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From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel parts 3 and 4
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Date: Sat, 10 Apr 2004 21:10:01 -0400
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<2nd attachment, "Rebel 003.txt" begin>

   Rebel 003 (Old Bill) (MF hist)

   THE COURTESAN

   After Colonel Backus died, they sent me back into Boston a few more
times, but the last trip before the British up and left is the one I
remember best.  For all I know, it may be a turning point in the
Revolution, but that is another story entirely and not for me to decide or
to tell.  It was late February or early March of 1776, in the midst of a
thaw, and I had by then made some useful contacts of my own as well as
continuing to check with the colonel's friends and poke Roxy every chance I
got.  One of my favorite and most useful sources of information was Madam
Barry's bordello on Duke Street.  It was a tall, frame structure with steep
steps up to the polished front door.  I always came in the back and made my
way to the cellar where the madam had provided me a substantial old couch,
a rickety table, a few candles and set of untrustworthy wooden chairs.  Her
"ladies," as she called them, could be a font of wonderful tales, rumors,
and first-class information as well as not-so-innocent pleasure.

   I was kissing a young whore who called herself July when she stopped
massaging my prick, lay in my arms and sighed, "They's leavin'."

   I yanked my face out of her neck and whispered, "Who's going where?"

   "Corny, Howe and them, they's all leaving, every one," she said, pulling
her clothes together and shaking her sweaty curls loose.  She had done me
to a fare-thee-well some time before and my manhood still lay shrunken and
limp despite her efforts.

   "Where are they going?" I asked, helping her with her quilted petticoat.
She had demanded my tongue's attentions as her reward for tolerating a most
vigorous swiving under me that left her sore and hurt, so she said.  I
doubted that since she was strong as a mule and nearly as smart.

   "Don' know.  New Scotland mean anyfing t'you?"

   I shook my head between her soft breasts, kissing both left and right.
"When?"

   "Fortnight, this feller said.  Tole me he'd miss me, `e did." She
grinned at me.  "Are you leavin' too?  You gonna miss me?" she asked as I
stood and closed my foreflap.

   "You going with them?" I asked, slapping her open hand aside.  I had
seldom paid for sex since I was a boy back in Frederick.

   She shook her head.  "Some of the girls are, them what had regulars
among the gentry and such, men that ain't as stingy as you is."

   "My, my," I said.  "and who might know more?"

   "I dunno," she sniffed, "Maybe that snooty Miz Singleton.  You know `er?
She's a real King-lover, that `un.  I `eard `em talking `bout her."

   I knew who she was, the handsome hostess of one of Boston's best-known
salons, perhaps the most flamboyantly dressed woman in all New England, a
reputed courtesan with many wealthy lovers, a good friend of Gentleman
Johnny Burgoyne although some insisted she was only his well-paid harlot,
and the wife of a notorious rake and libertine who was in the process, so
they said, of dying of the French disease.  The tall, dark-haired woman of
perhaps twenty-five or thirty was an American, Rhode Island born I had been
told, and reputedly came from a old but poor, cod-fishing family.  She
climbed the bedroom ladder of success rung by rung on her shapely back and
wide posterior, married into wealth and station, rising in the loyal ranks
out of a youthful career as a serving girl and cheap jade in a seafront
tavern.  If she had a weakness, said her many enemies, it was for
over-sized jewels and slim young men.

   "Who do you know over there?" I asked the young one as she pulled up her
knit stockings and watched me watching her.

   "Just her maid, thas' all, her very own personal and private maid," she
answered proudly, nose in the air.

   "Her name?" I asked, holding up a shiny shilling.

   "Duchess, they calls her," she said, snatching the coin and making it
disappear like a magician.  "She's black as tar.  Tell `er July sen'cha. 
She might help.  She might not." The girl hurried off to earn her meals
with her trained coney, and I went out in the twilight to seek information,
my physical needs more than satisfied.

   At the back of the Singleton's rented manse, a home that I had been told
once belonged to some branch of the Adams family although I'm not sure
which Adams, and there were many, I asked for Duchess.  A short girl with
an Irish brogue and ringlets at her ears told me to wait and in a minute or
two a very dark, angular woman appeared, wearing a frilly cap and looking
curious.

