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Message-ID: <47668asstr$1083399014@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel part 27
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Date: Sat,  1 May 2004 04:10:14 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Rebel 027" begin>

Rebel 027 (Old Bill (MF hist) 

Another Widow

	Every army has its camp followers, and after Gilly 
disappeared, I generally left them alone unless I was very deeply in 
need of female solace.  Some officers' wives were also in the train 
that followed the army from place to place, but they usually rode in 
wagons and the men tried to ignore them while the washerwomen, 
trollops and sergeants' girls walked most of the time and were 
considered fair game.

	Shortly after we stopped the Black Watch in a terrible fight on 
the Heights, one I would have run from if I hadn't been among men 
who knew me, Lt. Foster called me to his tent.  A tall, black-clad 
woman was sitting on a stool beside him with a raw, wooden box on 
her lap.  She was dark haired and sad looking, probably about my 
age.  She was looking at her feet.

	"This is Mrs. McAllen," the lieutenant said after I saluted, 
something we seldom did unless someone else was around.

	"M'am," I said, nodding at her and holding her eyes for a 
moment.  They were gray-green, her eyes, deep and clear like a pool 
with mossy banks.

	"I don't guess you knew her husband.  He was artillery, a 
good man.  Got killed.  Caisson blew up, him and four men just 
about disappeared."

	"I'm right sorry, M'am," I said, and she gave me her gloved 
hand briefly and pinched her lips down to a narrow line.

	"She wants to go home and bury him, his remains."

	I nodded again.

	"Up near Newburgh, other side a'the river," Lt. Foster said.  
"So you take her and guard her and then get back here quick.  
Understand?"

	"Yessir," I said.  "How?"

	"She can ride.  Get two horses, no three, a pack horse.  She 
has some clothes and things.  Ask one of Gridley's men."

	"Yessir, when?"

	"Now, damn you, move," he said like I had done something 
wrong.  The woman's forehead wrinkled, and I left thinking that she 
almost smiled.	

	We had our own stable in those days so I was back in about 
fifteen minutes with two geldings and my mare and helped the lady 
mount up.  She was wearing good boots and man's britches beneath 
a split skirt.  She rode astride.  I had seen a few other woman ride 
that way and that is how all the girls back home rode, so it did not 
seem strange to me.  The lieutenant gave me a pass, a map and some 
money and off we went toward the Hudson with this wooden box 
strapped on the pack horse that I kept trotting along behind us on a 
tether.  We did not talk much, and when we came to a ferry landing 
opposite Peekskill about sundown, I rented a room for her, and we 
stopped for the night.  We ate in relative silence, but finally did 
exchange names.  Hers was Julia.  

	After we finished our meal and I got myself a pipe to suck on, 
we did talk a bit.  Her husband had been a farmer and a part-time 
preacher and school teacher who had joined up after the British left 
Boston and got into artillery, she said, because General Knox found 
out he taught mathematics.  She had come along with him since they 
had no children, living in a tent or rented house I suppose.  She said 
she had enjoyed the army life for a few months but found the recent 
retreat frightening and the sad treatment of wounded men just 
awful.  She said she had spent a lot of time working with the medics.

	Then she went to her room and I went to the stable to see to 
the horses and bed down in a stall resisting the tempation the buxom 
barmaid offered for just a couple of shillings.  In the morning we 
crossed the deep river and then headed north toward a town called 
Fishkill or some such thing.  The road was good and well marked, 
and I think we were across from West Point when we got 
ambushed.  I guess I was kind of dozing in the saddle when these 
men appeared from a small coppice of trees, smiling and pointing 
guns at us.  I did not even get to touch my musket much less bring it 
into action.

	They looked like deserters from some militia company.  Two 
carried short pattern Tower muskets and the leader, a fat man with 
thick eyebrows, had a horse pistol in my belly before I could say 
anything or do anything.  His poke left a shilling-sized bruise.

	"Gimme y'purse," he demanded, and I tossed it to him, 
watching for an opportunity to do something useful.

	He weighed it in his hand.  "Good," he said.  "What'chu got in 
the box?"  He pointed toward the pack horse behind me.

	"What's left of the lady's husband," I said, hoping he would 
turn his back.  The other two were sizing up the woman, whispering 
and guffawing with each other.

	"Widder are she," he laughed.  "We likes them jus' fine, don' 
we boys." He laughed again and spat.  "Who y'joshin'?" he 
demanded, looking evil.  "That there's no coffin."  He pulled a knife, 
cut the straps and the box fell to the ground.  The lid popped open 
and out came a few bits of rounded skull bone, some bloody cloth, 
what looked like an arm or shin bone and then a shriveled hand 
rolled out and 
 lay palm up.

	"Damn," the big man said.  "Look at that."

	"Come on, Jed," one of the other highwaymen demanded.  
"We gonna get us a piece a'ass or not?"

