The general looked down from his open office window at the Irving Block prison in disgust.

An enlisted man was embarrassingly drunk in the yard below. Through a series of overly loud protestations, he was attempting to convince his commanding officer otherwise. These being what had drawn the general to the window in the first place.

“What an absolute disgrace,” He grumbled back to his staff. “Everyday the whole of my troop is bifurcated between the sober and the drunk. I’m left at half force at any given moment.”

He shut the window and turned back to the half dozen officers gathered in his office.

“These are the fighting men sent here to ensure the future of the union, and they’re more of a threat to this city than any rebel raid or negro riot. Something must be done.”

The officers looked at each other, knowing anyone might get stuck with the responsibility if they opened their mouth.

“At my father’s factory, he forbade any man under his employ to drink.” Said a young, unaware officer. “To keep productivity up.”

“Then that’s just what you’ll do.”

“Sir?” Responded the officer, suddenly aware of his blunder.

“You’ll keep them from drinking.”

Memphis Note
After the Union occupation of Memphis during the Civil War, there wasn’t a whole lot for the troops to do. The city was concerned with keeping up trade and normal life, plus most of the Confederate loyalists had fled before the occupation. So, the soldiers found another way to occupy themselves. They drank. Oh, God, did they drink. They drank so much that beer was banned, and then the sale of any spirits. For most of the occupation, Memphis was a dry town. Which, interestingly enough, this was remarked to be one of the safest periods in Memphis history.

“It smells terrible. I thought rain was supposed to wash things clean?” I squinted out the window into the driving rain, watching it turn the streets into a swamp. Off in the distance, I could see the red glow of burning buildings. The riots were still going strong.

“Rain’s made of what’s beneath it. When you’re living in a giant toilet, I’ll leave it to you to decide the exact nature of what’s falling out of the sky.” Came a voice from the group sitting behind me. They were playing cards, and doing their best to ignore their compatriot by the window.

“We should be out there. Doing something to stop this.”

“General’s orders. All Union men are confined to quarters until things calm down.” Came another voice from the table.

I turned back to look at them. “The men out there getting lynched and beaten were Union men a few short days ago.”

“The negroes?” said the first voice. “They got mustered out and paid well for their service. They should’ve known better than to stay. Flush with cash, full of pride. ‘Course they’re going to roil the whites.”

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“Never is.”

Memphis Note
The riot in question is the Memphis Riot of 1866, which was the result of Memphis’s black population going from around three thousand before the Civil War, to over twenty thousand soon after it. The white police, mostly poor Irish who were being pushed out by the influx, didn’t look favorably on their new neighbors. The blood shed lasted three days before the Union troops finally declared martial law and took the city back.