   "Dottie said there was a giant asking for me," she said, her speech soft
and careful.

   "July sent me," I told her and watched her reaction.  She raised an
eyebrow a quarter inch and the corner of her mouth even less.

   "And," she said, hitting the "d" hard and studying me as if she planned
on taking me apart and wanted to remember how the pieces went together.

   "She heard the British were planning on leav ing soon."

   "Well?" said the black woman, pursing his large lips.

   "Might you or your mistress know about that?"

   "She might, come in, mind your head," Duchess said with a knowing smile.
"By your speech I'd guess you don't live around here." She led me into a
small library and waved at a fragile-looking chair with ball feet.  "Be
right back," she said, disappearing.

   I paced the narrow room, looking at book titles and framed engravings,
and when the pocket doors slid open, I turned.  There stood a striking
woman, her hair piled so high that it made her as tall as I was.  She wore
a dark green velvet robe trimmed in soft gray fur, fox probably, which she
held together at her narrow waist in a relaxed manner as though it might
fall open at any moment, my hope, of course.  She had wide shoulders and
ample hips, long legs and an upright carriage.  She stood with her chin
high and there was some mischief in her gaze or perhaps it was assessment
if not amusement.



   "Who are you, young man?" she asked, closing the door soundlessly behind
her, changing hands at her middle as she did.

   I told her my name, said I was from Maryland, was in Washington's army,
and had worked with Colonel Backus.  I showed her his fancy gold ring.

   "Well?" she said, cocking her head slightly to the side.  She was
wearing make-up, what we called paint in those days, that highlighted her
cheekbones; her lips were rouged and her eyelids tinted blue.  "It is true.
We are leaving, all of us." She sat on a small, gilt chair and crossed her
long legs, flipping her robe's furry hem across to cover her knees.  Other
than her soft slippers and her dark stockings, she was, as far as I could
tell, completely bare under her silken gown which flowed like morning mist
about her body.

   "When?" I asked, seating myself and trying not to let my rising desire
show.  I crossed my legs too.  She exuded vibrant femaleness, in other
words, she smelled like sex.  The idea rose in my mind unbidden.

   "I don't know, soon I think.  I cannot talk to you here." She took a
deep breath and made an odd face, almost disgust.  "I shouldn't talk to you
at all.  Where are you staying or are you going back tonight?  The colonel
was a fine man but always in a hurry; may he rest in peace."

   "I can wait for you, wait another day.  I'm at Madam Barry's on Duke. 
You know the place?" I was tempted to tell her I would wait until hell
froze over for her.

   She nodded and smiled.  "I have a soiree here almost at once.  Some may
already have arrived.  I will come later, much later, with Duchess and a
driver.  I owe Backus that much."

   "Come around back, down the cellar steps.  I'll leave a lantern in the
side yard and one in the doorway."

   She nodded and stood and so did I.  I put my hands gently on her velvet
hips and she lifted her chin, not bothering to hold her heavy gown
together. Her eyes were gray.  I kissed her briefly and was surprised to
find the tip of her tongue in my mouth as she drew away, displaying the
deep cleft between her upright breasts, the puff of her belly and the
shadowed paradise beneath it.

   "It will be late," she said and turned with a swish of her furtrimmed
wrap and left, striding through the doorway, taking long steps, swinging
her arms, her gown billowing out at the sides like a ship's wake.  I caught
just a brief reflection of her lean, pink body as she passed an ornate,
convex mirror on the wall.  It was enough to startle my cock into rigid
attention.

   I spent the day making my usual rounds, avoiding the small but annoying
Redcoat patrols and chatting up various founts of sometimes-useful
information.  Then, after a decent late meal and a pitcher of dark beer, I
dragged myself back to my digs and napped a bit, hoping the lovely woman
was as good as her word.

   The bell in the nearby church had clanged twice before she and her dark
maid came though the basement door, bundled in heavy cloaks, both of them
smiling as though they had just shared a good jest.  I quickly roused
myself, put aside my spike bayonet, and tried to look alert.

