🎭Week at a Glance🎭: 4/13/26 - 4/19/26

Monday's Memorial Moment: Cigars in the Parlor by Shane Michaels

March Book of the Month: Be My Monster by Davidson King

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: In Pursuit of  . . . by Courtney Milan

📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Horse Soldiers by Harold Sinclair

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Unmentionables by David Greene

Sunday's Short Stack: Embers of the Revolution by Cameron Black

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Unmentionables by David Greene

Unmentionables #1

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

All to Pieces #2

Summary:

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

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. 

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Unmentionables #1

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📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Horse Soldiers by Harold Sinclair

Summary:
This novel is a fictionalized account of one of the most daring cavalry raids of all time. Set during the American Civil War, it vividly brings to life `Grierson's Raid', - the seventeen-day raid by a Union brigade through the heart of Confederate Mississippi. Conscious of the huge odds against them; exhausted, hungry and with a deepening sense of impending doom hanging over them as the enemy gathered forces on all sides, the Union soldiers rode south. Despite this, however, the raid was a triumph and dealt a staggering blow to the enemy. Harold Sinclair's novel brings vividly to life the human drama of this extraordinary episode and conveys superbly the tragedy of a civil war and a nation tearing itself apart.

A Union cavalry officer leads his men on a vital mission behind Confederate lines.

Release Date: June 12, 1959
Release Time: 120 minutes

Director: John Ford

Cast:
John Wayne as Colonel John Marlowe
William Holden as Major Henry 'Hank' Kendall
Constance Towers as Miss Hannah Hunter of Greenbriar
Althea Gibson as Lukey
Judson Pratt as Sergeant Major Kirby
Ken Curtis as Cpl. Wilkie
Willis Bouchey as Col. Phil Secord
Bing Russell as Dunker
O.Z. Whitehead as Otis 'Hoppy' Hopkins
Hank Worden as Deacon Clump
Chuck Hayward as Union captain
Denver Pyle as Jackie Jo (rebel deserter)
Strother Martin as Virgil (rebel deserter)
Basil Ruysdael as the Reverend (Jefferson Military Academy)
Carleton Young as Col. Jonathan Miles, CSA
William Leslie as Maj. Richard Gray
William Henry as Confederate lieutenant
Walter Reed as Union officer
Anna Lee as Mrs. Buford
William Forrest as Gen. Steve Hurlburt
Ron Hagerthy as Bugler
Russell Simpson as Acting Sheriff Henry Goodbody
Hoot Gibson as Sgt. Brown
Jack Pennick as Sgt. Maj.Mitch Mitchell (uncredited)

Harold Sinclair
Harold Sinclair was born on May 8, 1907 in Chicago, Illinois. When he was about 8 years old he was sent, along with his sister, to stay with an aunt and uncle in Bloomington, Illinois. As a teenager he worked for the Western Union telegraph company. He dropped out of school, moved to Florida and later returned to Chicago and finally back home to Bloomington. He played in Jazz Clubs and followed a Bohemian lifestyle.

While working for a hardware store he wrote his first book, The Journey Home (1936). The book impressed an editor at Doubleday who offered Sinclair a four book contract.

His next three books, The American Years (1938), The Years of Growth (1940) and the Years of Illusion (1941) chronicle the history of the imaginary town of Everton, Illinois, from the 1830s to the 1920s. The history and characters in the trilogy were based on the history of the City of Bloomington.

In 1940 he publish, Westward the Tide, an account of the Illinois campaign of George Rogers Clark during the Revolutionary War.

More books followed; The Port of New Orleans (1942), Music of Dixie (1952), and a book commissioned by the Bloomington newspaper, The Daily Pantagraph telling the history of the newspaper, Daily Pantagraph 1846-1946 (1976). He also published several short stories, articles and book reviews.

