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Message-ID: <47328asstr$1081469403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel part 1
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Date: Thu,  8 Apr 2004 20:10:03 -0400
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this is the first part of an long saga <1st attachment, "Rebel 01" begin>

   Rebel 01 (Old Bill) (Mf hist)

   The buxom maid I was consorting with at the time had the annoying habit
of beating on me and whinnying like a colt every time she reached a climax
in our frenzied love-making, an off-putting sound when one is doing his
sweaty best to horse the young lady properly and quietly so as not to rouse
undue suspicion in the house.  After her third or fourth neighing spasm of
the hour I drew my spent weapon from her, and I left her pudgy young body
spread across the counterpane in her family's back room, tucked away my
highly satisfied prod, buttoned up my nearly worn-through britches and got
back to my chores which that day, as I recall, involved white-washing the
whole, long row of slope-roofed outbuildings.

   Spring was reaching into the hills of Maryland although it likely had
yet to visit the wooded ranks of blue mountains I could see on the western
horizon.  My family's nearby farm was small, poor and overpopulated.  I was
the oldest of eleven, and I had been an itinerant farm laborer in the
region for four years or so by 1775, from the time I was fifteen and had
reached nearly six feet in height.  I generally enjoyed the work, and
always enjoyed the girls.  I had a predilection for females which many
would call a weakness but I considered a virtue, and for some reason which
I never fathomed, women were usually attracted to me or were at least were
tolerant of my advances and pleased by my, shall we say, equipment and my
endurance, of which I was probably unduly proud.

   Every Wednesday morning the bow-legged farmer I was working for and his
fat wife, who found me all sorts of nasty jobs when I did not look busy
enough, had me hitch up their old buggy, and they set off for Frederick
Town on their weekly shopping spree.  Most locals went on Saturday but
Wednesday was their habit.  As soon as they were out of the yard, their
youngest daughter and I were groping at each other, mashing our mouths
together, tearing at each others clothes and hopping onto the large
bedstead in the unused, upstairs room at the back of the house where we
hoped we could pleasure ourselves without the servants hearing us.  It was
a fine and exciting time to look forward to and kept me happily employed
despite the meager wages, most of which I spent on Saturday beer, older
women and occasional gambling.

   This soft day while I was mixing up my white wash in a big tin tub, my
long but shriveled member still atingle and my aching back and overworked
thighs not yet fully recovered, a young rider came pounding into the
barnyard on a lathered horse, dismounting at the run and yelling, "Where's
Brown?  There's trouble, serious trouble."

   I told the red-faced man that my employer was in town, probably in a
tavern with his nose in a tankard or in a cathouse with his cock in a bawd,
while his wife spent his silver on yard goods, frewfaws and whatnots. 
"Tell him, say it's the rebellion, the damn'd rebellion!" he yelled as he
remounted.  clamped down his tricornered hat and twisted his horse's head
about.  "Meeting tonight at the church," he cried over his shoulder as he
spurred off, scattering geese.

   I put down my big, sloppy brush and pondered the news.  There had been a
spate of rumors about trouble with England over trade and taxes. 
Annapolis, we in the backcountry had slowly learned, was in a foul mood,
and people were taking sides or being forced to do so.  Even here in the
rural area, neutrality was not the style.  Most of the wealthy high-hats
favored the King, the lord proprietor and his popular governor, a one-time
army officer called Eden, although there were wealthy families I knew by
reputation, like some of the Catholic Carrolls, who were said to be against
British policies.  The leaders of the hotheads were younger and more
countrified men, often-ambitious firebrands of some property from outside
the capital city itself, slave owners and tobacco growers for the most part
but a few ship builders and tobacco traders as well.  Out here on the hilly
frontier, the ironmongers were among the loudest troublemakers, especially
a fellow named Johnson whose glowing furnaces belched smoke just north of
town.

