TITLE: The Flower Garden  1/?
BY: SEEKERONE And LEELEE
RATING: NC-17. Like with all our stories, the whole series will 
certainly steam up the monitor. Lots of steamy sex, a spanking or 
two, a whorehouse and so on. If you're under 18, shoo on away, right 
now! You will be carded. I don't want to hear from you and I don't 
want to hear from your Momma. 
CATEGORY: Skinner/O.F., Mulder/Scully (Well. . . Sort of.)
SETTING: Our own little examination of the War Between the States, 
sometimes known to the United Daughters of the Confederacy as The 
Late Unpleasantness.
ARCHIVE:  Probably. Just ask.
COMMENTS:  Here are the redeeming historical tidbits -- General 
Orders No. 28 was real.  It was issued by Union General Benjamin, 
a.k.a. "The Beast" Butler, about two weeks after he occupied New 
Orleans. It may have precipitated by a Southern Lady who emptied a 
chamber pot on one of his officers. And yes, the prostitutes in 
occupied Nashville were inspected and licensed by the Union army 
doctors after syphilis reached epidemic proportions among Federal 
troops. Mercury was the treatment of choice for the dreaded venereal 
disease. It's probably debatable if the infection or the cure 
resulted in higher mortality rates. 
Most humble thanks to Sylvie, who is without a doubt the world 
greatest beta, meticulous, patient and thorough.  This is a better 
story because of you and you're gradually making us better writers.  
(Although given the name of Southern Smut Writers, it is slow 
work!)   
SUMMARY:  Skinner reports to a new assignment. 
SPOILERS: Don't think I saw any of this in the seventh season, or 
even before that. 
DISCLAIMERS: Skinner, Spender, Fox, Scully, Pendrell and the Russian 
are all the blonde surfer dude's. The rest are all ours, with some 
genuine historical characters who decided to visit, such as most of 
the military officers on both sides. The majority of the battles, 
manners and other events are actual history as well. 
FEEDBACK: Worshipped, adored, read and reread again and again. Drop 
us a note and let us know what you think about this chapter or the 
whole series: clueseek@swbell.net or Viceyy@aol.com   
And, until we get our long delayed web site up, if you'd like to have 
new chapters of whatever story we're working on sent directly to you, 
subscribe to our broadcast list -- The Southern Ladies Smut Writers 
Association. Just send an e-mail to: slswa-subscribe@yahoogroups.com 


Chapter 1

HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF THE GULF
Occupied City of New Orleans,
February, 1865

	General Orders No. 28
"As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subject 
to repeated insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of New 
Orleans, in return for the most scrupulous non-interference and 
courtesy on our part, it is ordered that hereafter when any female 
shall, by word, gesture, or movement, insult or show contempt for any 
officer or soldier of the United States, she shall be regarded and 
held liable to be treated as a woman of the town, plying her 
avocation —"
It was a cold, wet and generally miserable late afternoon. The tall 
man in the worn blue uniform rode slowly, his slouch hat pulled low 
over his eyes to keep the rain out. His horse, a rangy bay gelding, 
was as tough and battle weary as his rider. The only sounds, beside 
the damp drizzle hitting the muddy cobblestones, were the plop of the 
horse's hooves and the leather squeak of the old split cavalry 
saddle. 

Major Walter S. Skinner, formerly of the Pennsylvania 2nd Heavy 
Artillery, rode down Canal Street toward Union Headquarters. He was a 
solidly built, muscular man with massive shoulders and well-defined 
limbs. Even so, he appeared thinner now than when the war started. He 
shifted uncomfortably in the stirrups to ease the aching in his 
thigh. He shouldn't complain, he reminded himself. Damn few men 
survived the Parrott shells that exploded at the Battle of Cold 
Harbor, mere yards in front of them. Luckily, the field surgeon had 
actually bothered to wash his hands and scalpel before removing the 
metal fragments and packing the injuries with fairly clean cotton 
bandages. He vaguely remembered moaning in agony during the bouncing 
wagon ride taking him to the Union hospital in Washington D.C., but 
that was all. The whiskey and the opium had gotten him through those 
first weeks until he could go home to finish his recuperation. The 
wounds had closed under his sister-in-law's tender nursing care.  But 
he could tell that every time she looked at him, she remembered the 
brother who wasn't coming home.  So, as soon as he could ride, he'd 
requested re-assignment, back in the field, away from those sad, 
burning, accusing eyes.

Sure enough, the Union army was desperate for experienced officers. 
Some might still try to dodge out by paying a replacement, but not 
him.  He'd heard often enough that it was a "Rich Man's War, Poor 
Man's Fight."  So, regardless of the Skinner family's prosperity, he 
was going back. He'd received a new assignment. Still not deemed fit 
enough for a field duty, he was the latest adjutant to Lt. General 
John Spender, federal commander of occupied New Orleans and 
surrounding parishes.

