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Message-ID: <47561asstr$1082585404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel  023
Lines: 288
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 2004 18:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Rebel 023" begin>

Rebel 023  (Old Bill)  (MF hist)

Olivia

	 Late one afternoon the sound of gunfire got my attention.  It 
almost always did.  It was not volley fire, but pretty continuous as if 
five or six men might be shooting at each other a mile or so away.  I 
came through the dense forest carefully, smelling wood smoke and 
gunpowder, and found a small cabin under siege.  A half-dozen 
Redcoats were out behind trees, rocks and downed logs firing at a 
well-built cabin with heavily shuttered windows, the kind you often 
see in a frontier area where Indians have been or still are a problem.  
I could not tell how many people were shooting from inside, but the 
odds surely seemed to be with the attackers.  I decided to even 
them up a bit.

	The first man came I came upon was busily loading his Brown 
Bess when I yanked his head back and cut his throat.  A wave of 
blood sprayed out over the tree trunk he hid behind and flowed 
toward the earth, dripping off everything in sight. I dropped the 
dead man and finished getting his weapon ready to fire, leaving my 
own across my back, loaded and ready.  I drew down on a British 
soldier forty yards or so to the right, and just after he fired, I shot 
him in the side of the head, a pretty lucky shot at that range.  His 
hat went up in the air; he threw out his arms and vanished in the 
underbrush.

	That was evidently enough for the attackers who scrambled 
back to the other side of the cabin, mounted up and rode away, 
dragoons I suppose.  They took the two empty saddle horses with 
them, but they left their dead where they lay sprawled.

	I hallowed the house and then approached with my hands 
raised and empty.  I heard bars being slid away, and a woman 
admitted me and then almost fell into my arms with a cry of anguish.  
"He's dead; he's dead," she moaned as I held her.  She was a 
youngish woman, firm and willowy, and behind her stood a boy of 
fourteen or so, beardless and big-eyed, his mouth black-smeared.  
On the far side of the cabin, near the hearth lay a man in a growing 
pool of blood.  He was face down and the back of his head was 
sticky with gore.

	The woman was Olivia, the boy James and the dead man was 
Philip, Olivia's husband who had been killed, shot in the head, early 
in the fight.  Olivia and her brother had held off the Redcoats until I 
came along, often firing, they both admitted, with their eyes closed 
tight.

	The boy and I dug a good grave, and we buried the young 
man wrapped in an old blanket.  That night the boy carved a marker 
for the grave with the man's name and dates on it.  He did a neat 
job, and I praised him.  At the woman's insistence, her pleading, I 
stayed the night, sleeping beside her brother and listening to her sob 
until she slept.

	In the morning, the Brits were back.

	We had five weapons, four muskets and a fowling piece, and I 
had brought in the cartridge boxes as well as the food and weapons 
of the dead men along with their meager purses, just a few shillings 
and some tobacco.  I showed Oliva how to load properly, the army 
way, and James and I manned the firing holes on opposite sides of 
the cabin against what looked like eight or ten horse soldiers.  I 
never did understand why they bothered unless they were after the 
woman; she was worth a battle it is true.  The shutters were heavy 
and narrowly loopholed, but the British fired double loads and their 
balls blew away big chunks of wood when they struck the edges of 
the window frames and the double-barred door.

	After a few minutes, I saw what they were planning and called 
the boy to my side of the room.  Outside the soldiers had loaded a 
barrow full of straw and rocks, and as we watched they set it afire.  
Two men grabbed the handles and ran at the house with the flames 
roaring between them.  The others fired on us, blasting away at our 
window stations.

	"Get the one on your side," I yelled as I waited to be sure of 
hitting the bent-over man trotting on the left, head ducked low.  I 
brought him down, hitting him in the hip, but James missed his man 
who abandoned the burning wagon and ran back to the tree line.  
The Redcoats dragged the other man away, and I held my fire while 
they did so.

