Confederate Gold Ch. 05

The light coming through the bay window in the captain's cabin at the stern of the Helena was eerie, as often is the case as dawn creeps in, but it was more peculiar than that. Clouds were scudding across the sky in ominous, dark formations, and the sea was unusually choppy. The captain said that this often was this way as the ship neared the Jamaica coast, and who was Eaton to question that?

The cabin was dark, but not so dark that the captain couldn't clearly be seen. He stood, naked in his stolid hairiness and pot belly, across the cabin beside the table fixed to the cabin wall where the ewer of wine was that he now was imbibing from while he scratched his low-hanging hairy balls and looked lustfully at Eaton. Eaton, also naked, lay on his back on the bed pushed into the windowed bow of the fantail, his young, trim body lit up by the eerie light coming through the window, his legs bent and spread, as they had been through much of the night, as the randy, muscular ship's captain fucked him again and again.

The captain was obviously trying to get as much cocking in of the young man working off his passage and that of Charles Singleton as he could. The ship was due to dock in Kingston later in the day, sometime after dawn.

The captain was stroking his thick, half-hard cock while he swigged wine and watched Eaton fondling his own cock as Captain Huddleston had bade him do. The ship had increasingly been lurching and rocking all night as they approached the Jamaica coast. The pitching had been bad enough that it had kept Eaton confined to the bed, which was of no import, because the captain would not have let Eaton out of his bed this night in any event. On previous nights during the voyage, the captain had covered and held Eaton's body close to his in a powerful grip, mounted him in slow, relentless stretching of Eaton's channel with a particularly thick staff, fucked him slowly at great length to an ejaculation, and then turned over and went into a snoring sleep. Not tonight, though. Oblivious to the obvious building of a nasty storm, Huddleston had concentrated on getting every ounce of sexual pleasure he could get from Eaton's body on his last night of access to the young quadroon whore.

He had mercilessly ridden Eaton's ass to the young man's near exhaustion, a chore that had engaged the captain's total attention. Even now, when he himself, despite his long years at sea, was having trouble keeping his balance on the pitching deck, all of his attention was arrested by the beautiful young body in his bed, Eaton's hand on his own cock, and the sight of the wide-bored hole that the captain simply had to fill one more time.

Huddleston lurched over to the bed, grabbed Eaton's ankles, wishboning the young man's legs wide as he pulled Eaton to him, Eaton's buttocks resting on the edge of the foot of the bed. Eaton arched his back, scrabbled at the bedding with his fists for purchase, and groaned deeply, as the captain worked his thick cock inside him, once more stretching Eaton's channel walls to the maximum, coaxing them to open even more. Three hard thrusts and the captain was saddled deep inside Eaton and began to pump him with the aid of the lubricant of earlier deposits of cum.

They didn't speak. There was no reason to speak. Eaton was only there because he had a hole the captain's cock longed to fill. He was just a quadroon slave—former slave, but there was no reason for the captain to acknowledge the changed status as long as Eaton recognized one of the passengers as his master and the master was willing to hand Eaton over for the captain's pleasure. All the way down the Eastern Seaboard and into the Caribbean Eaton had appeared at the captain's cabin when summoned, stripped, laid on the bed, and opened his legs to the captain. The captain had mounted him and fucked him two or three times during the night, with Eaton leaving before dawn while the captain was still snoring away.

Eaton was writhing under the man's strongest, deepest, thickest onslaught of the night and the captain was nearing ejaculation, when someone started pounding on the door to the cabin and crying out, "Storm. Hurricane, Captain. The main mast is about to go!"

As the captain bounded away from Eaton and grabbed for his trousers, the sounds of the main mast, indeed, giving way could clearly be heard. What also was clear was that a hurricane had reached out to grab them and the captain had been too much taken with Eaton and the rest of the crew too drunk from the celebration of their last night at sea to have discerned the gathering storm and done anything to counter it—if, indeed, there had been anything they could have done at that point.

Eaton reached over the side of the bed for his trousers and pulled them on, knowing that he needed to help in doing something but having no idea what they might be. The captain had left the door of his cabin open when he'd rushed out, and the door was furiously banging back and forth, accentuating how severe the roll of the ship was. Eaton tried to stand up from the bed only immediately to be tossed back onto the covers.