	"Hurry, hurry, hurry, always in a hurry," the leader said with 
a laugh.  "Awright, you boys take her back to camp, an' break `er in; 
I'll get rid a'this big rustic."  He cocked his pistol as one of the men 
took Julia's reins from her hand and the other pulled his horse up 
beside hers and yanked the necklace from about her throat.  "We 
might save you a piece," he said as they headed down the trail.  Julia 
looked back at me with fear on her face but did not say anything.  
The man who had taken her necklace had his hand on her thigh and 
was talking to her and laughing.

	"Get down," the big man said.  "I don' wanna spook y'horse 
when I kills ya.  Looks like a good animal."  He dismounted at the 
same time I did, never letting his pistol's muzzle waver from my 
chest.  "`Sblood.  Look at that big knife," he said, reaching for my 
blade and taking his eyes away from my face for an instant.  I 
elbowed him in the mouth and his gun went off under my arm.  I felt 
the blast burn through my heavy shirt and the ball graze my short 
ribs as I pulled my big bayonet from its scabbard and swung it at the 
man's face.  I cut his nose and cheek deeply as he tried to club me 
with his weapon.  We grunted and fought, knowing only one would 
survive.  I kicked him in the knee and then dug the blade in under 
his left arm, in to the hilt and scraping bones.  He gasped, looked 
surprised and fell to his knees as I withdrew the foot-long bade.  
His hands went to his mouth; blood gushed forth, and he fell on his 
face.  I took a minute to reload his pistol and then cut the pack 
animal loose and jumped on my horse.  I kicked her and thundered 
down the road after the other two bandits and the widow.

	Fortunately they had not gotten far and turned when they 
heard me coming.  I fired the pistol at the one on Julia's right when I 
got close enough, dropped the gun, pulled my feet loose, got a knee 
on the saddle and jumped on the other fellow, butting him in the 
middle of the chest.  He fell from the horse with me atop him, taking 
his breath away, and I cut his throat before I stood to see what was 
going on, my hands dripping with his blood.  Julia was a hundred 
yards away with an empty horse beside her and the other robber 
was in the ditch across the dirt track, moaning and thrashing about 
with a belly wound.

	I stepped on his groin and he squealed like a pig.  "Where's her 
necklace?" I demanded.

	He fished it out of his shirt pocket while I ground my heel into 
his privates.  "Help me," he sobbed.  I lifted my foot, stomped on his 
face and held his head down in the weeds and muddy water until 
he stopped kicking, clawing at my boot and making bubbles. His 
hands fell away from my leg.

	Julia sat on her horse and watched wordlessly, her jacket torn 
open and a white breast exposed to the bright sun.  It looked like a 
porcelian cup, a good sized one.  Her nipple was large and dark.  I 
stood, handed her the thin chain and locket, and she sniffed and 
pulled her clothes together. "Thank you," she said.

	We rode back to the place where the fight had started, and I 
packed her man's few remnants back in their box, got the spare 
horse on his tether, reset the lid with the hilt of my knife and tied 
the small casket back in place.  Then I reclaimed my purse from the 
fat man's body, pushed his carcass into the ditch, and we were on 
our way.

	We were still going north on the good road when it started 
raining.  We stopped under some maples, and Julia found her cape in 
her luggage.  I pulled on my old hat, checked my musket's priming 
and wrapped a rag around the firelock.  It came on a real gully 
washer within a few minutes, and we waited under the trees for the 
storm to pass.

	"Why did you do that?" the woman asked as our horses nosed 
each other. She nodded toward the road behind us.

	"Do what?" I asked, looking at her and seeing something 
different in her strange-colored eyes, concern, worry, panic; 
something.

	"Kill that man."

	"The one in the ditch?"

	She nodded.

	"He was dead soon as I shot him, belly wound," I said.  "I 
saved him a lot of pain."

	She sighed.  "They were going to rape me.  It was all they 
talked about.  Who was going first, and what he was going to make 
me do.  They were going to kill us both."

	I  did not know what to say so I just watched the rain pour 
down.

	"There's blood on your back," she said after bit.  She touched 
my side.  "And a hole here, in your shirt.  You've been shot."

	"Almost," I said, becoming aware of a stinging sensation.

	"Let me see."

	I pulled up my shirt and heard her gasp.  "My lord.  You've 
got two wounds, right in a line, but they're more like bruises or 
burns than a cut.  I've never seen such a hairy back, and your 
shoulder's a mess."

	"You seen a lot of backs?" I asked.

	"Wounded men, yes," she said.  "More than I want to recall."

	I let my shirt down and rebuckled my belt, comforted by its 
dead weight of ammunition and bayonet.  I studied my small map.  
"There should be a ford just up the road," I told her.  "Let's see if 
there's a tavern there."

	I yanked the pack horse on the lead away from his grazing, 
and we got going, at about a half-trot I suppose, not wanting the 
animals to slip on the muddy trail.  By the time we reached the 
stream, which had risen too much to cross safely, we were both 
pretty wet.  The inn was on our side so we were in luck.  I looked 
after the horses, and the woman dashed inside, jumping the biggest 
puddles.  She was a long-legged one.  She ordered some food and 
got us signed up for a room, the one room available.