   "Ah, he's awake," the woman said, dismissing the maid with a wave. 
"Tell Jim to return at five." She tossed back her hood and swirled out of
her long, dark cape, handing it to me.  I laid it aside on my couch, and
she walked into my arms.  I kissed her gently, and she kissed me firmly and
ground her lush, silk-covered and staybound body into me, rubbing me from
knees to nipples.  She tasted of wine.  It was a fine, warm body that
undulated in my arms and breathed desire.  My big hands were busy while our
mouths and tongues tangled and merged.

   "Damn," she said softly, pushing me away.  She was wearing a very fancy
gown which seemed to have two diaphanous handkerchiefs for a top, pocket
hoops that flared out her ornate overskirt and a striped petticoat made of
dozens of yards of rustling silk.  There were strings of small pearls roped
through her dark hair, and she also had dangling pearl ear bobs and a
strand of larger, dark and rather misshapen pearls at her throat.  Her skin
was perfect, nearly translucent, flawless, faintly fuzzy.

   We sat on my makeshift bed, and I poured her some corn whisky since that
was all I had.  She sniffed it and then drank it down in a gulp.

   "It's true, the rumor," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her
soft mouth while she shuddered and I pawed her.  "They are leaving; we are,
all of us who are loyal.  Soon.  In the middle of the month is the best
guess; there's something about tides and that fort out there, William is
it?

   "Oh," she almost chuckled, "but they will be back, that brave bunch,
they will be back and hundreds more with them, whole new regiments.  They
sacked Gates.  The Howe brothers are in command, Horny Billy and Black
Dick, and they will be back, m'lad.  They mean to crush you, grind you
under.  Hang Adams, both of them if they catch them, Hancock, that French
tinker, all the leaders." She worked on the snaps at the side of her gaudy
stomacher, sprung it loose and flung it away into the dark.  "Ah, I can
breathe," she sighed.

   I bent, held her small breast and kissed her.  She smiled and stood with
her back to me doffing her huge overskirt and strange, basket-shaped hoops.
I undid her stay strings, and she let the small garment slide over her hips
and stepped from it, kicking it aside.  I never saw a woman so careless
with obviously expensive clothes.  Then she got out of her huge, slick,
pleated petticoat, which stood by itself when she set it aside, and
pirouetted before me in her delicate shift.  "I feel much better," she
said, tossing away the gay kerchiefs tucked into her bosom, kicking off her
silver-buckled slippers and standing on her toes like a dancer.  My
flickering candle cast black shadows that moved across her body and face.
My heart raced and my member strained.

   "Will you go with them?" I asked, taking her hand and pulling her onto
my lap.  She put her arms about my neck and nodded.  Her skin felt cold,
and it prickled under my fingers.  Her mouth was warm and soft.  There was
no heat except for our bodies in my basement hideaway.  I cannot remember
the month, but it was still felt of winter and it was achingly cold.

   "I must," she sobbed.  "Take me.  Please.  We've just a few hours.  You
talk too much."

   I stripped out of my boots and britches in record time, helped her slide
under her cape and the worn quilt on my couch and edged in beside her,
stripling eager and main mast hard.  The make-shift bed had barely room for
one my size, but we soon solved that problem, and the woman lay heaving
under me, hips pumping up and down, legs kicking wildly, head raised on the
couch's soft curve, fingers clawing into my shirt as I held my weight from
her and rogered her steadily and firmly, grunting with effort, bending my
back to the thrilling task, thrusting steadily, controlling my rampant
lust, striving to make it last, taking long strokes.  Her mouth gaped, but
she climaxed with just a soft sound like a breeze, shuddering and barely
pausing as I increased the pace of my lunging and probing, nearing my peak
deep in her wondrously throbbing and quivering quim.

   She locked her long legs about me, released her arms to press her elbows
on the wooden frame, bent her back and took it, groaning under me as I
came, teeth clenched, arms fully extended on the couch's sides, smiling
down at her as I arched my back and grabbed the sofa's arm behind her head.
She shook beneath me as I filled her until she overflowed, jolt after jolt,
rope after rope, hot as lava.

   I collapsed and pulled her alongside my shivering frame, most of her
body atop mine, both os us gasping.  We lay quietly our heads raised on the
couch's uplifted end, enjoying the feel of each other, getting our breath
back, hoping for more.