Before he could make any other move, no matter how futile, the storm blew out the massive window above the bed in the bow of the ship, and Eaton was sucked out into the stormy sea.

* * * *

The first sensations Eaton became aware of as he was stretched out on the sand were the heat and something heavy being nosed off his torso. The latter sensation led him to think of a nose, as it was some sort of snorting beast with a wet nose. He tried to open his eyes, but the blinding light, which was producing the heat, made him close them again and build up strength to slit them open. It was a horse, and Eaton experienced the blurry sensation of a man coming off the horse and pulling the piece of wood the rest of the way off his body.

A hatch door from the Helena. That's what had been on top of him, protecting him from the red-hot rays of the sun baking the white sand Eaton was lying on. He had already figured out what it had been that had kept him afloat. And he remembered now that he'd watched the Helena breaking up in the hurricane. He didn't remember seeing anyone else in the water with him—no one holding onto a floating piece of wood as he had done.

"Are you all right?" The voice was a deep bass. Squinting his eyes, Eaton was able to bring the man into focus. His skin was a deep chocolate brown, and he was tall, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. His features weren't African, though; they were more European. A handsome devil. Dressed in fine, if serviceable, clothes—more as a master than as a slave.

"Here, sorry, let me feel for broken bones. Quite a hurricane. Did you come from land or sea?"

The man was feeling around on Eaton's arms and torso and then down his legs, on top of Eaton's trousers, which were all that he was wearing. The man's hands hesitated at the bump of the gold bars sown in just below Eaton's hips on either side, but he stopped there just a few seconds and then moved on. A hand brushed Eaton's crotch, and Eaton realized that he was going hard. He was looking into the man's crotch from where he was lying on his side and there was no doubt the man was hung—and hardening as well.

"Water," Eaton croaked.

"Yes, of course," the man said. He stood, took a water bag off the saddle of the horse, and crouched back down, putting a muscular arm under Eaton's neck, turning his body on his back, lifting his head, and putting the water skin Eaton's lips. "Slowly," he said. "Don't take too much. It will come back up. Good thing you were lying on your side. Any sea water came out rather than suffocating you. You came from the sea, didn't you?"

"Yes. The Helena. Bound for Jamaica from the Carolinas."

"Well, anything on the sea out there last night—anything that could have washed you up on the shore—is in the depths now. But you have reached Jamaica."

"Others? Have you seen—?" It came out in a moan, as the man had put the water skin down, had moved a large, brown hand around Eaton's pecs and down to rest on his lower belly. The man's crotch, still in plain sight to Eaton as the man crouched on his haunches, legs spread, was bulging even more than before. Eaton could clearly follow the line of a thick, long shaft nestled against the man's left thigh in his tight riding pants. Without a thought to what he was doing, Eaton raised a hand to the man's crotch, being awarded with a slight jerk. Eaton immediately moved to take his hand away, but the man covered Eaton's hand and held it against his crotch. He smiled down into Eaton's face.

The man lowered his lips to Eaton's and kissed him. He pulled right away, but they were staring into each other's eyes with so much mutual need that their lips met again and they kissed hungrily.

Eaton could feel the man going harder. His crotch was tenting as well. The man ran his hand under Eaton's waistband and slid his fingers into Eaton's pubic bush, two fingers running on either side of the root of the cock, the tips touching a ball on either side of Eaton's sac.

Eaton groaned, but he didn't pull away. Almost involuntarily he lifted his left hand to cup one of the man's buttocks cheeks.

The man spoke to him as if they weren't touching each other. "You're the only one I've seen along the beach. If you want to stay here and rest, I'll ride the beach and see if there's anyone else."

"Please don't leave me," Eaton whispered. "And please . . ."

"Please what?"

"I don't know; I'm not sure."

"Your ship was coming from the Carolinas? You're an American. You had family on the ship?"

"Just Mr. Singleton . . . my . . . my master."

"Your master? You were a slave? You have black blood in you?"

"Yes. I'm a slave."