The Horse Soldiers (1956) was a fictionalized account of Illinois Colonel Benjamin Grierson’s daring raid through Mississippi during the Civil War. This book became a bestseller and is best known as the inspiration of the John Ford/John Wayne movie The Horses Soldiers (1959).

His final novel, The Cavalryman (1958), was a sequel to Horse Soldiers. It was not well received by critics or readers. The book was optioned for a possible television series. That project did not come to fruition.

Sinclair died on May 24, 1966.

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Monday's Memorial Moment: Cigars in the Parlor by Shane Michaels

Summary:

When Kit Walker’s leg is shattered at the Battle of Manassas, he finds himself on Doctor Wallace Sanger’s operating table. Wallace saves his life but removes his leg. As his wounds mend, the two men find more than comfort as they explore each other's hidden desires.

From the battlefields of Manassas, Virginia, to the Union prison in Elmira, New York, author Shane Michaels explores the hidden world of men loving men during the American Civil War. In this erotic tale of lust, love, and sacrifice, two men find solace in each other’s arms - and other's arms - as they are caught between the splintered world of the Union and the Confederacy.

Explicit dark romance for men who love men. This novel was previously released on Amazon in a serialized format. This version is the complete novel.

Original Review April 2021:

Cigars in the Parlor has been on my Kindle for a few years and just kept getting buried but I finally had a chance to read it.  I've never read this author before, which can always be a bit of a scary thing for some but for me it just adds to the adrenaline rush of discovery and possibilities.  I wasn't disappointed.  Cigars is a lovely blend of reality and fiction with the perfect balance of drama and sexy times.  It's easy to feel for Kit and his new found reality after losing his leg and the pull between him and Wallace, the doctor who saved his life, is believable and entertaining. As a historical lover it is always important when authors use little details to keep the era real, or as real as possible for dramatic fiction.  I'm not looking for a history lesson but those realistic elements help to not only set a scene but also sucks the reader into the story.  For those who don't think about LGBT in history terms, it's stories like Cigars in the Parlor that can open eyes and even though it's fiction it can pique a readers fascination and lead them to discover the truths of the era, I know that was one of the things that made me a history lover when I was in junior high.  As I hit the last page I was entertained and that is what is important, making this a worthwhile read.

RATING:

1. AFTER MANASSAS 

The storefront was hot. Dr. Wallace Sanger had been working all day, the pile of limbs growing with every soldier that was brought into the room. It was a senseless war. He grew angrier with every stroke of the saw – so many men in their prime hobbled before they had even lived. Dr. Sanger didn’t understand why Lincoln was insistent on keeping Virginia in the Union. Every one of the poor souls on his table had been chasing some inane vision of the South that they did not really understand. Freedom. Slavery. States Rights. Self-determination. These words meant very little when there was a bone-saw your hand. 

Two soldiers brought in one last patient on a stretcher, placing him on the operating table. 

“Doc… I don’t want to lose my leg. Please.” 

The man was clearly in great pain. His head was warm and he was covered in sweat. Fever coursed through him. 

“It’s infected. You’ll die if I don’t.” 

Wallace looked at his patient wearily. He noticed the man’s deep blue eyes. “What’s your name?” 

“Kit… Kit Walker.” 

“I’m Doctor Wallace Sanger.”

The man was shaking. Wallace spoke in a low voice. “I wish we could have met under different circumstances,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to do this but it’s for the best.” 

“Doc, please.” 

“You do want to live don’t you?” 

Kit said nothing. 

Wallace and Kit were about the same age. If he had not gone to the university, the doctor realized that it might have been him on that table. Wallace studied the soldier. Kit seemed familiar, like an old friend. Wallace guessed that he had once been quite handsome – but it was clear that his body had been ravaged by cold nights in tents and meager rations. Only his beard showed signs of life - bushy and red. 