   "I needed that," she sighed.  "Haven't had a real man for six weeks, and
then that Mayfair fop I laid with spent most of the time looking in my
mirror while he served me.  But you, sir, you are a bull, a prize bull."
She slapped my rump.

   "Why must you leave?" I asked after I kissed her eyes, ears and neck,
kneading her firm buttocks all the while.

   "I must, if I want to live," she whispered, a chuckle deep in her throat
as her hand stroked my chest, digging trenches through my hair.  "They'd, I
don't know, the people here, they'd cut off my nose and ears, might hang
me. I deserve it." She sniffed, shifted her position slightly and let her
hand roam through my tangled hair down my belly and groin and then to my
flaccid member, teasing it back to life, scratching its underside lightly.

   "Your husband?" I asked, petting her back.  She ignored my question,
helped me skin out of my shirt and then gnawed at my mouth and kissed my
nipples.  The cold air washed over us, and I pulled her cape atop my
shoulders.

   "I must leave; it's expected," she said, "but I've entertained them all,
Gage, the military governor, Clinton, the generals, admirals, all of them."

   "Pity," I said, kissing her and sucking her mouth, drawing her tongue
into mine, pulling her shift to her heaving hips.

   "Yes, your friend Madam Barry, you know that's her real name by the way,
she might take me in, put me to work, but no one else would have any use
for me."

   "Did you know the colonel?" With her help.  I pulled off her lacy shift,
and it hung from one of her arms until she dropped it behind us.  She shook
her head to reset her hair, smiling up at me.

   "Backus?" she asked, my aching stones rolling through her fingers.

   I nodded, bending to lick her hard nipples.  They were small and
pointed. I sucked them briefly.

   "Yes, I loved him.  He was wonderful, the last man that really satisfied
me fully," she said, and I thought she was going to cry, but instead she
rose, climbed up my scared body, swung a leg across my hip, and while I
held up my swelling member, she carefully absorbed it and let it grow and
stretch within her, a very pleasant experience that lasted for a some time
while she stayed poised above me, breasts and dark hair dangling in my
face. Then she lowered herself and we began again with my goal a hundred
strokes before I came.  I heard the church clock chime three before we
stopped, having lost count somewhere in the forties, and I went to visit
the privy wrapped in her cloak, leaving her on her back, panting and only
partly covered, one knee raised and her arm across her face, thick fluids
on her thigh and mingled with her pubic hair.

   "I've never made love on such a small bed," she said, welcoming me back
beside her.  I kissed her and then we assumed the spoon position with me
behind in order to rest for a spell.  I pulled her cape across us both and
snuggled in.

   "You could come with me, join the patriots," I said to her hair, my hand
cupping one small but perfect breast.

   She giggled and shook under my exploring fingers.  "I like my life.  I'm
a wastrel, you big fool.  I enjoy good wine, fine food, interesting
company, music and dancing, jewelry and gifts, all the rest.  And men, big
men especially."

   We lay quietly, breathing together.

   "It's too late for me," she said.  "I've made my bed.  But, but, when
the time comes, when we are in New York . . ."

   "What?" I said, more loudly than I had meant to.

   "Oh yes," she said, "and they will welcome us, the Dutchies.  Wait and
see.  We shall have a fete.  I shall be queen of the May." She laughed
without mirth.

   I caressed her, slid my hand down her soft belly and explored her soggy
slit.  She covered my hand, encouraging my kneading and rubbing.  I
hardened and pushed my way into her from the back.  She groaned and
quivered as I entered again, a fierce and tireless ram, up and in and then
farther still, seeking, pushing, driving, ramming, smacking us together.

   "I can do the cause more good staying where I am," she said, heaving
steadily, breathing through her mouth.  "My god, that's good.  Deeper,
deeper, go on.  Oh there, right there." She squealed and shook, lubricating
the way once more with a sudden gush of fluid.

   Eventually I got her up on her knees with her head down on the foot of
the couch and enjoyed her, leaning atop her back until we both were spent.
Somewhere in there the clock struck four.  We rested, intertwined, she
licked me back to life and I slid my spitanointed rod into her again while
she lay spread beneath me, arched up on the top of the couch.  Her final
orgasm shook us both, and I squelched her brief scream with my mouth.  When
we could stand, I helped her dress, stealing kisses from time to time, and
when Duchess came in the gray of dawn, the woman hugged me, said, "You'll
do," and went back to her other life.

