🌈🌻🌼📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🌼🌻🌈: Spartacus by Howard Fast

Summary:

Spartacus, a fictionalization of a slave revolt in ancient Rome in 71 BC, is well known today because of the 1960 movie starring Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier. It was originally published in 1951 by Fast himself, after being turned down by every mainstream publisher of the day because of Fast's blacklisting for his Communist Party sympathies. The story of Spartacus, born a slave, trained as a gladiator, who led a slave revolt that was eventually put down by Crassus, was immensely popular, and went on to sell millions of copies. The reprinting of this title in the North Castle series brings back into print a book that many regard as a classic.

PART ONE 

How Caius Crassus journeyed along the highroad from Rome to Capua, in the month of May.

It is recorded that as early as the middle of the month of March, the highroad from the Eternal City, Rome, to the somewhat smaller but hardly less lovely town of Capua, was opened to public travel once again; but this is not to say that traffic upon this road immediately reverted to normal. For that matter, during the past four years no road in the Republic had known the peaceful and prosperous flow of commerce and person which was to be expected of a Roman road. More or less of disturbance had been encountered everywhere, and it would not be incorrect to say that the road between Rome and Capua had become symbolic of this disturbance. It was well said that as the roads go, so does Rome go; if the roads know peace and prosperity, so does the city know it.

The news was posted around the city that any free citizen having business in Capua might travel there to transact it, but for the time being travel for pleasure to that lovely resort was not encouraged. However, as time passed and sweet and gentle springtime settled down over the land of Italy, restrictions were lifted, and once again the fine buildings and splendid scenery of Capua called to the Romans.

In addition to the natural attractions of the Campania countryside, those who enjoyed fine perfume yet balked at inflated prices, found profit as well as pleasure in Capua. There were situated the great perfume factories, unequaled in the whole world; and to Capua were shipped the rare essences and oils from all over the earth, exotic and exquisite scents, Egyptian oil of roses, the essence of the lilies of Sheba, the poppies of Galilee, the oil of ambergris and of the rind of lemon and orange, the leaf of sage and mint, rose-wood and sandal-wood, and so forth and so on almost without end. Perfume at Capua could be purchased at less than half the price asked in Rome, and when one considers the growing popularity of scents in that time, for men as well as for women—and the necessity for them as well—one can understand that a trip to Capua for that, if for no other reason, might well be undertaken.

 

II

The road was opened in March, and two months later, in the middle of May, Caius Crassus and his sister, Helena, and her friend, Claudia Marius, set off to spend a week with relatives in Capua. They left Rome on the morning of a bright, clear and cool day, a perfect day for travel, all of them young and bright-eyed and full of delight in the trip and in the adventures which would certainly befall them. Caius Crassus, a young man of twenty-five, whose dark hair fell in abundant and soft ringlets and whose regular features had given him a reputation for good looks as well as good birth, rode a beautiful white Arabian horse, a birthday present from his father the year before, and the two girls travelled in open litters. Each litter was carried by four slaves who were road-broken and who could do ten miles at a smooth run without resting. They planned to spend five days on the road, putting up each evening at the country villa of a friend or relative, and this way, by easy and pleasant stages, to come to Capua. They knew before they started that the road was tokened with punishment, but they didn’t think it would be enough to disturb them. As a matter of fact, the girls were quite excited by the descriptions they had heard, and as for Caius, he always had a pleasant and somewhat sensuous reaction to such things, and he was also proud of his stomach and of the fact that such sights did not inordinately disturb him.

“After all,” he reasoned with the girls, “it is better to look at a crucifix than to be on one.”

“We shall look straight ahead,” Helena said.

She was better looking than Claudia who was blond but listless, pale skin and pale eyes and an air of fatigue which she nurtured. Her body was full and attractive, but Caius found her rather stupid and wondered what his sister saw in her—a problem he was determined to solve on this trip. He had several times before resolved to seduce his sister’s friend, and always the resolution had broken down before her listless disinterest, a disinterest not specific in terms of himself, but general. She was bored, and Caius was certain that only her boredom prevented her from being utterly boring. His sister was something else. His sister excited him in a fashion that troubled him; she was as tall as he, very similar to him in appearance—better looking if anything, and considered beautiful by men who were not fended away by her purpose and strength. His sister excited him, and he was conscious that in planning this trip to Capua, he hoped for some resolution of this excitement. His sister and Claudia made an odd but satisfying combination, and Caius looked forward to rewarding incidents on the journey.

