The Imperial Georgia Hotel 4,500 American Civil War. (standard:adventure, 4433 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 27 2020	Views/Reads: 1425/1026	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I got the idea for this story from a magazine published soon after the American Civil War. It began as a one or two paragraph humorous anecdote. I hope I captured the era accurately.

"Damn this leg. Damn it to hell," Jonah mumbles. 

"Nothin' much we can do, you fool. You can't walk on yer own, so's we
gotta help yer sorry ass," I tell him. 

"Damn Waynesborough ... and all of Georgia while you're at it, God,"
Jonah says, raising his eyes to the heavens. "Watch it, Jim. Oh, my 
damned, mother-humping leg. Wasn't for me, you guys'd be back with the 
company." 

I shift my hands, grabbing his with the other. Jonah has his arm around
my neck, the other around Jackson. Jonah's taken a musket ball through 
the fleshy part of his left leg during the battle at Waynesborough. 

It's the year 1864 and our troops under "Uncle Billy" Sherman are
pushing the Rebels back, clear to the sea, planning to drown the 
assholes when we get there. 

Me and Jackson, both wounded slightly but able to walk, are helping
Jonah. Meanwhile our companions have gone on, now far ahead of us. 

"We ain't ne'er gonna catch up with the company, Jim," Jonah observes.
"Meb'be you should just find me a shady spot and dump my ass? Leave me 
a tin'a that hardtack, a bite'a horse-cock, and some'a at tabaccy. I'll 
be all right." 

"Uh, uh. This's Reb' country. They's plenty a them around, hiding out
from us. You can bet'cha sweet ass. Damn. Scratch mine for me, will 
you, Jim? I can't reach it." Jackson asks, half seriously, bad arm 
flailing behind him but unable to reach far enough. 

"That's why god gave you two arms and only one ass. Do it yerself," I
retort. 

"Let's stop a minute and change over?" Jackson suggests, panting.
“T'other arm's holdin' Jonah. Meb'be I can use Jonah ta scratch my 
behind?” 

“Surely, old buddy ... with my short-arm.” 

We stop, propping Jonah upright on his good leg as Jackson makes a show
of scratching himself with his working arm. Then we change sides. Jonah 
throws his arms around us again and we continue on. 

It's early December and the Georgia countryside is lovely compared to my
home in Ohio this time of the year. Although the air is crisp in the 
daylight and cold at night, there's no snow nor cold winds to bother 
us. 

Having lost all hope of catching up to our troops, we aren't too worried
about the enemy. Last we heard, they was running ahead like scared 
rabbits. The scenery is downright peaceable after the battle a few days 
ago. With any luck, the war will be over by the time we catch up. Ol' 
Uncle Billy is on a roll through Georgia, winning one battle after 
another and driving the Rebels back by the millions. 

"Look'a that smoke, Jim?" Jackson points with his bad arm, the one that
caught a little shrapnel from an exploding cannon round. 

"Must be a farmhouse," I say. "Meb'be we can get us somethin' to eat and
a place to sleep tonight?" 

We soon come to a farm lane and turn in, finding a small but neat
southern mansion -- three-story with wooden columns flanking the front 
entrance. It's late afternoon and we're tired as blazes. 

Chickens scatter as we enter the yard but no humans are evident. We sit
Jonah down on the front steps, bringing a groan as his foot hits the 
ground. I look around, seeing a large barn along with several heads of 
livestock, somehow missed by foraging troops of both sides. 

Damn but my side feels stiff. I've been hit by splinters from a tree,
the ball bouncin' past my head. I'm only thankful it wasn't from one'a 
those new-fashioned Higgins guns. Those suckers explode on ya. 



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