   I reported what I had learned, but I am not sure I was believed.  Then I
went back several more times, but failed in repeated attempts to contact
the Singleton woman and made do with Roxy.  The British stayed warm and
cozy while some men took on duties I fortunately avoided, hauling huge
cannon across icecovered lakes and rivers all the way from Fort Ticonderoga
to the heights of Dorchester which overlooked the teeming city with its
hundreds of smoking chimney pots.

   My officers expressed surprise when the British fleet sailed out of
sight in mid-March carrying off not only the army and marines but hundreds
of civilians as well.  I went into the abandoned town, hardly recognizing
it in daylight, enjoyed the celebrating, got drunk as a lord and well laid
a number of times that week.  I found the Singleton's looted home empty but
Madam Barry's doing a thriving business.  Then we were ordered south,
toward New York, which the staff had decided would be the next target of
our enemies.  I was not surprised.

   <2nd attachment end>

   <1st attachment, "Rebel 004.txt" begin>

   Rebel 004 {Old Bill} (MF hist)

   Connecticut Comfort

   We were passing through a small town in Connecticut which does not help
locate it very much since Connecticut was full of small towns and most of
them looked pretty much alike, church spire, square green and all.  I guess
the point is, I don't remember its name.  This one was up in the hills a
ways and had two churches.  Anyhow, we stopped to eat and before we could
get much more than two bites tucked away, the jolly townsfolk jumped us,
attacked us with pitchforks, blunderbusses, hatchets, anything they could
use as a weapon.  A real melee it was, full of screams and running about.
There were dozens of them and only ten of us.  We scattered, but they
caught two of our men and hacked them to death.  Sometimes I can hear their
screams, and I still wonder if I could have saved them, but in my heart I
know I could not.  I did not look back; I ran.

   I scrambled into an old barn and probably covered my ears and tried to
make myself as small as possible while my friends perished, pleading for
help and mercy.  I guess the barn could not have been too old way out
there, but it smelled abandoned and sat behind the ruins of a burned cabin,
leaning precariously leeward with holes in the roof, pigeons in the stalls,
and some boards already stolen away.  I sat quietly while the small,
bloodthirsty mob of perhaps a score surged around and ended up at the
tavern, hauling the mangled remains of my two comrades behind them.  They
hung them from a tree by their feet and went in for a wet leaving the
mangled corpses swinging and attracting flies and crows.

   We evidently had run into a town full of Tories, and I wondered, as my
hunger reminded me, if there were any patriot families about.  From what I
had seen, if there where, they kept their heads down and minded their own
business.  About sundown, the tavern began spitting out men in twos and
threes.  I could no longer see what had happened to the bodies they had
left hanging in the square.  When the moon came up, I went down the rickety
ladder with the intent of getting myself out of that town as quickly and
quietly as I could.

   About the time my feet hit the dirt floor, two men came walking by, one
of them toting a lamp and both of them carrying long guns on their
shoulders.

   "Anybody look in there?" one asked.



   "Spose," said the other.

   "Let's take a gander, nohow," said the first, and they wandered through
the opening where the door had been in better days, outlined by the rising
moon.  I pressed myself back against the wall, but I guess the combination
of the moonlight and their flickering lantern was enough.  I expect they
saw something move but were not sure what.

   "Come out a'there," one said, extra loudly.

   "We got guns, rebel," said the other as they both backed up to stand
framed in the doorway.  My piece was primed and loaded, but I sure did not
want to shoot at them and wake the whole bloodthirsty town.  I fixed my
spike bayonet to the muzzle of my musket as quietly as I could, took a deep
breath and ran straight at them, bending low, zigging left and right and
hoping surprise might do me some good.  It was only about ten steps, but it
felt like a mile.  I think I yelled at them, too, in the last couple of
strides.