A few miles outside of Rome, the tokens of punishment began. There was a place where the road crossed a little wasteland of rock and sand, a few acres in extent, and the person in charge of the exhibit had, with an eye for effect, chosen this particular spot for the first crucifix. The cross had been cut out of fresh new wood, pitch-bleeding pine, and since the ground fell away behind it, it stood stark and bare and angular against the morning sky, so huge and impressive—over-large, since it was the first—that one hardly noticed the naked body of the man who hung upon it. It stood slightly askew, as is so often the case with the top-heavy crucifix, and this added to its bizarre, demi-human quality. Caius drew up his horse, and then walked the animal toward the crucifix; and with a little flick of her courtesy quirt, Helena ordered the litter-slaves to follow.

“May we rest, oh mistress, oh mistress?” whispered the pace setter of Helena’s litter, when they came to a halt before the crucifix. He was a Spaniard, and his Latin was broken and wary.

“Of course,” said Helena. She was only twenty-three, but already of strong opinion, as all the women of her family were, and she despised senseless cruelty toward animals, whether slave or beast. Then the litter-bearers gently lowered the carriages, squatting gratefully beside them.

A few yards in front of the crucifix, on a straw chair shaded by a small, patched awning, sat a fat, amiable man of distinction and poverty. His distinction was manifest in each of his several chins and in the dignity of his huge paunch, and his poverty, not unmixed with sloth, was plainly evident by his poor and dirty clothes, his grimy finger nails and his stubble of beard. His amiability was the easily worn mask of the professional politician; and one could see at a glance that for years he had scavenged the Forum and the Senate and the wards as well. Here he was now, the last step before he became a beggar with only a mat in some Roman lodging house; yet his voice rolled out with the robust quackery of a barker at a fair. These were the fortunes of war, as he made plain to them. Some choose the right party with uncanny facility. He had always chosen the wrong one, and it was no use saying that essentially they were both the same. This is where it brought him, but better men fared less well.

“You will forgive me for not rising, my gentle sir and my gentle ladies, but the heart—the heart.” He put his hand on the great paunch in the general area. “I see you are out early, and early you should be out, since that is the time for travel. Capua?”

“Capua,” said Caius.

“Capua indeed—a lovely city, a beautiful city, a fair city, a veritable gem of a city. To visit relatives, no doubt?”

“No doubt,” answered Caius. The girls were smiling. He was amiable; he was a great clown. His dignity slipped away. Better to be a clown for these young people. Caius realized that there was money involved somewhere in these proceedings, but he didn’t mind. For one thing, he had never been denied money sufficient for all his needs or whims, and for another, he desired to impress the girls with his worldliness, and how better than through this worldly fat clown of a man?

“You see me a guide, a story teller, a small purveyor of bits of punishment and justice. Yet does a judge do more? The station is different, yet better to accept a denarius and the shame that goes with it than to beg—”

The girls couldn’t keep their eyes from the dead man who hung from the crucifix. He was directly above them now, and they kept darting glances at his naked, sun-blackened, bird-torn body. The crows swooped around him tentatively. The flies crawled on his skin. As he hung, his body leaning out and away from the cross, he seemed always to be falling, always in motion, a grotesque motion of the dead. His head hung forward, and his long, sandy hair covered what horror might have been in his face.

Caius gave the fat man a coin; the thanks was no more than what was due. The bearers squatted silently, never glancing at the crucifix, eyes on the ground; roadbroken they were, and well trained.

“This one is symbolic, so as to speak,” said the fat man. “Mistress mine, do not regard it as human or horrible. Rome gives and Rome takes, and more or less, the punishment fits the crime. This one stands alone and calls your attention to what will follow. Between here and Capua, do you know how many?”

