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From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel 044 (MF hist)
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Date: Sat, 15 May 2004 21:10:05 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Rebel 044.txt" begin>

Rebel 044 (Old Bill) (MF hist)

Again On the Hudson

	I never made it to camp, at least not for a fortnight, and in 
fact, I was back on the water almost at once, much against my will.  
A Redcoat patrol gobbled me up and sent me, with my arms tied 
behind me and my belt and weapons as displays of my rebellious 
intent, down river where I was made a galley slave.  Now I know 
that sounds odd and unbelievable, as bad as finding a castle on the 
Hudson, but that is what we were, galley slaves.  Only it was not a 
galley but a barge and most of us were indentured prisoners and 
not chattel slaves.  In fact the one slave in the boat was the foreman 
or overseer, and he was as mean and cantankerous a heathen as I 
ever saw.

	He smacked me down on my bench, cuffed my ear, told me 
the man that used to sit there was feeding the fishes and manacled 
both my right wrist and right ankle to the bulkhead.  Then, standing 
up before me like some sort of lord, he buckled on my heavy belt 
and big bayonet, slapped his wide belly, clawed as his bulging 
codpiece to readjust his member and glared down at me.  Most of 
my fellow rowers, I found out by nightfall, were what some called 
"King's passengers," the sweepings of the British jails, mostly from 
Newgate in London, who had been shipped to the colonies earlier in 
the 1770's.  They were serving out their terms of twelve or fourteen 
years and many hoped for a better life while some told me they 
intended to get back to England and the various trades they knew 
as soon as they could. They were, to tell the truth and shame the 
devil, a foul bunch.

	Our work at long, thick oars was to heave the big barge from 
a riverside bank, where muddy iron ore was dug out, downstream 
and across the river to the smelters where it was processed.  Going 
down river, heavily burdened, was not so bad, but rowing that 
square-nosed scow upstream, even empty, was mighty hard work 
and brought out our lord and master's whip on a regular basis.

	We called him, "Ebony Tom."  His teeth shown like ivory in his 
shining, black face and his yellowish eyes seemed to reflect evil when 
he was angered, which was most of the time.  We ate one meal a 
day and got water at the end of each trip.  Moving our bowels was 
done in the river either early morning or after the last trip near 
sunset, but we usually urinated where we sat and endured the stink 
of the foul bilges.  We slept, slumped on our bench and leaning back 
against the hull, under a scrap of canvas if we were lucky, and while 
I did see two or three pairs of men bugger each other now and 
then, most of us relieved our sexual needs with our hands.  There 
were twenty of us on that nameless barge, ten to a side with a 
walkway down the midline where our overseer bellowed out the 
stroke and kept us bending our backs with his blacksnake whip.

	Two days of that work was more than enough for me, and I 
had whispered discussions of mutiny and escape with my fellow 
rowers well into the night.  "Impossible" was the conclusion.  I 
soaked my bleeding hands in the river and hoped for some stroke of 
luck or change of fortune. I even turned to prayer, pleading with 
the Lord not strike me dead for my seldom-heard efforts.

	"Ye die toilin' or ye serves the time," said the big redheaded 
Welshman across from me.  "Tis better'n the mines," he said, "damn 
if it ain't."

	On the third day when we delivered out first load of ore to 
the iron-works dock and the donkey-drawn carts, some well-
dressed gentry stood on the boards above us, including a fine-
looking woman in a dark violet dress.  I noted her at once and felt 
my member tremble.  They looked us over, pointed, laughed and 
chose me and Welshman with the curly red beard for whatever it 
was they wanted.  We were both unchained, had our hands tied 
behind us and were helped ashore none too gently.  Once we were 
upright, I could see that the redhead and I were about the same 
size, big men for those days, six-foot plus and at least fourteen 
stone.  In fact, Robert McSomething's chest and shoulders made 
mine look puny, but then he had been rowing for almost two years.

	They loaded the two of us into the back of a canvas-covered 
wagon and hauled us off to a big house up on the hill and dumped 
us into an unused shed of some sort that smelled of long-dried 
chicken dung and sour milk.  They untied our hands, manacled our 
ankles with an extra-long chain, brought us some food in a wooden 
bucket and then locked us in, leaving us both still wondering why 
we had been chosen and what we were chosen for.