   News had trickled down from New England of an infamous tea party and of
resulting harsh measures by Parliament including the closing of the port of
Boston, but few expected real conflict, certainly not killing.  There had
not been that kind of trouble since I was ten years old and the socalled
"massacre" up there inflamed the rabble rousers.  Some Frederickers, so I
had heard, had sent money and messages of support to their
fellow-troublemakers in the North, now, if this sweating rider was right,
warfare had broken out.  I wondered what it meant to Maryland and to me as
I listlessly stirred my whitewash.

   Young Maria came stumbling out into the yard, stuffing her soft, round
boobies back in her nearly-outgrown every-day gown and still lacing up her
dark-red corset, her sweatstringy hair in wild disarray and her apron over
her shoulder.  "Who was that?" she asked.

   "Rider with news," I said, picking up my brush, my mind on other things
despite the distraction of her nearly bared dugs.

   "Tell me," she demanded, standing before me, still warm and excited from
our recent tumble among the quilts, looking distractingly bulbous and
decidedly luscious as most sixteenyear-old girls are wont to do.  I felt
the urge again; youth is a steady world of wonder and want.  I reached for
her, and she slapped my hands aside.

   "Man said to tell your father there's a meeting at the church.  He said
something about a rebellion."

   "Rebellion?" she demanded, holding my arm and getting spots of whitewash
on her soft, lovely face and freckled chest.

   "I don't know where or who, girl.  He didn't say."

   "Damnation," she said, stamping her foot and

   jiggling er charms, "you ain't worth a tinker's dam." She turned on her
heel and stomped off to the house.  I watched her retreat enjoying the
swing of her ample hips.  If I had to choose between plump ones and skinny
ones, I would take the fat meat rather than the lean, every day and twice
on Sunday, if I could get it.



   By the time the elder Browns returned from Frederick Town, the back of
their listing rig loaded with parcels, boxes and a small keg of cut nails,
which I suspected meant another job for me, I had almost finished my task.
It was not neat, but it was whitewashed, and I assumed that the spring
rains would clean up after me.  Since I was tall enough to reach the eaves
of the sheds, the job had gone pretty quickly, but I was certainly arm
weary and paint spattered.

   I knuckled my forehead to the "master," and reported his hurried
visitor. The big man made a thin mouth, asked no questions, rubbed his
stubbled chin and went off to his home.

   I carried the load of goods inside, as usual, and overheard snatches of
conversations as I did, enough to tell me that trouble was surely afoot.

   It was late and the moon was down by the time Mr.  Brown got home from
his emergency meeting at the nearby Presbyterian church.  I guess you had
to expect the Scots to be in the midst of any rebellion, and of course,
they were, up to their cocks at least.  I waited on the back stoop, smoking
a short pipe of his tobacco and enjoying the smell of oncoming spring.  The
sap was rising, and I had been mentally undressing Maria and absentmindedly
jousling my aching stones.

   "Well?" I asked, taking his reins and forgetting to sir him.

   "It's those fools in Massachusetts, m'lad," he said, shaking his shaggy
fringe of hair.  The man owned a wig but seldom wore it.  "They've fired on
the King's troops, killed some, maybe a lot b'damn." He spat a gob of snuff
phlegm.  "The whole of New England area's up in arms.  We're going to send
some men north." He trudged off to his darkened home while I took care of
his animal and then rolled up in the loft, wishing I had someone to talk
to, filled with questions about the future.

   That Saturday the Frederick taverns were abuzz with the news.  Fist
fights broke out between bragging loyalists, often called King-lovers or
bloody Tories, and us levelheaded patriots, usually called stupid rebels,
occasionally disloyal Whigs but sometimes much worse.  Frederick Town was,
it seemed, a furnace of radicalism and rebellion although I must say that I
had not noticed it up until that time, being much involved with my youthful
pursuits, in other words, chasing girls.  This local rumbling was sort of
peculiar, if you think about it which few were doing in those overheated
days, because Frederick was chockfull of Germans who had come from parts of
the world with a lot less freedom than the English colonies possessed.  It
was kind of humorous to hear some fat-bellied Herr sounding off about the
rights of "Englanders."

   There were taverns in the town where nothing but German was spoken as
well as sung, and many of the local political leaders were bi-lingual with
their first tongue being the more guttural continental language.  I
frequented the few inns and ordinaries where English was much more common,
but I had many friends who spoke only German at home and I had bedded a
number of giggling frauliens.