The slight snort of his mount brought him back to the present. It 
seemed the bay was taking exception to a faded lilac parasol just 
ahead. He noticed that the lady was glaring at him disdainfully from 
the sidewalk, but quickly dropped her eyes when he glanced her 
way. "The Beast" Butler might be back in the field with Grant now, 
but it was obvious that his General Orders No. 28 was still taken 
very seriously by the female population.  He grinned to himself. It 
was a shame. In spite of her slightly ragged dress, she was a pretty 
little thing. And it had been a long time, since he felt a woman's 
mouth or a hot wet pussy sliding around his cock. 

Of course, he'd have to be careful, he reminded his stirring penis as 
he watched the belle slip disdainfully into a shop. Unlike the 
pragmatic approach taken by the surgeon general with the occupying 
troops in Nashville, whores here were not inspected and licensed. The 
five dollar health certificate, renewed monthly, had nearly 
eliminated the incidence of syphilis in soldiers occupying the 
Tennessee city.  It was a good thing too, he thought remembering the 
unbearable screams of the sufferer two beds down from him in the army 
hospital. The harsh medical treatment for the disease was enough to 
make any man use one of those French things, he decided with disgust. 
A night with Venus, a month with Mercury. That's one of the perils of 
war you could avoid, old man, he reminded himself. 

A slovenly private stepped forward at the steps of the old Customs 
House, now U.S. Army headquarters, on Canal Street to take his 
horse.  Butler had used the relatively new building as his 
headquarters and obviously General Spender saw no need to change. 
Headquarters was a messy affair. The once beautiful building that the 
Union Army had commandeered had been given little consideration. 
Garbage was piled up on the sweeping steps and very little remained 
of the lovely granite façade that once surrounded it. The Major 
dismounted, pausing to scrap the mud off his boots and button his 
long, wool frock coat. He might as well go in looking like a decent 
officer, he thought as he brushed the raindrops off his blue uniform 
sleeve.

Lt. General Spender himself wasn't known to run a tight ship. This 
was evident to Skinner when he entered the building. The waste and 
wanton destruction he saw around him turned his stomach. Skinner just 
shook his head in disgust. He might be a hardened practical soldier 
but he could still understand the value of order. Junior officers 
wearing unkempt uniforms were slouched in mahogany arm chairs, 
chewing tobacco and often missing the spittoon. Their dirty boots 
were propped carelessly on the scratched and scarred surface of a 
once fine inlaid walnut Chippendale table. 

They ignored the entrance of a superior officer and went about their 
business of loudly talking and cussing. Skinner had half a mind to 
start kicking some junior officer ass, but somehow it just seemed 
like a waste of time. He was here to do a job. A job that would 
hopefully take until he was fit for active duty. Or better yet, until 
this cruel war was over and he could go home. Or at least where ever 
he decided home was to be. After his experience with his sister-in-
law, he felt groundless. The army was his only home and damn a poor 
one it made, he thought as he looked around in distaste.

An unknown Lieutenant finally showed him into the General's office.  
Lt. General Spender looked no better than his slovenly staff. His 
office was a mess of papers and the air in the large office was stale 
and smoky from the noxious smelling cheroots that Spender was 
constantly lighting up.  Obviously Spender followed the infamous 
habit of General Grant. The heavy Oriental rug muffled Skinner's 
boots as he marched across the room to the man seated at a large 
walnut desk.

"Major Walter S. Skinner, reporting for duty, sir." He announced 
firmly, removing his slouch hat and tucking it under his arm.

Spender waved off Skinner's salute with an impatient gesture of his 
hand. "At ease, Major," the General nodded, the omnipresent cigar 
dangling from his fingers.  Seeing the manner that Spender was 
running things helped Skinner to understand the disdain he had felt 
from the lady on the street. To her, all Yankees must be just like 
this scalawag before him. As far from a gentleman as any properly 
raised man could be.

Spender leaned back in the heavy leather desk chair and gave Skinner 
an obvious assessment, ignoring the official orders the man held 
out.  "Just give them to the Lieutenant," he commanded 
brusquely. "And, Pendrell, get Lieutenant Mulder."  

Skinner felt an immediate dislike for the man. The manners of his 
staff and the way he ignored so basic a military protocol troubled 
the Major. 

"I don't believe Lieutenant Mulder has returned from patrol, sir," 
the blonde soldier responded, as he took the papers from Skinner's 
hand. 

"Wasting time with some old voodoo witch, no doubt. Get him in here. 
Then be prepared to show Major Skinner his quarters, after I've 
reviewed his assignment. Dismissed."  The old man folded fingers 
stained with yellow with nicotine under his chin. 

"Sit down, Major," Spender ordered.  "I have a particular mission for 
you here in New Orleans."  