	It was not until the next morning that we found out.  The local 
grenadier company and the nearby Hessians had both produced a 
rough and tumble champion of some sort, and big Robert and I were 
to face them, fight them for the amusement of a Saturday outing of 
the fanciest of the Tories and the local military nabobs.  A number of 
women, including some of the overdressed mistresses of those 
trading with the British and their frilly friends, were expected to be 
in the audience.  All this we learned while slurping up our breakfast 
gruel with our smiling guard. These sort of cock-fighting shows 
were, I later discovered, common in British America during the war. 
Blood sports were widely popular among the upper crust it seemed.

	"At least we won't `ave to fight each other," Robert said with 
a grin at me.  I nodded, glad he would be pounding someone else 
with his oar-hardened, ham-sized fists.  We enjoyed a day of leisure, 
ate well, drank a gallon or so of good ale, rested and admired the 
women who occasionally passed by, trying to peek at us without 
being noticed.  There were some true charmers as well as several 
highly painted harlots spending the weekend in the country for this 
affair.  We did not see our opponents.  Roistering went on well into 
the evening.

	On Saturday, they brought us buckets of water, told us to 
doff our shirts and wash ourselves as best we could.  Then we sat 
and waited, the usual military drill.  When the sun got high in the 
sky, they fetched us to the pitch where we would do combat to 
amuse our betters.  It was a bowling green I suspect, well tended 
and grassy.  Robert and I were led out to the center where three 
thick posts had been installed.  One ankle was freed and the other 
was linked to a post by perhaps six feet of chain.

	"Bear baiting'," Robert said loudly as they padlocked his chain 
about the post.

	"No surprise," I told him.  We both then sat and leaned back 
against the mast to which we were fastened, wondering what 
would happen next and discussing the possible reasons for the third 
post.  The big poles were set in a triangle about twenty feet apart so 
we could not touch each other.  I may have dozed, but I am sure we 
sat out there for an hour or more before the crowd began to gather, 
some with parasols and folding chairs, and we got a look at our 
opponents.  

	The Brit was perhaps fifteen stone and looked very solid, big 
as an outhouse.  He had a ridged brow and the mashed nose of one 
who had fought a time or two.  The German was even bigger, at 
least taller, with a massive chest and thick thighs.  Like us, they both 
were shirtless but wore boots while we were barefoot.  They had 
wrapped leather straps about their hands.  Then the Redcoats led 
out a slight girl with flowing blonde hair.  She was wearing a simple 
white smock, and she looked very frightened.  They tied her to the 
third post with her hands behind her.  Her head sagged, and I think 
she was weeping.

	Then the major domo, a young subaltern with lace at his cuffs, 
looked about him, decided all those of importance were present, 
dipped some snuff, and announced the entertainment in a high-
pitched voice.  Although it was early in the afternoon, I believe he 
was quite drunk.

	"Here you see," he cried, lifting the girl's head with his quirt 
handle, "that rarest of creatures, a true wonder, a New York 
virgin."  The crowd tittered. "She must be faster than her brothers."  
He looked around accepting to small laugh to the old joke.  "She 
goes to the winners, but," he said with a pause, looking about again, 
"they must use here right here, for your enjoyment as well."

	The crowd applauded politely, and he bowed and stumbled.  I 
suppose there might have been two score of them, about two-thirds 
men, and half of those in uniform. A knot of soldiers lounged behind 
them, their muskets stacked.  The master of ceremonies introduced 
our opponents and each of them received a small round of clapping.  
Then he said, a bit more loudly, "No biting or gouging, men, if you 
please, and no quarter is to be asked or granted.  Ready?  Proceed."  
He rejoined a fluffy girl in the crowd, reclined and smiled vacantly. 
She put her hand on his thigh, and I turned my attention to the 
work at hand.

	I got the oversized Brit while the big German closed with my 
Welsh friend.  I cannot say what happened with them because I was 
rather busy.  My opponent circled in to the point where I could 
barely reach him without stretching my chain and beckoned me to 
come to him, giving me a gap-toothed grin.  I suggested that he go 
to hell, and after some more circling and feinting, he closed with a 
rush, and we traded a few jabs, elbows and kicks.  He proved to be 
a head-hunter, aiming almost all his blows at my eyes and ears, while 
I hammered at his thick biceps and well-muscled stomach.  He was in 
and out, left and right, and I, for once, was patient, saving my 
energy, willing to take a bruise or two in order to get in a good lick.