They knew, but they waited for him to say it. There was a precision about this fat, jovial man who introduced them to what was unspeakable. He was proof that it was not unspeakable but ordinary and natural. He would give them an exact figure. It might not be right, but it would be precise.

“Six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two,” he said.

A few of the litter-bearers stirred. They were not resting, they were rigid. If anyone had regarded them, they would have noticed that. But no one regarded them.

“Six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two,” the fat man repeated. Caius made the right remark. “That much timber,” Caius said. Helena knew it was a fraud, but the fat man nodded appreciatively. Now they were en rapport. The fat man extracted a cane from the folds of his gown and gestured at the crucifix.

“That one—merely a token. A token of a token, so as to speak.”

Claudia giggled nervously.

“Nevertheless of interest and of importance. Set apart with reason. Reason is Rome and Rome is reasonable.” He was fond of maxims.

“Is that Spartacus?” Claudia asked foolishly, but the fat man found patience for her. The way he licked his lips proved that his paternal attitude was not unmixed with emotion, and Caius thought,

“The lecherous old beast.”

“Hardly Spartacus, my dear.”

“His body was never found,” Caius said impatiently.

“Cut to pieces,” the fat man said pompously. “Cut to pieces, my dear child. Tender minds for such dreadful thoughts, but that’s the truth of it—”

Claudia shuddered, but deliciously, and Caius saw a light in her eyes he had never noticed before. “Beware of superficial judgments,” his father had once said to him, and while his father had weightier matters in mind than estimation of women, it held. Claudia had never looked at him as she looked at the fat man now; and he continued,

“—the simple truth of it. And now they say Spartacus never existed. Hah! Do I exist? Do you exist? Are there or are there not six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two corpses hanging from crucifixes between here and Capua along the Appian Way? Are there or are there not? There are indeed. And let-me ask you another question, my young folk—why so many? A token of punishment is a token of punishment. But why six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two?”

“The dogs deserved it,” Helena answered quietly.

“Did they?” The fat man raised a sophisticated brow. He was a man of the world, he made plain to them, and if they were higher in station, they were younger enough in years to be impressed. “Perhaps they did, but why butcher so much meat if one can’t eat it? I’ll tell you. Keeps the price up. Stabilizes things. And most of all, decides some very delicate questions of ownership. There you have the answer in a nutshell. Now this one here—” gesturing with his cane, “—have a good look at him. Fairtrax, the Gaul, most important, most important. A close man to Spartacus, yes, indeed, and I watched him die. Sitting right here, I watched him die. It took four days. Strong as an ox. My, oh my, you would never believe such strength. Never believe it at all. I have my chair here from Sextus, of the Third Ward. You know him? A gentleman—a very great gentleman, and well disposed toward me. You’d be surprised how many people came out to watch, and it was something well worth watching. Not that I could charge them a proper fee—but people give if you give them something in return. Fair measure for fair measure. I took the trouble to inform myself. You’d be surprised what profound ignorance there is here and there about, concerning the wars of Spartacus. Now see here, this young lady, she asks me, is that one Spartacus? A natural question, but wouldn’t it be exceedingly unnatural if it was so. You gentle ones live a sheltered life, very sheltered, otherwise the young lady would have known that Spartacus was cut up so that not hair nor hide of him was ever found. Quite different with this one—he was taken. Cut up a little, true—see here—”

With his cane, he traced a long scar on the side of the body above him.

“Number of scars—and most interesting. Side or front. None in the back. You don’t want to stress such details for the rabble, but I can tell you as a matter of fact—”

The litter-bearers were watching him now and listening, their eyes gleaming out of their long, matted hair.