Skinner took the offered seat after dusting it off with his gloves 
and waited for the General to speak. There were no further courtesies 
exchanged. No polite inquiries about the state of Skinner's health. 
Spender got immediately to the point.

"We have a spy ring here in the occupied zone, Skinner." Spender said 
around the smelly cheroot that was wedged between his teeth. "It 
appears they are supplying the Rebels with information and also there 
are also rumors that they're smuggling in drugs and medicine."

"Medicine is valuable and greatly needed by our army. Your job is to 
locate and expose this spy ring. Lieutenant Mulder has already been 
working on the problem. He will give you the information he has 
gathered so far and assist you in finding the culprits."

Skinner offered a "Yes sir." And then held his tongue. The General 
seemed more interested in the medicine than in any information the 
spies may be passing. 

He listened carefully as the old man continued to outline the 
problem. Espionage and smuggling. Highly sensitive military 
intelligence was getting sent to Pemberston and the rebels at 
Vicksburg, who were using it to evade Union advances up the 
Mississippi river. Quinine, opium and other contraband medicines were 
coming into the port and being smuggled to the Confederate hospital 
across Lake Pontchartrain.  General Ulysses S. Grant was severely 
displeased with the situation.  And knowing Grant, he had probably 
expressed himself in an extremely profane and forthright manner on 
the subject to General Spender, thought Major Skinner.

It wasn't that unusual in a war like this, Skinner reflected.  Lafe 
Baker, chief of the National Detective Police, the undercover, anti-
subversive, spy organization, and Allen Pinkerton, head of the Union 
Intelligence Service, were spending all their time and a lot of 
manpower trying to stop the rebels from knowing what the Union Army 
was doing before the Army itself did.  Skinner had met Baker and 
disliked the man thoroughly. He was probably corrupt, and certainly 
brutal and abusive toward civilians, innocent or otherwise, 
unfortunate enough to be captured by his organization.  Pinkerton was 
better, even though he was a Scotsman.  He'd stopped at least one 
assignation attempt on Lincoln already.

And as for smuggling, you might as well try to stop an army man from 
fornicating on Saturday night.  Down in Belize, merchants were 
infamous for smuggling goods to the Confederates. And as for Bermuda, 
hell, many of their merchants had family and commercial ties to their 
counterparts in Virginia and other Southern states. It was a known 
fact that they were making fortunes running Union blockades for the 
Confederacy, even though Bermuda had abolished slavery in 1834. And 
this whole part of Louisiana  had a long history of smuggling and 
piracy, all the way back to Jean Lafitte, who saved Andy Jackson's 
ass at the Battle of New Orleans.  

Spender got up from around his desk and walked over to where the 
Major sat. Leaning in close enough for Skinner to gag on the 
combination of bad breath and smoke, Spender said in a soft gravelly 
voice. "It is very important that your mission remain secret. The 
locals, as you can imagine, resent our presence. They feel that 
medicines should be made available to our enemy. But as we know, our 
supply lines must remain secure. The foe shall have no aid and 
comfort in his treason."

Skinner sat back and digested Spender's information while the man 
stubbed out his cheroot and lit another. Something wasn't quite right 
about the General's concern. Why would a high-ranking officer be more 
interested in supply problems rather than the espionage? From what 
Skinner had read, it was not such a significant amount of medical 
supplies to cause hardship to the Union Army. Odds are, the local 
populace instead of the enemy was using the medical supplies. But as 
Skinner watched Spender sitting back down behind his untidy desk with 
a flourish, he realized that to the General's mind all southerners 
were the enemy.
 
The sudden slam of a heavy door jerked him out of his reverie.  "Lt. 
Mulder, reporting as ordered, sir" came a slightly breathless New 
England twang from over his shoulder.  

Skinner turned in the leather chair to look at the soldier.  The man 
was tall, lean and lanky like a young racehorse.  But his clean, blue 
uniform had been carefully tailored and even his shinning boots look 
liked they fit him properly. 

"Lt. Mulder, Major Skinner.  The Lieutenant will be acting as your 
aide in this assignment," the General announced. 

"Major Skinner, welcome to occupied New Orleans," the Lieutenant 
responded.  The junior officer's enunciation was polished, well-
educated. Skinner guessed he was the privileged younger son of an 
influential Republican, sent down here to keep out of trouble. An old 
blood - old money family, unlike the Skinner family who had made 
their wealth recently in the very dirty Pennsylvania coal mining 
industry. His army commission had come from battles fought and won, 
not handed down due to his ability to speak Latin. Still, Skinner 
liked the looks of the man and was glad for the assistance.

"Lt. Pendrell has arranged for Major Skinner's quarters. When he has 
rested, he'll brief you.  Major, I expect a written report on my desk 
by 0800 on Tuesday.  Dismissed."

