ames continued, “I thought … when Jimmy came in the shop … I thought that, perhaps, he was in some kind of trouble. He was out of breath. He seemed agitated.”
Jimmy had told Cato, months earlier, that he’d run into the hat shop to evade a gang of slave-catchers, and that, despite the awkward circumstances, he’d sensed something flirtatious in Mr. Ames’s behavior, which had surprised him.
Cato decided to be candid. “He was in trouble, Mr. Ames. He was fleeing slave-catchers. They chased him right to the door of your shop.”
Mr. Ames touched his hand to the side of his cheek. “Oh, then it’s true.” He reached out to take hold of Cato’s arm. “I’m afraid they’ve got him!”
“Got him?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Ames. “Just now. I was at the shop. I happened to be looking out the window. Those men, the slave-catchers—they ambushed him, Jimmy, right there on Couch Place, not thirty minutes ago. They had pistols. They forced him into a wagon. I’m sorry.”
A look of dread spread across Cato’s face. He couldn’t speak.
“I didn’t dare confront them,” Ames continued. “They had weapons.” He clasped his hands together. “But I recognized Jimmy, as I said, from our previous encounter. And I knew that he and you, that you and he .…” Mr. Ames stopped, unsure how to broach the delicate subject. “I’ve seen you both on the street together. And then I knew where to find you, since I’ve seen you here at the restaurant several times. You waited on me once.”
Cato nodded in Mr. Ames’s direction, but he was no longer seeing him. His mind reeled with a vision of the pistols aimed at Jimmy.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Mr. Ames continued. “I thought of getting the police, but as I was unsure of your friend’s status .… I mean his legal status.” He raised his eyebrow meaningfully. “I thought the best I might do is come to you, to let you know.”
“You were right, Mr. Ames, to come to me.” Cato wobbled and took hold of Ames’s shoulder to steady himself. “Where did they take him?”
“They forced him to lie down on the bottom of their wagon. Then they covered him with sacks—bags of feed, you know, for horses. And then they drove off. They went south on Wabash. I couldn’t see them after that. I came here immediately.”
“I must find them.” Cato dropped to his knees. “How can this have happened?” He knelt for a moment, his hands covering his face. Then he lowered his hands and looked up and down the alley, as if he might see the wagon in question.
Ames helped Cato stand back up. “They’ll probably take him back to the South,” Ames said. “For the reward.”
“Oh, no. That’s not possible. There’ll be no reward.” Cato shook his head. “That’s all done with now.” He gestured wildly. “His owner, Dorothy Holland, she’s here! It’s all changed.” His voice cracked. “There’s no point in any of it!” There were tears on his cheeks.
“But they must think they can get money,” Ames said. “That’s what slave-catchers do.”
Cato used his apron to wipe his eyes. He stared at Ames, trying to focus. “You say they put him in a wagon. What did the wagon look like?”
“It was plain—a plain wooden wagon.”
“There must be something.” Cato’s mind raced. “There must be some way.” He turned and leaned against the building. He rubbed his forehead as he thought. Then he looked back up. “You said they covered him with bags?”
“Yes. With feed bags. To hide him.”
“Do you remember the feed bags? Did they have a label?”
Mr. Ames reached into his memory. “Yes.” He closed his eyes, trying to picture it. “The bags had a name on them. They were from … Pilkington.”
“Pilkington,” Cato repeated. He knew the name. “Pilkington & Doyle! It’s a boarding stable. It’s a block from where we live. I must go there.”
“Do you think they’ll know these men?”
“They must!” Cato turned to go back in the restaurant. “Will you come with me, Mr. Ames?”
Ames nodded. “Yes, of course—if I can help.”
Cato put his hand on the restaurant door, but didn’t open it. “I have money. Gold coins. From a gentleman. A lot of money. I can give you a reward.”
Ames shook his head. “No. You must not think of it.” He looked at Cato kindly. “I am .…” His eyes went wide with meaning. “I am … a friend.”
Cato nodded. “I’ll give the money to the kidnappers, then. That’s all they want. I must find them.” He opened the door to the kitchen and was blasted by the sound of dishes clattering as they dropped into a tub of running water. He turned back to Ames. “Wait for me,” he said. Then he rushed into the room and called to the dishwasher.
“George!” he shouted. “I have to leave. Something’s happened to Jimmy. You’ll have to take my place!”
George came out from behind a sink. “You’re leaving? What’s happened?”
“I don’t have time to tell you. Take over for me.” He looked at the food already plated by the cooks. “There,” he said, pointing. “That’s for the two old ladies at table three. They both have the soup!” And with that, he tore off his apron, tossed it to George, and dashed out the door and into the street, where he took the arm of Mr. Walter Ames.
David Greene writes missing pieces of LGBTQ+ history in fiction, telling stories that the gatekeepers of the past ignored, denied, or suppressed.
David has also reimagined some of his favorite narratives with gay characters: James M Cain’s Double Indemnity, Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest and Saboteur, and Noel Coward’s Blythe Spirit. These stories were reinvented as the Elliot Blake novels, the thriller Detonate, and the stage play, Design for Spirits.
David Greene is married to James Stephens, a painter and art conservator.
Unmentionables #1
All to Pieces #2
Unmentionables Series