   I knocked the man with the lantern over on his back with my shoulder,
his lamp flying one way and his gun another, and ran the other one through
before he could even bring his half-cocked shotgun to bear.  He yelled in
pain as I drove him back, feet kicking, to the missing door's center post.
I pulled out my sticker and jabbed him again, looking squarely into his
wide-eyed face.  Blood poured blackly from his mouth and nose, and I yanked
my bayonet out of his chest and let him fall.

   The first man scrambled up and jumped on my back with a curse, clawing
at my face.  I threw him over my shoulder.  He landed atop the
still-quivering body, and I stabbed him too, several times until he stopped
kicking and moaning.  I dragged the bodies back into the barn, rummaged
through their pockets and found one decent purse.  Then I kicked straw, a
couple of splintered boards and some leaves over them, sheathed my wet
bayonet and got back on the road south, moving as fast as I could toward
New York, our general destination since we left Boston.  Ten minutes later
I remembered that I had not bothered to find their weapons or the lantern.
I wondered if it was still lit.

   I had not gone far before a husky voice loudly whispered, "Hey, what's
goin' on out there?"

   I kept walking and ignored the call.

   "Hist," the voice said.  "You one a them rebels?"



   I got off the road and crouched behind a stone wall, seeing to my
musket.

   "You hungry?" asked the husky voice in a slightly louder tone.

   That got me since I was ravenous and was feeling the after effects of
whatever juices had run through me back at the barn while I was killing two
men the hard way, face to face.  I could still hear the blood in my ears
and feel it on my hands.

   "We ain't all Tories `round here," the voice said.  "Come on in." A door
opened slowly and let out a sliver of yellow light, and I saw that the
voice belonged to a small youngster with unruly hair.  My stomach decided
to take a chance, and I scurried into the cabin and closed the door behind
me.  Two barefoot boys and a slightly older and equally barefoot girl faced
me, smiling.

   "You a soldier?" the voice belonging to the boy with the wild hair
asked, no longer trying to whisper.

   I nodded and rested my musket against the wall by the door.

   "We heerd `em chasing you around out there, saw the two they chopped up,
poor fellers," said the girl.  "Come sit down."

   "Where's your folks?" I asked, perching on a bench at the rude table.

   "Black fever got `em las' year," the larger boy said.  The younger one
was yet to speak and just stared at me.  I tried a smile on him and he
smiled back and came to sit beside me.

   "Sorry," I said, tearing off a piece of bread from the round loaf the
girl put on the table.  It was good bread.  I gave the small boy a piece.

   She ladled some thin stew from the pot at the fireplace and poured me a
cup of water.  I ate, she refilled the bowl and I ate that too and finished
the loaf.  I pulled out the purse I had taken from the dead man and dumped
the coins out on the table.  I gave her half and kept a few shillings for
myself since I had lost my last one the day before turning cards with one
of my mates.  It was the last time I would use his deck, and I hoped he was
not one of the ones dangling from a limb this night.  I wanted to get my
money back.

   The girl bobbed her head and smiled her thanks and I said mine and
complemented her meat poor and saltless stew.  "You could stay the night
here, but they're likely to be out looking at dawn, an' they knows we ain't
with `em."

   I nodded, mopping the wooden bowl with the last crust of bread.

   "What happened at the barn?" the smaller boy asked.

   "Didn't know you could talk," I said, ruffling his hair.  "We had a
little fight."

   "I saw the two men with a lantern go by," the girl said.

   I looked at her.  "They're still up there," I said.

   "Oh," she said.  "They'll be missed soon.  They're the night watch, them
two."

   "You better git," said the older boy, making his mouth into a thin line
and furrowing his forehead.

   "Go through the woods to the creek, turn left, upstream, and the first
place you come to, `bout a mile, is the Widow Young's.  Tell her that the
Springs sent you, and she'll take you in.  You'll be safe there for the
night nohow."

   "She's one a'the few rebels round here.  Her man was killed up north, on
that hill I think, a Minuteman, back las' summer," the boy said.

   I shook all three hands, thanked them and picked up my musket.  Just as
I was about to open the door, somebody hallooed outside and then yelled,
"Call out the watch!"

   I blew out the candle, crept into the dark and headed for the woods,
tripping and falling over roots three or four times before I slowed down.
Just about the time I was feeling fat and happy, out of woods as it were, a
local with a long gun stepped out from behind a tree.  The starlight showed
me his smile, and it was not pleasant.