“—that these were the best soldiers that ever walked on Italian soil. Bears thinking about, something like that. Come back to our friend up here. Took four days for him to die, and it would have taken a good deal longer if they hadn’t opened a vein and bled him a bit. Now you may not know that, but you got to do it when you put them on the cross. Either you bleed them or they swell up like a bloater. And if you bleed them properly, then they dry properly and they can hang up there for maybe a month with no more offense than a little bit of smell. Just like curing a piece of meat, and you want plenty of sunshine to help it along. Now this was a fierce one, all right, defiant, proud—but he lost it. First day, he hung up there and cursed out every decent citizen who came along to watch. Frightful, foul language; you wouldn’t want any ladies around to hear such language. Comes of no breeding, and a slave is a slave, but I bore him no ill will. Here I was and there he was, and now and then I’d say to him, Your misfortune is my fortune, and while yours may not be the most comfortable way to die, mine is by no means the most comfortable way to earn a living. And precious little I’ll earn, you keep up that kind of talk. Didn’t seem to move him much, one way or another, but toward evening of the second day, he closed up. Clammed up, tight as a trap. Do you know what was the last thing he said?”

“What?” whispered Claudia.

“I will return and I will be millions. Just that. Fanciful, isn’t it?

“What did he mean?” Caius wondered. In spite of himself, the fat man had woven a spell over him.

“Now what did he mean, young sir? I have no more idea than you have, and he never spoke again either. I poked him up a little the next day, but he never said a word, just looked at me out of those bloodshot eyes of his, looked at me like he could kill me, but he wasn’t for killing anything else. So you see, my dear,” addressing Claudia again, “he wasn’t Spartacus, but was one of his lieutenants and a hard man. Close to Spartacus, but not so hard. That was a hard one, was Spartacus, hard indeed. You would not like to meet him along this highroad and never will neither, for he’s dead and rotting. Now what else would you like to know?”

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Caius said, regretting the denarius now. “We must be on our way.”

The slave Spartacus survives brutal training as a gladiator and leads a violent revolt against the decadent Roman Republic, as the ambitious Crassus seeks to gain power by crushing the uprising.

Release Date: October 6, 1960

Release Time: 197 minutes

Director: Stanley Kubrick

Cast:

Kirk Douglas as Spartacus

Laurence Olivier as Crassus

Jean Simmons as Varinia

Charles Laughton as Gracchus

Peter Ustinov as Batiatus

John Gavin as Julius Caesar

Nina Foch as Helena Glabrus

John Ireland as Crixus

Herbert Lom as Tigranes Levantus

John Dall as Marcus Publius Glabrus

Charles McGraw as Marcellus

Joanna Barnes as Claudia Marius

Harold J. Stone as David

Woody Strode as Draba

Peter Brocco as Ramon

Paul Lambert as Gannicus

Robert J. Wilke as Guard Captain

Nicholas Dennis as Dionysius

John Hoyt as Caius

Frederic Worlock as Laelius

Tony Curtis as Antoninus

Awards:

33rd Academy Awards - April 17, 1961

Best Supporting Actor - Peter Ustinov - Won

Best Art Direction–Color - Alexander Golitzen, Eric Orbom, Russell A. Gausman and Julia Heron - Won

Best Cinematography–Color - Russell Metty - Won

Best Costume Design–Color - Arlington Valles and Bill Thomas - Won

Best Film Editing - Robert Lawrence - Nominated

Best Music Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture - Alex North - Nominated

14th BAFTAs - 1961

Best Film - Stanley Kubrick - Nominated

18th Golden Globes - March 16, 1961

Best Motion Picture–Drama - Won

Best Actor in a Motion Picture–Drama - Laurence Olivier - Nominated

Best Supporting Actor–Motion Picture - Woody Strode - Nominated

Best Supporting Actor–Motion Picture - Peter Ustinov - Nominated

Best Director–Motion Picture - Stanley Kubrick - Nominated

Best Original Score–Motion Picture - Alex North - Nominated

AFIs 100 Years . . . 

100 Thrills (2001) - #62

100 Heroes and Villains (2003) - Spartacus - #22 Hero

100 Cheers (2006) - #44

100 Movies (10th Anniversary Edition) (2007) - #81

AFI's 10 Top 10 (2008) - #5 Epic Film

Notes:

From Wikipedia:

Among the deleted footage was a bath scene in which the Roman patrician and general Crassus attempts to seduce his slave Antoninus, speaking about the analogy of "eating oysters" and "eating snails" to express his opinion that sexual preference is a matter of taste rather than morality. The four-minute scene had been removed following an objection by the National Legion of Decency. When the film was restored (two years after Olivier's death), the original dialogue recording of this scene was missing; it had to be redubbed. Tony Curtis, by then 66, was able to re-record his part, but Crassus' voice was an impersonation of Olivier by Anthony Hopkins.