	Suddenly a musket poked through the wood-shingled roof.  
Oliva pointed and screamed, and I think I fired at the same time the 
man up there did.  James was struck in the chest and knocked back 
to the wall, and we heard the man on the roof cry out and roll off, 
hitting the ground with a solid thump.  The girl ran to her brother 
and tried to stop the flow of blood with her hands, but the boy was 
dead in a minute or two.  He never even had time to cry out.

	The firing did not seem to let up.  Now Oliva guarded the 
back slots, firing only when she absolutely had to, and I held the 
front and tried to keep our muskets loaded, alternating from 
window to window.  They tried once more with a fire wagon, but 
gave that up when I brought down both men with two quick shots.  
One lay screaming under the overturned barrow, burning and 
writhing, his skin peeling away, while the other crawled until he 
slumped and was still.  I took pity on the burning man and shot him 
again.

	The British left, taking their dead and wounded with them this 
time.  Oliva and I sat and looked at each other, our mouths 
blackened by gunpowder, our eyes reddened by the acrid smoke.  
She looked ashen. completely exhausted and rubbed her shoulder 
where the heavy gun had kicked her time after time.  I pulled a 
couple of splinters out of my face and drank water from an old jug, 
trying to get my breath.  We had only a half-dozen rounds left.

	When we were reasonably sure the soldiers had actually gone, 
she prepared her brother's body, and I dug a hole for him beside 
her husband.  By sunset we had the soil tramped down, and she fed 
me while I worked on a marker for the boy's grave.

	"Will they come again?" she asked, looking up from her plate, 
her eyes tearfilled.

	"You can't stay here alone," I said, wondering if they would.

	"I've nowhere to go."

	"No family?"

	She shook her head and a fat, glistening tear ran down her 
dirty face.

	"I'll take you back to the army," I said.  "There's some women 
can help you, washer women."

	"I don't want to be a soldier's whore," she said, looking up, her 
chin atremble, eyes narrowed.

	"That's up to you.  Some good women following Washington 
these days."

	"Really?" she said, wiping her face on her arm.

	I nodded and was glad she did not ask me how many I knew 
since I was generally familiar with several of the other kind, the 
strumpets and jades.  It was dark now and the only light came from 
her cooking fire.  We went to the well and washed our faces and 
hands, enjoying the feel of the cool water.  Back in the cabin, she 
took off her dress and pulled her shift over her head.  She stood in 
front of me, barely lit by the coals of the fire, very slim, her hands 
down at her sides, elbows back, her small breasts rising and falling 
with her breathing, nipples clearly defined by soft shadows, belly 
quivering.  She just stood there, breathing deeply while I took her in 
with my eyes, my hands aching to feel her.

	Then she got into her bed and waited while I undressed and 
slid in beside her, bar iron hard.  She cried for a while in my arms, 
and then she slept.  And then I slept.

	In the morning, I lay beside the girl, hoping.  She struggled up 
from sleep, put her hand on my hairy belly and said, "Philip?"

	"He's dead, Oliva," I said very quietly, my lips at her ear.

	"Oh," she said.  "Yes, of course." Her whole body trembled.  So 
did mine, probably for a different reason.

	I caressed her, my fingers softly on her parted lips.  She 
turned and kissed me hard and then harder, gnawing at my mouth 
and wrapping me in her arms and legs.  I felt her young body 
respond and welcome me, inch by thick and rigid inch.  She moaned 
and then wept as I slid my root all the way into her and our bellies 
ground together.

	"Don't stop," she cried, heaving up against me, bending her 
back, her hands clawed into my shoulders.  "Please, please don't 
stop, please," she cried as I speared her again and again, ramming 
into her furiously.  She actually laughed as she spasmed and shook, a 
sound that gave me almost as much pleasure as the act itself.  We 
rested and then joined again, much more gently, arching into each 
other, groaning and escaping. 

	We ate, almost cleaning out her larder, and started back to my 
company's camp which was on a cold and wandering stream about 
twelve miles off.  We talked about our lives and our childhood, our 
parents and our hopes, and we tried to forget the two young men 
we had buried.  She had only been married a little over a month.  
Her parents had died in a fever epidemic and she had known Philip, 
her late husband, since they were children.  He was a Quaker, she 
told me, and very fond of her brother.  We stopped, and I held her 
for a while as she wept.  Then we went on, making good time.