   "Hole it," he said very calmly.  He did not bother to point his weapon
in my direction and mine was in the crook of my arm, loaded and primed.  I
still did not want to make any noise if I could avoid it, not after seeing
what they did to my friends.

   "Howdy," I said, giving him back his smile and trying to look harmless,
something that generally difficult because of my size.

   "Put down that there gun," he said quietly, swinging his weapon up in my
general direction, finger on the trigger I noted.

   "Mind if I set it against a tree?" I

   watched him very closely, eager to keep him happy.

   "Put it down," he said again, gesturing with his musket.  I had decided
it was not a shotgun.

   "Right," I said, and I put the butt of my weapon on the ground and made
as if to lower the piece carefully.  He took a step closer, and I grabbed
the barrel of my rifle and swung it into the back of his legs, hitting him
right behind his knee.  I let go of my gun and grabbed his, pushing the
muzzle high as I could and clamping one hand over the firelock.

   I had perhaps a three stone advantage over the slim man, and it only
took seconds to wrest his musket out of his hands and bash him in the side
of the head with it.  That made a very satisfactory sound, like jitting a
melon with a mallet, and he dropped, ending up in an awkward tangle at my
feet.  I kicked him a couple of times, got no response and quickly took his
purse and powder, tossing his gun away.

   "What was that?" someone cried as the weapon crashed into the brush.

   "Damn," I said loudly.  "That you?"

   "Jim?" said the voice, sounding dubious.

   I hid behind a large tree and clamped on my bayonet.

   "Jim!" he said again, a bit stronger.

   I waited, holding my breath and hearing him coming my way.  A bit of
light glinted from his weapon, and I pressed myself back against the trunk
of the oak.  He approached, crunching though the leaves.  I was about to
step out and confront him, when another voice from my left cried out, "Jim,
Michael, where `ere ye?"

   "Quiet," yelled the man who was probably less than ten yards from my
hiding place.

   "Wait," the second voice said, "I found something.  Come over here."

   More crunching and then, "Oh shit, it's Jim."

   I looked up at my big tree and saw that the first limb was four or five
feet above my head.  I quickly stepped back and jammed my bayonet into the
tree trunk at about shoulder level, stepped up on it, grabbed the limb,
pulled myself up and then straddled it and wiggled the gun loose, feeling a
lot safer and somewhat like a possum.  I dismounted and sheathed my bayonet
and got comfortable.

   For the next five or ten minutes Michael and his companion scoured my
part of the woods.  Just as I was sure they were going to leave, a bat or
something flashed by my face.  I involuntarily swatted at it and nearly
fell from my perch, dropping my musket in the process.

   "Over there," one man yelled and they both made their way in my
direction.  I could see my musket lying on the ground so I assumed they
would find it, and when I saw them walk by under my feet, bent over and
cautious, I dropped on the larger of the two.  My feet landed on his
shoulders and knocked him on his face.  I jumped at the other man and got
my hands about his neck.  I seemed to be doing pretty well until the first
man jumped on my back; then it got rather confused.  One of the locals
ended up with my spike bayonet driven through his chest, and I smashed the
other face-first into my favorite tree and then kicked the life out of him.

   Neither had any money worth taking, so I confiscated their powder and
went looking for the creek the children had described.

   I found the creek by stepping in it and perhaps an hour later spied a
cabin in a clearing of stumps.

   I could not remember the woman's name.  That outcry and short fight had
scared it right out of me.  I knew the children who had fed me were Springs
and that this was a widow's place, but that was all.  I sat on a stump in
the dark, mad at myself and tried to think.  I spat, gave up, stood and it
came to me: Young.

   I knocked on the latchless door and said, "Miz Young,"

   "Who is it?" came the steady voice from within.

   "The Spring children sent me," I said, hoping that would do it.

   A bar slid away, the door opened slowly, and I walked into what seemed
an empty room.  I saw the banked fire, crude urniture, night-black window
glass on the far wall, and then the door closed.  I turned around and there
stood a serious-looking woman with a heavy-barreled rifle almost as tall as
she was.  She was wearing an unbuttoned man's shirt, and it almost came
down to her ankles.  Her long hair hung loose, but despite all that, she
was very handsome, dark-eyed and full-hipped.