Howard Fast

Howard Fast (1914–2003) was one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century. He was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. The son of immigrants, Fast grew up in New York City and published his first novel upon finishing high school in 1933. In 1950, his refusal to provide the United States Congress with a list of possible Communist associates earned him a three-month prison sentence. During his incarceration, Fast wrote one of his best-known novels, Spartacus (1951). Throughout his long career, Fast matched his commitment to championing social justice in his writing with a deft, lively storytelling style.

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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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All to Pieces #2

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⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: Rebels at Heart by Kate McMurray

Summary:
Charles Foxworth is among New York City’s most fashionable men, though he is only pretending to be a dashing British aristocrat. Still, he is content with his role and has little interest in the war. His companion, Isaac Ward, has more invested in the coming conflict; Isaac was born a slave, and though he is now free, that freedom could be guaranteed if he chose to pick up arms. Then war arrives on the shores of the city and Charles’s idyll is over. He quickly realizes that the war could take from him the very thing he holds most dear: Isaac.

Re-Read Review April 2021:

I'm really not going to add too much to my original review from 2017, everything I said then is spot on now too.  If I were to add anything it would only be that Charles and Isaac sucked me into their journey even more so than 4 years ago, so much so that I'm not sure why I initially gave it only 4 bookmarks because Rebels at Heart is a 5 easily.  I use to take off for shorter stories and novellas so perhaps that is why, but whatever the reason was then, now it is clearly and most emphatically a full 5.  

If you follow my reviews you will have long since noticed how much I love historicals and certain eras more than others.  Unfortunately, there is just not enough set during and around the American Revolution for my liking and so when I find one, it goes on my TBR List.  Kate McMurray not only tells an amazing yarn in Rebels but she has also created a re-readable for me that I can safely say won't be 4 years before I visit Charles and Isaac again, they might not make my annual re-reads but it won't take 4 years to come back either.  Definitely a win-win on all fronts: historical, romance, drama, friendship, and chock full of heart.

RATING:

Original Review August 2017:

Rebels at Heart ticked all my historical and romance boxes.  On the surface Charles is the poster boy for those who benefited by supporting the continuation of living under British rule but as we all know its not all about what one lets people see.  Isaac is one who would benefit the most by serving with the rebels, his current freedom would be guaranteed.  Charles and Isaac are so much more than the aristocrat and servant they show to the world and I absolutely loved their connection, it was real and honest even though no one else could ever be allowed to see it.  Rebels at Heart is a lovely novella that makes a wonderful quick read, not because there is little substance or the number of pages but because Charles and Isaac touched my heart and I couldn't wait to find out where Kate McMurray took them.  Sometimes it takes the threat of losing something or someone to make one jump into action and realize where you were meant to be all along.  Rebels is one of those tales where the story is not in knowing where it ends in general but the journey the readers are taken on as the characters arrive at said ending. A great little addition to my historical shelf.

RATING:

“Pink, Mr. Foxworth?”

Charles looked down at his frock coat, carefully chosen for its fine weave and the pattern of embroidered irises climbing the edges of the lapels. The color was bright, yes, but didn’t strike him as being especially noteworthy, particularly in comparison to the rest of his wardrobe. Besides, ‘pink’ was such a pedestrian descriptor. The color was more like that of a rose at twilight.

“What of it?” Charles asked.

Isaac raised an eyebrow. “This color is a bit ostentatious, even for you. Last week’s ruffles were one thing, but—”

“I’ll have you know, Monsieur du Rochelle ordered this fabric especially for me from a little shop in London.”

“Yes, but perhaps we could limit ourselves to one affectation at a time. The coat is lovely, but paired with those breeches and the striped stockings, it is all a bit much, no?”

“It is perfect.”