	He knocked me down twice, and each time stepped back in a 
shuffling dance to let me rise before charging in again.  The second 
time I got to my feet, I side-stepped his charge and buried a right in 
his belly, very low, which produced a loud grunt.  That angered him 
and took some of the wind from his sails.  He backed off, took a 
deep breath, and came in again, both hands swinging wildly.  I took 
a hard blow to the left cheek that split the skin, spun away, stiffened 
the fingers of my right hand and poked him in the throat, a ploy I 
had never tried but had seen used in a bar fight somewhere. Things 
crunched deep in his neck, and one of my knuckles popped.  He 
turned away and dropped to his knees, just out of my reach, making 
a very odd sound, like a racking cough.  Then he trembled and fell 
on his face.  He rolled over, his lips went blue, he spasmed and 
stopped breathing.  I retreated to my post and glanced at the other 
fight.

	The two of them were trading blows, nearly toe to toe, really 
thumping each other with blood flying in gouts, when the German 
suddenly butted Robert in the chest, driving him back to the post he 
was chained to and stunning him.  Then the Hessian grabbed the 
Welshman's head and battered it again the thick pole until he fell, 
insensible if not dead, with blood flowing from his nose and ears.  
The victor glared at me, spat and came toward me, tightened his 
strapped hands and balled them into huge fists.

	I cannot say exactly what happened next.  Sufficient that it was 
a wild melee that involved kicking, clawing and many well-landed 
blows.  I recall knocking the man down once and cursing him for 
rolling away from me before I could jump on him.  The fight ended, 
as his other had, with a head butt, but this one I delivered, smashing 
the snarling man in the face and evidently driving part of his nose 
back up into his brain.  He stood a moment before me, looking pole-
axed, and then he crumpled as if boneless into a very large and 
untidy pile at my feet.

	I looked over where Robert lay.  He had not moved and the 
breeze fluttered his hair.  The crowd was very quiet, and I could 
hear the blonde girl sniffing.  "You know any of these people, girl?" 
I called to her when I could speak.

	She turned to face me.  "You're bleeding," she said.

	The young officer who had announced the fight walked up to 
me, looked down at the dead men and said quietly, so only I could 
hear, "This will never do."

	"I know Miss Margaret," the girl said, nodding toward the 
silent audience.  "She's our landlord."

	"You did not fight fair," the man said, spraying my face with 
his spittle. I wondered who he had bet on.

	"Call her," I yelled to the girl, ignoring the fop in front of me 
despite being poked with his short whip.

	He had me unchained and led to the young blonde.  "Go on," 
he sneered at me, "horse her.  She's all yours."

	Her lips trembled as she looked up at me.  "Did you call her?" 
I asked, reaching out to brush back her thread-fine hair.  She 
nodded, and a mature woman in a purple dress appeared at my 
elbow.  She glanced at me, flinched, and said, "She's one of my 
tenants.  They made whores of her sisters I believe."

	"Can you take care of her?  Will you?" I asked holding her 
steady gaze.  She was a fine looking woman of perhaps thirty-five, 
well-built, broad in the shoulders and hips, deep chested and 
narrow waisted, corseted of course.  She looked like one who 
would do well on a horse or under a man.  I recalled seeing her 
before and thinking the same thing.

	She nodded and reached up to touch my split lip.  "You need a 
bit of stitching," she said, her eyes crinkling.  I could smell her and 
found myself aroused.  Her eyes were dark, her mouth generous, 
lips cracked and dry.  As usual after a fight, I was erect, straining 
my codpiece, my member straight up against my belly, but I was 
trying to ignore it.

	I became aware of a conversation behind me and soon was 
being dragged back to my post while the three dead men were 
carted from the field like so many bags of grain.  Somebody brought 
me a bucket of water after my chain was refastened, and I rinsed off 
my face, drank my fill and dumped what was left over my aching 
head.  The cut at my eyebrow dripped blood in my eye now and 
then, but my cheek scabbed quickly.  My lip continued to swell until I 
felt lop-sided.  My ribs were sore and my hands ached. I had one 
dislocated finger for sure and perhaps a broken knuckle or two.