"Not if you came from the United States," the man said. "The slaves there have been emancipated. And the Union has won. Just like we were emancipated here thirty years ago. You are a free man, son. Here you are completely free to do what you want. Is there something you want now, at this moment?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do know. And I think it's good that you have some black blood in you. How much?"

"I'm a quadroon, one quarter black."

"I'm a mulatto, half black, and because my father owned this land and because black men are free here, this is my land. I think it's good that you have black blood in you."

"Why?"

"Because I only fuck black men. Does it upset you that, when you've recovered, I want to fuck you?"

"No, not at all," Eaton answered breathlessly. With that, the man leaned down and took Eaton's lips with his with a possessive kiss again. Eaton didn't resist. Nor did he resist as the man unbuttoned the fly of Eaton's trousers and took possession of his cock. Eaton's experienced hands went to the buttons of the man's trousers and soon they were stroking each other—and eventually sucking each other off in a sixty-nine position.

"The house. We'll go to the house and get you cleaned up first and recovered enough to sheath me. You have had a man before, haven't you?"

"Yes, many men," Eaton answered. "Not many as big as you." Eaton was afraid that would make the man pull away from him, but it didn't.

"Then you must have time to rest, as I don't think I can be gentle with you."

"Nor would I want you to be. Not even now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm very sure."

The man didn't wait for further permission. He pulled Eaton's breeches off his legs and unbuttoned and flared the fly of his own riding pants. Moving between Eaton's thighs with his knees, he wrapped an arm around Eaton's waist and raised the young man's buttocks to him. With Eaton's torso streaming on the sand and his arms stretched out in welcome and surrender, Eaton's rescuer worked his hard, horse-hung cock inside Eaton's ass. Murmuring, "I'm not sure you can . . . fuck yes, you can take me," and started slowly to pump him. "Am I hurting you?" he asked, solicitously, after several moments.

"It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters at this moment. Don't stop. Fuck me so that I know I'm alive," Eaton murmured. And then, in a weaker voice, he added, "Fucking is all I'm good for."

"What was that?"

"Never mind. Just don't stop."

* * * *

Jas Graham—for that was what Eaton's rescuer's name was—announced that he was going to come again and then did so after slamming his cock inside Eaton three more times, hard, as he covered and was mounted on the young man's ass. Eaton was on all fours on the thick mattress of the four-poster bed. Jas rolled off the younger man, taking him with him and landing on his back without disengaging the long, thick cock he had jammed tight up Eaton's channel. Exhibiting his muscular power, he wove an arm in and under Eaton's armpit and then pressed the wrist of that hand into the back of Eaton's neck, holding Eaton's shoulder blades close into his pecs. His legs wound around Eaton's, his ankles gripping Eaton's ankles and spreading the younger man's legs wide and lifting them and Eaton's pelvis up. He continued stroking inside Eaton's channel with a still-hard cock and stroked Eaton to an ejaculation with his free hand.

It was the third time the chocolate giant with the European features had fucked and filled Eaton with cum that night. Graham had told Eaton he could rest for as many days as he needed before they fucked, but Eaton had come to him that first night, after being fed and sleeping nearly the entire day away. Graham had put him to sleep by, first, bathing him in a copper tub in the bedroom Eaton was taken to, and then massaging the young man's body and stroking off his cock before, exhausted and satiated, Eaton slept.

Earlier, after Jas had let Eaton stand there, on the beach, looking hopefully out to sea for a couple of hours, Jas helping to support Eaton on his wobbly feet, the two returned to Jas' plantation house on the horse, Graham holding Eaton close to him in the front of the saddle and Eaton able to feel the big black's cock pressing into the small of his back.

They passed through sugarcane fields in which not only blacks, but Asians and a few whites, as well, were working to cut and stack the cane. Eaton had never seen an Asian before.

"You have slaves? Some of them from another land?" Eaton asked nervously.

"There are no slaves in Jamaica—not for more than thirty years," Jas answered. "This is my plantation, but those workers work for wages. I provide them housing and sell them food cheaply, but they earn an hourly wage."

"So many aren't blacks," Eaton observed.