	 When night caught up with us, I figured we had walked a 
good eight or nine miles on just rocky hills, woodland trails and 
creek beds so we camped, ate the last piece of British sausage and 
rolled up in my blanket, tired and hungry.  Our bodies overpowered 
our wills, and soon we were heaving and moaning as if we could 
never do it again as I buried myself in her.  Once spent, we slept.

	In the morning, I ignored my need and made a small fire, 
rummaging through my knapsack for any missed crumb of food.  
The crackling fire awoke her, and she went into the woods to 
relieve herself and then to the creek to drink from her hands.  

	"I expected more love this morning," she said with a smile, 
stretching and yawning.  "What's for breakfast?"

	"Air and water," I said, grinning back and her and feeling my 
member tremble.

	"I'll get you a fish," she said and trotted off to squat in the 
stream with her arm in the water and her skirt hiked up between 
her knees.  I watched curiously and in a few mintes she popped out 
a good-sized trout and tossed it up on the bank.  Motionless again, 
she waited and soon found another while I gutted out and filleted 
the first and speared him on a stick over the fire.  

	After we finished the trout, a wonderful meal, she stood and 
dusted off her hands,  "There," she said, "I've done my part this 
morning.  Where's my reward?"  She stared meaningfully at my 
foreflap and smiled, stepped out of her damp skirt and opened her 
arms.  After that things got a bit hurried.  We finally had to stop, 
exhausted and hungry again, I was the one that packed up and got 
us back on the trail to reality.

	Mrs. Walsh, a large and matronly woman of uncertain years, 
welcomed the girl.  "Had a daughter died of the smallpox that'd be 
`bout your age," she said, so that settled it.  The lieutenant gave me 
a day free, so I took Oliva to the tavern and spent the coins I had 
taken from the men I had killed.  I always enjoyed spending the 
money earned that way.  We had a good meal and some ale and 
then adjouned to a soft bed under the rafters.

	She lay with her back to me while my hands explored her body 
and brought her to eagerness.  Then she rolled over, put a leg over 
mine and we joined, very gently at first and then hungrily, eagerly, 
endlessly, ignoring the protests of the ropes beneath us as they 
groaned and popped in reponse to our heaving actions.

	We slept with our hands on each other, woke, made love and 
then fell into a deep and dream filled void.  I awoke and turned to 
find the girl gone.  I would not have believed that my war-honed 
nerves could have allowed anyone to move beside me without 
rousing me, but there I was with no woman to relieve me.

	She crept back into the room, wearing just my shirt, doffed 
 that and slid into bed, smiling.  I grabbed her and she squeaked in 
surprise.

	"I had to go," she said.

	I kissed her.  She sighed and welcomed me.   Soon my "ah" and 
her "oh" blended together in a rapid series of gasps and gulps that 
went on and on.  

	"Damn," she sighed as we lay tangled together, hoping to do 
more.  "That was grand.  I never knew I could do such things, that 
anybody could do what we've done together.  Wasn't it  just, just 
grand?"

	I mumbled something.  The sun as well up, and I rolled over 
and stared at the ceiling while she ran her hands over my furry 
body.

	"Maybe I should visit the necessary," I said, feeling that urge 
rather than the one she and I had hoped for.  I pulled on my 
britches and went down and relieved myself at some length. On the 
way back I got two hoe cakes and pitcher of beer.  We shared the 
food and then made love again, once more satisfying each other to 
the point of exhaustion.

	"Can we spend the day here?" she asked, holding up her head 
on her hand.

	"No, besides we'd starve," I said, tickling her.

	We dressed, ate, and both went back to work.  By the time I 
saw her again, perhaps a fortnight later, she was engaged to be 
married to some officer from Massachusetts, a long-time customer 
and friend of Mrs. Walsh, I was told.  I gave her a gold coin and a 
kiss and wished her well.

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