Wallace cut the hem of Kit’s trousers and then ripped the fabric up the length of his leg, revealing gangrene already above the knee. Kit had been shot, his bone shattered. Wallace removed the filthy bandage and examined the limb closely. He needed to cut above the knee instead of below. He picked up the bottle of chloroform. “Is this all we have left?” 

Kit had fear in his eyes as he stared at the brown bottle. 

His nurse answered him, “Yes. I asked them to bring more but they said that’s all we’ve got.”

Wallace nodded. “Kit, I’m going to put you under to do this. I don’t want you to worry. We’re going to take good care of you. You’re going to live. I promise. Hear me?” 

“What happens to my leg?” Kit asked. 

“We bury it with the rest of them. Now, just lean back and close your eyes.” 

Kit sobbed gently. His life was about to change, but at least he could leave the war. Wallace took a clean piece of cotton and turned the bottle upside down over it until it was saturated. He took the rag and held it over Kit’s face until the man was unconscious. 

Wallace had a routine now. He had learned to do the job quickly before the men awoke. He knew to leave a flap of extra skin. He would cut through the muscle until he found the bone and then use strong, firm strokes to saw it in two. He sweated as he did this, the nurse wiping his brow. It took less than a minute to separate the flesh from its owner, tossing the heavy limb onto a table next to him with a thud. One of the soldiers picked it up and took it outside as the nurse helped him to stop the bleeding. He sewed quickly until the flap of skin was neatly sealed over the wound. She helped him dress the stump with clean cotton and a compression bandage to control the bleeding. 

“Take him into the church,” Wallace said, motioning to the soldiers. 

They picked up the stretcher and carried Kit out the front door of the storefront, across the street, up the steps of the church, and into the nave of the church where he was laid on a cot among the dozens of other men.

Wallace took a deep breath. When he went to medical school, he thought he would be dealing with old men having cases of gout and young women having their first child. He never dreamed his first year after medical school would be spent in the fields of Virginia sawing the limbs off young men. He was happy to be away from the warfront, working in town where bullets did not fly. As difficult as it was, it seemed much kinder here. 

The nurse had filled a pan with water for him to wash; the blood on his hands immediately stained it red. His apron was covered with many men’s blood; he carefully undid the knot at his back, folded his apron, and placed it on the table. He took the pan and threw the water outside into the street and then poured fresh more to wash his face. He hated to walk into the church covered in blood; his patients needed to forget what they had lost. 

He went outside into the street. He could already hear men wailing in agony inside the church. He pulled his pocket watch out and looked at the time; he was starving but knew he had to make his rounds first. There was much to do. 

Wallace walked up the steps into the church where row after row of men lay on cots. He proceeded to visit one and then the next, stopping to see if any infections had taken hold. The room was crowded and the air still. Women from town fretted to and fro, wiping one man’s brow, feeding another, emptying a bed pan. Each nodded as the doctor passed. 

Wallace noticed Kit lying on a cot in the last row, under a stained glass window of Adam reaching out to God. Kit was beginning wake, looking about the room groggily. The light shone on his face, his hair glowing like a bonfire. Wallace was compelled to sit with him. 

“Shhh… Kit. You’re okay. Just lie still,” he said. 

Kit’s eyes opened. 

A woman walked by. “Nurse, this man needs morphine.” 

“We don’t have any,” she said, “We don’t have much of anything left.” 

Wallace could tell Kit was overwhelmed by the pain. He took his hand. “I know it hurts. I’m here for you. Just like I promised.” 

Kit looked up at the man. Dr. Sanger was tall and handsome. His face was silhouetted in the light; Kit thought he might have some Cherokee in him, his hair thick and black and his jaw strong. The light poured over the doctor, shining through the thin cotton shirt he wore, damp with sweat. 

As the chloroform wore off, the pain grew worse. Wallace wiped Kit’s brow. 

“There now, squeeze my hand when it gets bad.” 