Isaac let out an exasperated breath. He tugged on the lapels of the coat, forcing it to fit tightly across Charles’s shoulders.

“You are perhaps the worst valet a man ever had,” Charles said. “I should punish you for such insubordination.”

Isaac smoothed his hands down the front of the coat. “But you won’t.”

“Perhaps not.”

Isaac smiled slowly. “You seem to forget sometimes that I am not actually your servant.”

Charles smiled back. “You will never let me forget.”

Isaac took a step back and ran his gaze up and down Charles, as if he were admiring his own artwork. “You seem to forget, too, that we are at war. Perhaps a bit of austerity is in order.”

Charles waved his hand. “Austerity? Bah. Nay, the toll of war is perhaps an even greater reason to celebrate life. Do you not agree?”

Isaac did look skeptical, although he’d always dressed modestly. Presently, he wore a faded red waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and Charles knew he’d don the dull blue frock coat before they went outside. His clothes were usually plain, woolen things in somber colors. Isaac’s long, dark hair was pulled back from his smooth, brown face and tied with a simple black ribbon at the base of his neck; he never wore wigs or hair powder. He never wore any sort of ornamentation, save occasionally buckles on his shoes. And even now, he stared at Charles with those startling blue eyes of his and that seemed ornamentation enough.

“Do you think me excessive?” Charles asked, turning toward the mirror. “’Tis merely a dinner party at Colonel Bradon’s house I’m forced to attend. I suppose I could wear the green coat. Or the dark red one.”

Isaac gave Charles a half-smile. “You look fine, Mr. Foxworth.”

“You do think me foolish, though, I suspect.” Charles waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. I shall go attend the soirée as my old ridiculous self, and all the ladies will wonder why I have not yet succumbed to the charms of matrimony, because isn’t my new coat just dear, and oh, you know how it is, sweet lady, I merely have yet to find the right woman to warm my heart.”

Isaac looked on while Charles nattered on with a frown on his face. “Charles, I know—”

“Oh, pish, ’tis fine for you to stand there frowning. You do not have to converse with these people.”

Isaac rolled his eyes and stepped forward. He ran his hands over Charles’s shoulders one last time, smoothing out any stray wrinkles or imperfections in the new coat. Charles relished the touch, the warmth of Isaac’s palms, even through all the fancy fabric. Charles liked the affectations, the fine clothes, the carefully cultivated mannerisms, but he liked being naked with Isaac as well, perhaps more so.

He ducked his head and pressed his lips against Isaac’s. Isaac sighed into his mouth and snaked those warm hands up the back of his neck to the edge of his wig.

Isaac pulled back. “I wish to run my fingers through your hair. Without the wig.”

“I know, darling. I wish that, too, but Colonel Bradon and obligation call.”

“You look fine, as always. A bit like a peacock, perhaps, but devastating in your charms, and so very handsome.”

Charles smiled. “Thank you, dearest Isaac. I do appreciate a compliment. You are looking quite rugged today. Perhaps you are a mere beaver hat away from throwing that musket over your shoulder and marching off to war without me.”

“I swore I would not.”

“Yes. I am glad for it. I know not quite what I would do without you.”

Isaac stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. “You would have to put on your peacock-colored clothes all on your own, I expect.”

“Where would the joy be in that?”

“Indeed.”

Charles tugged on his coat and examined himself in the mirror. He looked passable. A bit tired. Perhaps the rose-colored coat was making his skin look a bit sallow. It was too late to worry about that, however, because he would be late if he dallied any longer.

No matter that he would rather spend the evening with Isaac than with Colonel Bradon and his band of merry Loyalists, even with the new coat.

Kate McMurray
Kate McMurray writes smart romantic fiction. She likes creating stories that are brainy, funny, and of course sexy, with regular guy characters and urban sensibilities. She advocates for romance stories by and for everyone. When she's not writing, she edits textbooks, watches baseball, plays violin, crafts things out of yarn, and wears a lot of cute dresses. She's active in Romance Writers of America, serving for two years on the board of Rainbow Romance Writers, the LGBT romance chapter, and three--including two as president--on the board of the New York City chapter. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with two cats and too many books.

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