	Refreshments were brought to the crowd that surrounded the 
pitch on three sides, and all of us waited for the second act.  I 
looked about and found the woman in purple with the small blonde 
beside her.  Then I heard a kind of groan and turned to see Ebony 
Tom being ushered to the field, wearing just his leather breeches, 
high boots and my heavy belt and big bayonet.  He smiled at me, 
and I assumed that I was a dead man if they were going to let him 
come at me with a blade in his hand.  I stood and shook myself, 
trying to focus my mind.  I felt my member swell again as it had 
during the earlier fights. My mouth was dry but my blood was hot. 
The black man took off my belt and handed it to the lieutenant.

	"Now," the young officer squealed, waving for quiet, "these 
two men will be fighting for their freedom, this black slave and this 
rebel prisoner.  One will die; one will go free and, where is she, he 
will get the girl over there for his pleasure, his extra reward, icing as 
it were, a sweet token I'm sure, a ripe cherry."

	Without waiting, Tom charged at me, smashed his head and 
shoulder into my chest and drove me back against the post while I 
tried to find a place to hit him.  I kneed him, beat on his back and 
dug several good blows into his ribs, and he stepped away and 
swung at my head, growling.  I doubt that he had been in many 
fights with just his fists as weapons.  We traded blows and I 
generally held my own, but he got madder and madder, kicking at 
me, spitting and cursing.  Impatience is a serious weakness.  I 
ducked one of his wild swings, and he hit the post solidly, fracturing 
his right hand I am sure.  I could see it in his eyes.  After that it was 
easy.  I knocked him down with a solid blow to the temple, dragged 
him back when he tried to crawl away, knelt on his chest and 
hammered his face to pulp.  Then I stood, a bit unsteady, put one 
foot on his shoulder and drove my heel into his throat a time or two.  
That finished him.

	The fight might have lasted two or three minutes.

	The subaltern stomped up to me again, furious.  "You've killed 
him," he said.  "This will never do."  I squatted, put my back against 
the post and hoped they would ask no more of me that day.  Purple 
appeared at the corner of my eye, and I pulled myself up while three 
men carted the big black man's body away.  My hands hurt more 
than anything else except my straining member.

	"Over there," I said to the woman, pointing, "that belt is mine.  
Get the girl to fetch it, please, and hold on to it.  They may keep 
their word and let me go."

	She shook her head.  "I doubt it," she said, putting her hand 
on my trembling arm.  "Cassie and I will do what we can."  She 
followed after the girl as two Redcoats came and escorted me back 
to my chicken-coop prison and locked me in with a long chain still 
attached to one ankle.  By then my cock had subsided, and I ached 
nearly everywhere.  My knuckles seemed on fire.

	It was about sundown when the woman in violet, the small 
blonde girl and a black woman appeared along with a soldier 
carrying a musket.  I was brought out to sit on a stump, and the 
other three watched while the black woman sewed up my wounds, 
tying knots with her teeth.

	"I got your belt," the slight girl said quietly.  "We hid it."

	I mumbled a thank you through my thick lip.

	"They are looking for another opponent," the woman said.  
"Most people will be here again tomorrow, expecting a better 
show."

	"I'm sore all over, ribs, back, knees, everywhere."  I watched 
the soldier as I spoke.  He seemed disinterested in our conversation.  
I showed the women my swollen hands.

	The woman in purple nodded.  She made the word "later" 
with her mouth twice but did not say it aloud.  The black woman 
completed her sewing, bit off the last thread, cocked her head to 
admire her work, smiled at me and the three of them left.  The 
soldier pushed me back into my windowless shed and barred the 
door.

	I contemplated "later" and rested.  After a while I slept, curled 
on the floor atop the ancient chicken droppings.  Much later I heard 
the bar being lifted and woke suddenly, fully aware of my 
surroundings and of my body's pains and needs.  My hand groped 
for my missing knife.

	"Hsst," said the woman, "quickly." It was deeply dark with 
only a single candle showing in the big house.

	Carrying my chain and trying to ignore my surprisingly 
engorged condition, I followed her ghostly shape across the dew-
wet lawn, into the house and up the back stairs to the attic as quietly 
as I could.  She crouched beside me in the gloom, wearing a dark 
robe over her long nightdress.  "I think you'll be safe here for a 
while," she whispered.  "When they find you gone in an hour or so, 
the search will probably be down toward the river."  She handed 
me my belt, bayonet and all.  I bent and kissed her, fat lip and all.  
She held my face and kissed me back, very tenderly.  Then she 
disappeared down the narrow steps and closed the door and only 
source of light.  She left her scent behind, lilac like her daytime dress.  
The attic was floored and had louvered places at the eaves.  When 
dawn came, I crawled to the back end and watched the guard 
discover the empty shed and shout the alarm.