"This region was hard hit by what we call the Baptist War, or Christmas Rebellion, which was a massive slave rebellion thirty-five years ago. Some British plantation owners were killed, many in this area, but more slaves were killed before the British put the rebellion down. There weren't many blacks to return to the land and they were emancipated two years later and then many who had survived the rebellion didn't want to work the cane fields anymore. We had to bring in Chinese and Indian workers—from the other side of the world."

"We?"

"I was only seven upon emancipation, but my mother and I had already been given our freedom. My father, who was British, owned this plantation."

"And you inherited from him?"

"Yes, but not for many years later. My mother and I were emancipated in gratitude by my father right after the rebellion was put down. My mother hid him and fed him while the slaves rampaged. Theirs was a love match. He was nearly the only white man for miles around here to survive. The area is still blighted. The cane grows here easily and is a good cash crop, but few of the plantations are being worked. Working the sugarcane is backbreaking work. With so few workers, the British deserted this area of the island."

When they reached the house, a typically columned colonial-style building constructed of cut blocks of coral and plastered over, Eaton asked where the slave quarters were.

"Why do you want to know that?" Jas answered. "We built the workers better housing. The old slave quarters have been reduced to ruins."

"I presumed I'd be staying—"

"You're staying in the house with me. You need to understand and accept how it is in Jamaica. You aren't a slave here. You aren't a slave in the United States anymore either. You are a guest in my house, and, if you're willing, a submissive young man in my bed—but only if you want to be."

Eaton wanted to be. Although somewhat over forty, Jas Graham was a magnificently built man—in every way. Eaton had already discovered that he was hung like a horse too. And he was handsome and refined, and, truth be known, Eaton had not been covered in the comfort of a proper bed in less than furtive conditions by a black man before and was trembling in anticipation of being so.

Graham had not expected Eaton to come to him that night, but Eaton couldn't hold off any longer. He entered Graham's bedroom in a dressing robe he had been provided—and nothing else. Standing across the room, Eaton dropped the robe to the ground and dipped his head in submission.

"My god you're beautiful," Graham said, sucking in his breath. "Come let me hold you for a while. I promise I won't—"

"I want you to fuck me. Now," Eaton said in a tremulous voice. "I wanted you to fuck me again on the beach."

As it happened, Eaton fucked Graham first—after kneeling in front of him as the big black sat on the edge of his bed, and loving the older man's cock to erection. Then he pressed Graham onto his back in the center of the bed, lowered his channel on Graham's cock and slowly revolved around, rocking on the cock as well as rising and lowering on it. He took the cock deep and at length facing his host, facing to either side, and, at last, facing Graham's feet, with his hands clasping and unclasping his host's knees and Graham lifting him with a grip on either side of his waist and raising him and then slamming him down hard, and again and again, until both had come.

Almost immediately afterward, Graham was ready to go again and took Eaton in a missionary position, Graham erect on his knees, holding Eaton's legs high up under his armpits, and thrusting hard and fast inside Eaton's passage, with Eaton egging him on, wanting it harder, faster, deeper.

Lying stretched against each other, in search of sleep, then, Graham murmured, "You are an expert in this."

"So are you," Eaton answered. But then, after a while, Eaton said, "I don't want to mislead you. This is what I was used for in the South—in Richmond. I was a whore boy in a brothel. Do you care?"

"I only care that you are so beautiful and so good at taking the cock," Graham answered. "Now sleep, if you can. I will want you again before morning."

"Good," Eaton said—and Graham did want—and take—him again before dawn—twice.

For the next three days, Eaton spent the day on the beach, looking out to sea, and the nights writhing under Jas on his bed. It occurred to Eaton by the third day that nothing was going to come out of the surf to attest to his most recent adventure—not Charles Singleton, his gold bars, or even the chart locating the bulk of the Confederate treasury that had been buried in Virginia and North Carolina. These were at the bottom of the sea, lost to the future for all time. The treasure had been frittered away to two small gold bars he had sewn into his breeches. For some reason, this made Eaton feel that a burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

For these journeys to the beach. Jas lent him a horse and left him to it until the third day. That afternoon, he rode up to the beach, got off his horse, and came and stood next to Eaton.

"This is the last time I need to come out here," Eaton said, turning his eyes away from the sea to the magnificent black stallion standing beside him—and he wasn't referring to the horse.