   "They're after me, the townsfolk," I said.  "I'm a soldier, Washington's
army."

   "Are ye?" she said, looking at my farmer's clothes and holding her long
gun pointed at my head.  It did not waver much despite its weight.

   "Yes'm," I said.  "We got ambushed back there.  They killed two a'my
friends.  I got some a'them tonight.  Kind of stirred `em up."

   She smiled and put down her rifle.  "This was my man's," she said.  "It
ain't loaded." She let down the hammer carefully.

   "Looks like a fine weapon," I said.

   "Pennsylvania," she said, cocking her head to the side and doing up a
button or two.  "You hungry?"

   "The children fed me," I said.  "Good young uns."

   She nodded.  "You coming from Boston?"

   "Round there," I said.

   "And?"

   "Going to New York, figure they'll be back, Howe and them."

   "Likely," she said, licking her lips.  "Well, I only got the one bed so
you can sleep wi' me or roll up by the fire."

   "That's a fine invite," I said, holding her even stare and feeling the
urge.  She was likely about my age.  Her chin came to my breastbone, and
she was not very careful about keeping her shirt closed.

   "Yes, I suppose," she said.  "I been kind'a lonely." She stepped toward
me, put her hand on my arm, reached up on tiptoes and kissed me very gently
with her belly against mine.  I put a hand on her back and then the other
on her butt and bent and kissed her.  I think we both trembled.  I wished I
had shaved that week.  She made a noise in her throat and pulled away.

   I did not take me long to yank off my boots and get out of my clothes. I
pulled the shirt over my head and rolled in beside her.  She was still
wearing that loose shirt.  Her skin was warm and smooth.

   We talked and kissed for a while and then made love side-byside.  We
clawed and heaved together as long as we could, hard work but the best
kind, filling the cabin with grunting and moaning.

   "Damn," she said, while we rested, panting beside each other in the
narrow bed, "you sure are a big one.  I can barely get my arms or legs
`round you."

   "Um," I said which was about all I was capable of saying.  She was a
very demanding lady, strong and durable.

   "What do you weigh?" she asked, running her hand through my chest hair
and rubbing her leg up and down my thigh.

   "Dunno," I said, "maybe fourteen, fifteen stone."

   "Lord," she said, "my husband barely went ten."

   "You can climb on top," I suggested.

   "Can I now?" she said, with a laugh.

   As I recall, it got a bit noisy after that.  She really howled when she
came.  Then we slept, and the next thing I knew, she was tending the fire,
still wearing nothing but her late husband's floppy shirt.  I rose, pulled
on my hunting shirt and boots and visited the privy.  When I came back in,
she stood and came to meet me, wiping her hands on her ample hips.

   "It'll take a while for that to boil," she said as the fire began to
rise behind her.  "I saw what you were trying to hide." She smiled up and
me.  I picked her up, deposited her on her bed and climbed aboard, slowly,
and we had a very enjoyable rogering among her quilts.  We ignored the
steaming kettle.

   We ate, loved again, much more gently, and I felt it was time to go,
although I'd much rather have stayed.

   "Avoid the roads," she said, as she packed up some food for me.  "Those
Tories will be out in force."

   I bent and kissed her, her warm breast in my hand.

   "Wait," she said.  She rummaged through the chest at the foot of her
rumpled bed.  "Here," she said, handing me a huge knife in a leather
belt-scabbard.  "It was my husband's.  He had a local smith make it for
him. He hated that spike bayonet.  Poor man never got home to try it.  Will
it fit?"

   I pulled the thing out.  It was a fine, steel blade more than a foot
long and about two inches wide tapering to a point and welded to a ring
just like the one on my triangular sticker.  The leatherwrapped handle
seemed to fit in my hand as if it had been crafted just for me.  I clamped
it on my musket, twisted it and then shook the weapon.  It sat securely
under the barrel, a nasty looking thing.

   "Thank you," I said.  "I won't forget you."

   That bayonet, a bit nicked and gouged, still rests on a high shelf in my
home where grandchildren cannot reach it.

   <1st attachment end>

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