	A hullabaloo ensued with a great deal of scurrying and yelling.  
I must say I enjoyed it, and an hour or so later the slight blonde girl 
appeared with some food.  I enjoyed that too.  The girl sat beside 
me and watched me eat.

	"Mistress Margaret thinks you're something special," the girl 
said.

	"She's special too," I said. "Took a big chance this morning."

	"Can you help my sisters?" she asked, looking sad.

	"I don't know," I said truthfully.  "I'll try."

	The blonde girl nodded, touched my sewed places gingerly 
and silently left, taking the small tray with her.  As the sun rose, the 
attic heated quickly, and soon I was sweating, but that afternoon a 
noisy thunderstorm cooled our part of the world and by then the 
party-goers had dispersed, disappointed I suppose that I had 
deprived them of their entertainment.

	I knelt by the louvered triangle and looked down at the 
Redcoats assembling in the barnyard.  When they all left, I buckled 
on my belt and crept down the stairs after wrapping my long chain 
about my arm.  The house was very quiet.  The blonde girl was 
sitting at the top of the broad stairway that led down to the first 
floor.

	"She's in there," the girl said with a smile, pointing at the 
closed door behind her.  Margaret B-- , whose marital status I later 
discovered was widow for some five years standing, sat at her 
dressing table, brushing her long, light-brown hair.  She glanced up 
in her mirror and smiled.

	"You are a mess," she said, smiling.  "We must get you bathed 
and find some clothes."

	I looked down at the blood matted in my chest hair and on my 
forearms.  "Why did you help me?" I asked as she stood and turned 
to face me.  Her hair hung to her waist, and I wanted to grab 
handsful of it and drag her to me.  She was wearing a plain, brown 
dress, probably homespun, and an apron like our local housefraus 
back in Fredericktown wore.

	"I don't know," she said.  "Come."  She took my hand and led 
me to an open back porch and down some outside steps.  "I had 
them fill the tub earlier today.  The water should be warm by now."  
She pointed to a big metal washing tub, a long oval shape, large 
enough to be a horse trough.  "I'll fetch some more," she said.  "You 
get yourself in there."

	"Can't get my britches off," I said, trying to smile but my 
mouth refused.  "Got this chain on my ankle." I clanked it for effect.

	I think she almost laughed.  "Do your best," she said.

	I peeled out of my breeches quickly, sat on the porch floor and 
got the chain pulled through.  Then I hopped in the tub and sat with 
my knees bent as the woman returned from the well.  She looked 
down at me, smiled and poured the whole bucketful of cold water 
over my head.  I howled. Then she threw me a rag and a piece of 
hard, yellow soap.  I scrubbed.

	"Want me to do your back?" she asked after a bit, sitting on 
the woodpile, ankles crossed, looking amused and desirable.

	"That would be nice," I said, working on my legs.  I had not 
bathed, except for dunkings in the river, in quite a few months.  It 
felt very good and lots of dead skin peeled away turning the water 
gray.  The woman rubbed hard at my back and shoulders, 
commented on my hairiness, untied my queue and washed my hair 
with the soap and then got more water to pour over my head.  She 
went to the back door and yelled for a towel.  "Bring a big one," 
she cried.

	I stepped out of the tub with my back to her, shook myself like 
a dog, and turned to face her when she said, "Here."  She held the 
towel to her body and looked at me, slowly, starting at my eyes and 
moving her gaze down to my groin.  She smiled, pressed her lips 
together and handed me the towel.  "Damn but you are big," she 
said.  "Like a shire horse."

	I dried myself some, enjoyed the feel of the breeze on my clean 
skin, wrapped the big towel about my middle and, at her command, 
followed her out to the barn.  She found a chisel and a heavy 
hammer, and I put my foot up on the anvil and whacked off the lock 
and chain.