   The big news that weekend was that new militia companies were being
formed; some labeled them minutemen which led to a number of coarse jokes
and vulgar references.  Since I did not own a rifle, musket or shotgun, and
since I was not particularly interested in politics or warfare, I took
little interest until the next Wednesday.  That sunny spring day marks the
start of my participation in the American Revolution.



   When the Brown's rig wobbled out of sight and I headed for the back
room, loosening my belt and rapidly hardening, all but salivating, my palms
itching for her warm body and hard nipples, I found myself stymied by the
rebellious call to arms.  "Have you joined a militia company yet?" Maria
asked blithely as she stood at the foot of the old rope bed, our usual
starting position, hair tied back as mine was, her bodice nearly wide open
and stay strings beckoning.

   "Not I, my girl," I answered, unbuttoning my foreflap and presenting
what she wanted most in it all of its oakrigid, red-headed and blue-veined
glory.  "It's a lover I am, not a soldier."

   "Then naught for you, m'lad," she said, lifting her chin and staring at
the ceiling.  She sniffed, pulled her dress down and then grinned at me as
I poked at her.

   "What's this," I demanded, undoing her stays, my stiffened member waving
before me like a skipjack's bowsprit.  She pulled away.  slapping my hands
and ignoring my condition as best she could.  When my spear is up and ready
for action it is about as hard to ignore as a bull in a pigsty and right
then it was pointed at her chin and dripping with anticipation.

   "I'm saving my little pussy for the minutemen," she sighed, wiggling
nicely under my petting of her firm buttocks and ripe breasts, my unleashed
ram poking at her plump belly and rising toward her boobs.

   "Haven't had time," I alibied, trying to get her to turn around and
assume the straddle-legged position that would reveal the back door of her
wiggle-lipped but wondrously tight little cunny.

   "Sorry," she said, twisting free, "you'll have to make do with the
widow." She made crude milking motions with both hands and laughed.

   "I'll join up next week, girl." I was probably panting by then and
certainly bar-iron hard and needy as the poorest beggarman.

   "Companies'll be filled.  You're plumb out of luck.  Put that ugly thing
away." She slapped at it and it sprung back like a coiled serpent.

   "Come on, Maria, just once." I held up the juicy head of my blood-gorged
ram.

   "It's never just once for you, you randy beggar.  Be off."

   "How can you be so cruel?"

   "Easily, very easily.  Johnny Harmon's joined.  He'll be here any
minute, just as eager to please me.  Run along now, m'boy, defer to your
betters."

   I grabbed her long braid and kissed her thoroughly hoping I might melt
her resolve.  All I got was a slap for my troubles so I stuffed it down my
leg, buttoned up and went back to my chores, sharpening tools and mending
fences, whatever I was supposed to be doing that day since it was still a
bit early for plowing and planting.  And then along came slim, handsome
John Harmon, perhaps all of nineteen, on a fine, long-legged stallion, with
his embroidered waistcoat, tri-cornered hat, proud cockade and polished
boots.  He tossed me his reins, smirked, brushed off his soft britches and
stalked toward my Maria, adjusting his bulging codpiece.

   "Whoa, Harmon," I cried at his back.  He spun about.  "What company did
you join?"

   "My own," was his haughty reply.  "Father's uniforming us, Harmon's
Mounted Legion.  Come watch us on the square this Sunday if you wish. 
We've almost forty men already under arms."

   "Room for a few more?" I asked.

   "Perhaps ten," he said.  "You own a rifle and a horse?"

   I shook my head and he laughed, waved dismissively and strode off to
enjoy the many charms of Mr.  Brown's youngest.  I ached.

   The next Saturday I found a German company that still had room for men
who could shoot and was not too particular otherwise as long as you could
hold your beer and not sing off key.  I had enough Deutsch-sprechen to
enjoy a flaxenhaired whore and order a lager beer, and I was pretty good
with a fowling piece when I could borrow one, so I signed up and watched
them march about, taking orders in a rough mix of languages, many not
knowing their left foot from their right.