	We ate and drank and dried some by the hearth, literally 
steaming, the only customers in the place as the rain settled down to 
a steady, gray flood with an occasional rumble of thunder in the 
distance.

	"Would you bring in my leather bag," the woman asked.  "I 
want to get out of this wet dress."

	I fetched it and then at her gesture, followed her up the stairs 
to the room she had hired.  She undid her jacket with the torn 
buttons and then stepped out of her heavy skirt and stood before 
me in her damp shift and stays, her nipples hard and clearly visible 
behind the limp lace.  She took a deep breath and then looked away, 
her eyes glistering with moisture.  She pulled the combs from her 
hair and shook it loose.  Like her shift, it was damp.  She had a fine, 
mature body, strong and lean, womanly, desirable.

	"Let me see your side again," she said as I openly admired her. 
I probably grunted in anticpation.  "And be patient," she said with a 
fine smile, a promising smile.  She took another deep breath and 
lifted her chin, almost pulling her breasts free of her gaping shift.

	I peeled off my belt and shirt and she took me to the window 
and examined the wounds with her fingers in the fading light, 
humming.  Then she turned me around, put her hands behind my 
neck, rose on her toes and kissed me, turning her head and gobbling 
up my mouth and tongue.  Her damp body felt grand against my 
bare chest even with her stays poking me.

	An hour or so later she held me and whispered.  "I wonder if 
our clothes are dry."

	"Doubt it," I said, massaging her strong back.  The first time 
had almost been violent and was of a very short and tumultous, 
noisy, exploratory and exciting, a bit like post-hole digging on my 
part and horse training on hers.  The second took a lot longer and 
was much more satisfying since we both really worked at it, long, 
steady strokes and unending heaves at each other, both of us 
arched and lustful but delaying satisfaction as long as we could, 
moaning and sighing with hunger, enjoying each other's endurance.  
Now her dry mouth was at my neck as we lay grappled together.  
The rain continued to fall, and I was hardening again, rubbing 
against her hairy mound.

	"The river will stay high for some time," she said, bending 
toward me, radiating both warmth and desire, inviting me.

	"I'm in no hurry," I told her, lifting her chin and kissing her as I 
rose to get back between her wide-spread knees.  I grabbed the top 
of the sturdy bed after I got my prong's head settled with her help, 
and she bent up to meet me, smiling, teeth clenched and eyes closed 
as the thick shaft slid into her. She wrapped my hips in her strong 
legs and grasped my arms as I bent above her.  The bed made a 
steady ka-chunk, ka-chunk sound under us.  She gasped and 
panted, and I felt her fingernails open the wounds as she clawed at 
me and rocked from side to side, her eyes closed.  I dug in my toes 
and grunted with effort, trying to pull the bed apart.  She 
shuddered and quivered and then cried out and heaved her whole 
body at mine, trembling and gasping over and over.

	"You're bleeding again," she whispered after I lowered myself 
to my elbows, all my ammuntion expended.  Her belly continued to 
throb, and she drooled with pleasure, puffing as if she had just run a 
long race, her pubic bone hard against mine, her vulva fluttering, my 
spent root quivering.

	"Maybe," I said with some effort, "we, can, find, some linen, 
somewhere."  We collapsed, panting, satiated, and I was expelled 
amid a flood of juices.

	She bathed my scars, wrapped a strip of linen about me, and 
we dressed and went down to eat and enjoy the sizzling fireplace.  
The rain had let up, but the eves still dripped steadily.  I looked out 
at the tearing stream while we waited for our food.  It seemed to be 
boiling, wrathful.

	"It'll be down tomorrow," the girl that served us said when we 
asked.  "No more'n hock deep."

	"Haw," I said, 'you mean my hock and not the horse's."

	She laughed, jiggling her large bubbies, and we ate and 
 drank some dark wine that the inn-keeper was proud of.

	After I smoked a pipe, we went back to our blood-strained 
bed.  In the morning, despite being as satisfied as I had been for a 
long time, I roused Julia to admire my mighty dawn uprising.  And 
then the rest of the world disappeared until we had exhausted each 
other and lay panting together, amazed and happy.

	The tavern girl had been right and the river was down to 
passable depth so we rode on to our destination that day.  Julia 
introduced me around, and I stood across from her the next 
morning when she buried what little was left of her husband.  She 
took my hand and wished me well as I headed back for the war.  I 
gave her the horse she had ridden and half of the money left in the 
Lieutenant Foster's purse.  Thinking about what we had done kept 
me warm and half excited most of the way back, but I did stop again 
and enjoyed that smiling, buxom barmaid.  We rutted standing just 
inside the stable with the horses for an audience.  She brayed like a 
mule when she was satisfied, but she was worth getting chewed out 
for when I finally got back to my duties.	

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