	"Now you're ten pounds lighter," she said, putting the tools 
away.  She took my hand and led me into the tack room and closed 
the door behind us.  Then she came into my arms and kissed me 
gently, mostly on the unswollen side of my mouth and then on my 
arms and chest. Her hands fluttered across my back and massaged 
my butt.  It did not take her long to get her dress off and pull her 
shift over her head; she had worn no stays.  She had a strong and 
sinewy body, marvelously smooth and mature, rounded and very 
inviting with a dark, triangular muff between her legs.  She pulled 
me to a cot I had not noticed, and I let my towel fall.

	"Look at that," she said as my eager prod rose well above the 
horizontal and shook, the head nearly crimson, "just what I 
wanted."  She sat, rolled to her back and spread her knees, feet 
planted on the small bed's sideboards. "Hurry," she moaned, lifting 
her hips and spreading her legs still wider.  It was wonderful, 
everything was: her smell, the fresh hay, the horses, the leather, her 
tight and responsive cunny, my rigid and tireless horn.  My sore 
hands refused to support me, but I was able to hold most of my 
weight from her on my forearms.  She was experienced and 
energetic.  She braced her feet and reared up to meet me, lifting her 
surging hips, swallowing up my long prod.  We enjoyed each other, 
gingerly at first and then more frantically, and she yelped out her 
pleasure without constraint, bouncing under me and then grappling 
her legs about my back.  When we were done, sated, spent, 
emptied, just holding each other and enjoying the feel of skin on 
skin, she said, "Now what?"

	I pushed away from her a bit, still aroused, and the cot frame 
splintered and sagged.  We tumbled to the floor, surprised and 
laughing.  We scrambled to our feet, and I got her back to the 
harness-covered wall, bent my knees, held her butt and slid my rigid 
pike up into her.  She lifted her legs above my hips, leaned back and 
exhaled deeply.  "This is what," I said, swinging her about the small 
room and then resting her rump on a saddle while we rogered 
away, her back arched and fingers digging into my arms.  

	"You can't stay here," she gasped out bit by bit, heaving 
against my eager thrusts after she came again, clamping me tightly 
within her as I sucked first one tit and then the other.

	"Why not?" I demanded, bending to take her mouth and 
enjoy her tongue and then I again nibbled at her small breasts with 
their protruding nipples as I sawed away at her, in and out, grinding 
us together.

	"Oh, damn, damn, damn," she cried, spasming and gritting her 
teeth.  "Because I'm loyal, all my friends are, all those that visit here, 
oh lord, lord, lord, lord."  She bucked like a wild horse, head 
shaking.

	I finally came again, jerking and pumping, and then eased her 
back to her feet and withdrew, kissing her forehead and wiping my 
prong on her warm belly. We clung to each other.

	"What about the girl?" I asked, caressing her and enjoying the 
feel of her firm, warm body against mine.  She was panting for more, 
clawing at me while my thick but fading male member slid down her 
body, leaving sticky streaks.

	"Cassie?" she asked, kneading my ballocks and then stroking 
my limber shaft.

	"And her sisters?" I said, lowering us to our knees on the 
discarded towel.

	She spread her legs and drew my turgid ram into her squishy 
quim and then held my buttocks as I hardened again under her 
muscular grip and drove it a half-foot or so into her, leaning back 
and gasping out with joy.  She reached several more peaks of 
pleasure before we had to stop, completely exhausted, sweating in 
each other's grip, our legs muscles spasming.

	"You'll have to bathe again," she giggled, getting back into her 
simple clothes.

	"Another bucket of cold water should do me," I said, tying the 
towel over my sagging manhood.

	"About the girls, I'm not sure where they took them," she 
said.

	"Cassie asked me," I told her, "but I didn't promise anything."  
We returned to the house, hand in hand, and I got into my britches.  
My well-worn shirt, now washed and mended, appeared, but we 
found no boots I could wear.  With my belt and bayonet on my hip, 
I did feel dressed despite having no weapon and no shoes.

	"They have this house," the woman said as the three of us sat 
at a crude table beside the kitchen hearth eating toasted cheese, 
"near their barracks, the grenadiers do, with perhaps a dozen 
country girls to serve the garrison. They may be there."

	"I've heard of such places," I said.  I didn't tell her that from 
time to time our army also maintained pleasure houses.

	"It isn't well guarded.  I've seen it with the wash on the lines 
out back and the girls wandering about, looking forlorn."  The 
woman seemed to study my face.  