   "Nex' Woche, veek," the florid captain told me, "mit rifle comen, ja?"

   I nodded and hurried back to see Mr.  Brown.  It took some persuasion
and a lot of promises, but I talked him into letting me borrow his prized
Pennsylvania rifle and powder horn that usually hung above the hearth in
his dark-timbered main room.  I made some bullets with his six-ball mold,
went out in the woods and practiced, wasting a good bit of powder and lead
but becoming reasonably proficient once I got used to the weight of the
long rifle and the delay between the pan flash and the firing kick. 
Steadied against a wall or tree limb, you could regularly hit a fist-sized
target at better than fifty yards if you did not flinch, a shot you would
not even try with a smoothbore musket.



   The upshot was that I passed my test and was mustered in to the fifth
Frederick company and issued a well-worn Tower musket, a cartridge pouch
with a missing flap and a new black rosette to wear on my hat, if I had
owned a hat.  I gave the fancy hat bow to Maria and hung Mr.  Brown's rifle
back in its place of honor.  That Wednesday the girl and I were firmly
joined at the foot of her bed, and I was heaving to and fro, hefting her
clear of the floor from time to time, a true test of my hip and knee joints
as I rammed my thick rod in and out of her narrow canal.  She was puffing
like a teakettle, head down between her elbows, as I served her from the
rear when young Mr.  Harmon rode into sight below us.  She wiggled and
pushed me off.  I stood back, soggy but still inflamed, furious at the
interruption, very impatient but staying out of sight, my rigid and
slippery tool in my hand, my stones in turmoil.

   Maria leaned out the open window, spilling her barelycovered breasts
forward, and yelled, "Not today, Johnny, I'm sorry.  I'm not well.  Next
week, promise." Looking over her shoulder, I saw him toss her a kiss and
remount.  She turned toward me, smiling.  "There," she said, looking down
at my straining lance which trembled with desire, "I hope you're
satisfied."

   I laughed, anything but satisfied, pushed her back to the edge of the
high bed, plunked her down, tossed up her skirts, pushed her knees back
toward her ears and was back into her before she could protest.  She
yelped, wrapped her chubby legs about me, and we heaved together until we
both were sated, and then rolled in bed to rest, undress, recuperate and
soon have at it again.

   "You think he believed me?" she whispered in my ear while she kneaded my
privates.  I was stripping her out of her skirt and petticoat.

   "I suppose.  He certainly enjoyed the sight of your big boobies."

   "You're just mean," she sighed.  "He's a nice boy, and his family's ever
so rich.  I may just marry him."

   "Has he asked you?" Her ministrations were having their intended effect,
and blood roared in my ears.

   "Not exactly," she said as I rolled her to her back and got between her
raised legs, my britches at my knees.  She lifted her arms, and I pulled
her shift over her head.

   "Doubt he will long as you let him roger you," I said, sliding my
throbbing rod into her pink slit.  "You know what they say about buying a
cow."

   "Gah," she said, locking her ankles high on my back, "wish he was more
like you in some ways." She bent her knees, humped up her pelvis and we
began again.  Soon the ropes were singing and the bed was thumping the
floor in an accelerating tattoo.

   And so it went into the summer as I learned something about being a
soldier, more curses and songs in German, and John Harmon and I took turns,
unbeknownst to him, bouncing on the Brown's generous girl child.  Then came
the call for volunteers to go to the aid of Boston after that slaughter
near Charleston they were calling Bunker Hill.  I had nasty dreams about
bayonets and redcoats after that news.

   Michael Cresap, looking like he belonged in a casket rather than a
uniform, raised and captained one company and Thomas Price the other
although Otho Williams soon shared that command.  Most of the men recruited
for both of these scratch outfits were frontiersmen and experts with the
long rifle, many from over the hills and well into the banned Ohio Country.
Almost all of them supplied their own weapons, powder and lead as well as a
sheath knife or small ax, some called it a tomahawk.  They wore loose
hunting shirts, moccasins or soft boots and round hats.  A few even painted
their faces like Indians as they went to war, a style that seemed to excite
some of the local girls.