Mulder lead the way out of the General's office, waving off Lt. 
Pendrell's offer of a bunk in the officer's quarters. Instead Mulder 
got their horses and they were soon riding further down Canal street 
with Mulder explaining the lay-out of the city. 

Finally Skinner broached the subject. "Tell me what you've been able 
to find out so far."

Rain had begun to fall lightly so Mulder pulled his collar shut, took 
a deep breath and began his briefing. "About the spying, very 
little.  No progress to report there.  I do have some details about 
the black market medical supplies. They aren't a lot, but the 
smuggling has been steady. Through an informant, I was able to come 
up with a name of a possible storage location for them. But when I 
sent a few men there to search it, they couldn't find anything."

"Perhaps your informant lied."

"No," Mulder said. "The informant wasn't aware that I was listening. 
It's more than that. There seems to be a genuine conspiracy to keep 
the goods hidden." 

"Where did your men originally search?"

Mulder looked Skinner in the eye and then quickly away. Skinner was 
struck with surprise. The man seemed to be blushing! "Lt. Mulder?"

"It was an . . . umm  . . .whorehouse sir." Skinner tried not to 
laugh. The man WAS blushing. 

"So," Skinner said trying not to laugh. "You've found a connection 
between the stolen supplies and a whorehouse." Skinner looked around 
at the beautiful and almost fairy tale quality of the wrought iron 
heavily decorating the buildings that surrounded them. "Why am I not 
surprised?" he said quietly to himself.

Mulder had stopped in front of a large structure and got off his 
horse. Skinner followed, looked at the building and then back at the 
younger man questionably. 

"The Maison De Ville? Aren't we staying in the barracks along with 
the other officers?" he finally asked. 

Mulder gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders. "I took 
the liberty of arranging better lodgings for both of us." 

Skinner looked up at the fine hotel in front of him. It was old but 
in good repair and a mouth watering smell was coming from the 
detached kitchen off to the side of the building. Skinner's stomach 
growled.

"It looks very nice and also very expensive," he said pointedly to 
the Lieutenant.

"My treat, sir. My parents send me more money than I know what to do 
with." Mulder said quickly before nervously adding, "I would much 
rather we work in comfort and if you are to stay in the barracks, 
then so should I. This way, we both benefit." 

Mulder was looking at him apprehensively as if expecting the Major to 
bite his head off over the subject. Skinner looked from the 
Lieutenant, back at the hotel, but it was Mulder who he was 
deliberating. Well-educated, respects protocol and wealthy. Mulder 
had an honest face and somehow Skinner felt that would be important. 
He looked again at the young man who stood anxiously beside him. Yes, 
he liked a chap who would choose to fight, even though it was so 
apparent that he didn't have to. He nodded his head and followed the 
man inside. Mulder should turn out to be a good ally in this. And 
somehow he felt that was what he needed.   

x x x x x x x

Skinner paused to remove his reading glasses and rub the bridge of 
his nose.  He threw the wire rims on his desk in disgust, barely 
missing the half-full ink well  Nothing.  After three days of talking 
to every ranking army officer, he'd gotten nothing.  The oil lamp 
flickered in sympathy, throwing soft shadows across the small room 
he'd been assigned.

Lt. Mulder looked up from the report he'd been reading, shaking his 
head.  "Sir, if there's a spy among our officers, I can find no 
evidence of him."  His hazel eyes looked steadily at his frustrated 
superior.

"The rebels are getting the information, somehow," Skinner snarled 
back.  "Grant's getting outflanked every time he tries to approach 
Vicksburg.  I don't give a damn about the medicines going to the 
rebel hospital, the poor devils can take any comfort they can get as 
far as I'm concerned. But I do care about our boys dying, because 
some damn fool can't keep his mouth shut."  He ran his hand over his 
bald head again. 

"There is one additional possibility, if you'd be willing to consider 
some . . . uh. . . recreation time," Mulder offer hesitantly.  At 
Skinner's inquiring glance, he continued, "Les Fleurs du Sud."

"What the hell is that?" came the caustic response from across the 
desk.

"Uh.. well, it's the name of that pleasure house I mentioned, down in 
the old quarter, off Royal Street. The one I suspected might be used 
for warehousing the smuggled medical supplies. The women are supposed 
to be upper class, but left destitute by the war. They all wear 
masks, use the names of flowers, and cater to Union officers.  But 
that could be 'cause we're the only ones with enough gold to meet 
their prices. They don't take script, regardless of patriotism, and 
they're damn expensive." Fox grinned at him.  "We could get some 
crawfish gumbo and then check it out."

Skinner's stomach rumbled in reaction to the thought of supper.  The 
hot spicy stew was just the thing on a cold February night, he 
decided.  And after all, it had been too damn long since he'd had the 
pleasure of anything besides his fist. 

End of Chapter One