* * * * *

Wallace was exhausted but he sat with Kit for hours. He had so many patients that day, but Kit called to him. When Kit finally fell asleep, the room was dark, lit only by candles hung on the wall. A few nurses still shuffled about. 

“Doctor, shouldn’t you go home?” a nurse asked, “You’ve been here for hours.” 

Wallace nodded his head. His new friend was finally asleep. He got up from his stool and made the walk through town back to his room.

Betsy Marple was renting him a room in her home. She was two year’s a widow – and he suspected that she was trying to find a second husband. He was terrified that he had given her the wrong impression – that he was smitten with her. “Where have you been?” she said as he entered, “I was worried about you.” 

“I had a very bad day. There were so many today.” 

Betsy had saved dinner for him. It sat on the table, covered with a napkin. “Here. Eat something,” she said, “You need your strength.” 

Wallace did as she asked. The beef was cold but filling. 

“Just leave the plate. I’ll get it in the morning,” she said. 

Betsy went up to her room. He quickly finished eating and pulled himself up the stairs to his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He found a handkerchief and put it on the nightstand. His clothes stank and he threw them to the floor before blowing out the lamp. The room was too hot; the mattress, hard. He was tired but could not sleep. 

He saw Kit as he closed his eyes. He imagined what the man had looked like before the war started – his muscles strong, his smile full of white teeth, and his red hair full and clean. He was certain that Kit had been quite popular with the ladies – and maybe the men. It had been so long since he held another man. 

A year earlier the doctor might have exchanged glances with Kit on the street. They would have chatted about the weather and asked each other if they were courting a lady. One would have said no; the other, likewise. They would have laughed and looked at each other, stealing glances until their glances coincided and melted together into a single pool of acknowledgement. 

Kit’s eyes flashed again. Wallace felt his cock grow hard. He imagined himself running his hands along Kit’s strong chest, feeling muscle beneath his fingers, silky smooth. Kit would pull him close, pushing his head onto his nipple. 

Wallace wrapped his hand around his cock as he imagined finding Kit standing in an alley with him, the two pawing at each other like animals. The doctor would fall to his knees, his pants getting stained on the filthy cobblestone. Next, he would unbutton Kit’s fly, freeing the soldier’s cock and the tangle of his red bush. He would nibble at it gently, teasing him, until the man could take no more. Kit would grab his head and shove his cock deep into Wallace’s mouth. Wallace imagined the saltiness of it, his hands wrapped around Kit. He would pull the soldier’s pants down and feel the hard muscles of his calves and the soft fur of his ass. 

Wallace imagined all this, jacking his cock with urgency. He needed release. 

He pictured Kit standing there, continuing to pound away at his mouth. Kit would moan softly as he came. Wallace increased his pace, his eyes closed, picturing the fantasy in his head, until he felt the world wash over him. He felt his own warm cum pulse onto his chest and his mouth. 

He sat there motionless, covered in sweat as his breathing slowed. He stared at the blank ceiling. Finally, Wallace reached for the handkerchief and wiped his skin clean. Only then did he realize how long it had been since he had climaxed.

Wallace cringed when he realized the source of his fantasy – the man whose leg he had dismembered hours earlier. As he fell asleep, he wondered what would happen to this beautiful man.

Shane Michaels

With a passion for untold history, Shane Michaels looks for details that hint at the hidden lives of gay men in days past. Though he now lives in a remote community in the northeast, his roots are in the South. His first erotic romance, 'Cigars in the Parlor', delves into life in Virginia during the American Civil War. The story tells of a doctor and soldier that fall in love under tragic circumstances. His second novella, 'TransAlaska' tells of a trans-woman who falls for a hunky gold-miner in rural Alaska in the 1990s. His 2023 release of 'The Milkman', tells the story of two men trying to find love in a small town during the lavender scare of the 1950s. ‘Kushtaka’ is the story of two desperate goldminers finding love during the Yukon Goldrush while enduring a jealous ghost. Shane has also published a number of short stories.

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