   Before they left Frederick Town in July for their march to Boston,
Cresap's men put on a shooting demonstration that was long remembered.  I
stood in the noisy crowd and cheered as the fierce looking company arrived.
A series of paper targets, about the size of a Spanish dollar, were fixed
on a board nailed to a shady tree.  The riflemen paced off a hundred yards
and began firing.  Target after target was holed or nicked.  Then one of
the men held up a board edge on and a rifleman smashed from his hand.  A
group fired from the prone position, on their sides, and one even on his
back.  We cheered and clapped, laughed and hoorahed.  Then five men ran
across the square firing without pausing.  They too hit the targets or at
least the board they were on.  Finally a frontiersman in baggy, leather
leggings held the target board between his knees and stood with his back to
the tree, smiling.  One of his fellow volunteers hit the center of that
target.  The man bowed from the waist as we roared approval.  That was the
end of the show.



   In the tavern afterwards, word got about that two of Williams' men had
decided they could not leave their families and had asked to be relieved.
Volunteers were being welcomed to fill their places.  For some reason,
probably the rousing show of marksmanship I had just witnessed, I made my
way to the courthouse and saw the recruiter.

   He looked at me, evidently liked my size, and asked, "Can you shoot?"

   "Well enough," I said.  "I'm in the fifth militia hereabouts."

   "You got a rifle?"

   I thought fast.  "I can get one," I said.  "By Wednesday."

   "That's the day we leave.  You married?"

   I shook my head.

   "You of age?"

   I nodded.

   "Sign here then, make your mark." He pointed to a place on the big paper
filled with men's names and I wrote out mine, very carefully.  He shook my
hand and gave me another cockade to show my allegiance.

   That Wednesday should have been little Johnny Harmon's turn to have his
way with Maria Brown, but I waylaid him as he stepped from his chestnut
gelding, hoping the girl was not watching from her window.

   "Come here, Harmon," I called from the barn door, "Got something to show
you." Over he came leading his handsome horse.

   I grabbed him by his silk jabot, yanked him off his feet, banged his
head against the lintel.  then dragged his limp body into an empty stall,
gagged him with his neckcloth and trussed him up.  Then I hurried off to go
to war.

   First I told Maria that Johnny Harmon had sent a message saying he could
not come.  She pouted prettily as I undid her stays and helped out of her
stylish petticoat.  I had noticed that she always dressed better for him
than she did for me.  We enjoyed each other in several of our favorite
ways, all more hurriedly than either of us liked, and then I told her that
I was leaving and gave her my new bow.  She kissed me and fondled me, made
me promise to write, said she would pray for me and then asked, "Once
more," as I was about to pull on my boots.

   She bent over holding the foot of her bed, her absolute favorite
position, and I tossed up her skirts, admired her rounded ass, unlimbered
my tired weapon, stroked it up and had at her, holding her plump buttocks
and heaving with all my might, giving her strokes at least a half-foot in
length.  She squealed and jumped, bouncing on her toes, gasping within a
minute or two, and I drove on until I surprised myself by coming again,
stretching my body up and moaning with pleasure and exhaustion, my hands
full of her ripe breasts as she shook with passion and I battered the
guardian of her womb.  I left her kneeling by the bed, gasping for breath,
dripping thick fluids down her thighs, drooling and smiling.

   I hurried down the steps, grabbed Mr.  Brown's prized rifle from his
wall, found the bullet mold and powder horn, borrowed Johnny Harmon's horse
and hurried into the town, barely in time to catch up with my new company.
I turned the horse loose, confident his owner would find him eventually.

   We riflemen left Frederick Town on the 19th of July, marching north.  We
reached Boston, every single one of us, on August 9 after crossing 550
miles of hills, streams and bad roads.  There we joined up with Dan
Morgan's Virginians and enjoyed ourselves firing at British sentries and
officers, often at a range of 200 yards or more.  I watched many men fall
before they even heard the shot that killed them.

   <1st attachment end>

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