"I could lead you there. Please," Cassie said hopefully.

	So we ate, convinced Cassie to stay behind, saddled two 
horses, the woman dressed herself in men's clothes and tied back 
her long hair, and off we went, happy to be together but empty-
handed and without a real plan.  By nightfall we were within sight 
of the fort's walls and retreated to an inn where we stabled our 
horses, ate and drank, bought a pair of broken-down boots for me, 
and were off to bed.  The woman seemed to have a deep purse and 
a willingness to spend.  We enjoyed each other, slept briefly, loved 
vigorously and slept again.  In the morning I introduced her to my 
gigantic, upright phallus, and she mounted me with eager 
anticipation and rode me hard and long.  It was a good way to start 
the day and helped me forget my aches.

	Then we breakfasted and rode off to see about freeing the 
local women the Redcoats were using for their pleasure.  The 
ramshackle house was just beyond the old fort, likely a relic of the 
wars against the French, and as the woman had said, it was nearly 
unguarded.  Two women sat on the front porch, dressed only in 
shifts, chatting with a lounging soldier whose musket leaned against 
the steps.  Another girl was out back, washing clothes at a wooden 
tub.

	We tied our horses in the woods and walked all the way 
around the house, finding just one more sentry, a man who leaned 
again a tree near the road smoking a pipe.  Margaret approached 
him on foot while I circled behind the guard.  When she distracted 
him, I stepped out, clamped a hand over his mouth and pulled him 
back into the brush.  I choked him, filled my cartridge box and 
loaded his weapon.  His purse was flat.

	"There may be some men inside," I said.  "It can't be this 
easy."

	"It's still morning, remember," the woman said with a smile.  
"Not everyone starts the day the way you do."

	We came through the back yard, shushed the girl washing 
clothes and went into the shady house.  We found a few girls there, 
including Cassie's sisters, and while Margaret talked with them, I 
stepped out on the front porch.  The Redcoat looked up and his jaw 
dropped.  He reached for his musket, but I stepped up, yanked his 
head down and kneed him in the face.  One of the girls sitting on the 
step screeched as he fell, spurting blood and bits of teeth and bone. 
I jumped down, grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him 
around back, feet kicking.  I killed him with his own spike bayonet 
and left his body in the underbrush.  His purse had a few coins.

	There were eight of them, all young and all scared.  They 
gathered up what little they had while I hitched up the farm wagon 
in the shed, and we were soon on the road.  We made a long, 
circuitous route, dropping off young women along the way and did 
not get back to Margaret's home and a happy reunion of Cassie and 
her frightened sisters until well after sunset.

	We dined, the five of us, by candlelight and then were off to 
bed, with me well satisfied and heaped with praise for the day's 
work.  I hoped the British would just let it slide, write it off.  
Margaret and I discussed the possibilities after an athletic coupling 
that had the big bedstead groaning and my back rebelling.

	"I don't think they'll come here," she said, her lips at my ear.  
"I'm much too loyal."

	"I surely do not understand you Tories," I said, nibbling at her 
throat.

	"But," she sighed as I massaged her mound with my thigh, 
"you can't possibly win, you know."

	"Impossible," I said as we gnawed at each other's mouth.  
"Study on it.  This big country, how can they conquer us?"

	"That great navy," she said, swinging a leg across my loins, "all 
those Germans, the cannon, the cavalry, General Howe."  She 
reared up and then impaled herself, moaning as she wiggled down 
on my spear, her hands on my stomach, hair hanging in my face.

	"Doesn't matter," I said, holding her firm butt and ramming 
deep, "we'll never give in, never, never, never.  They'll tire of the 
fight."

	After that we were much too busy to discuss politics and 
simply enjoyed ourselves until we slept, more or less spoon fashion, 
with what was left of my firm member well into her sodden cunny.

	A woke her with a nip of the ear, rolled her to her back, 
rubbed my giant, crimson-headed ram up and down her hairy 
mound and deep slit a few times until I felt her lips moisten and open 
and then sank it into her, and we started the day with a procession 
of full-length thrusts until she clamped me in with her strong legs, 
rolled us over and enjoyed herself until we both had climaxed and 
relaxed.

	"You'd better leave today," she whispered, with my spent 
member firmly in her grip, scratching it gently.

	"Aye," I said with no conviction, lying spread eagled with her 
head on my shoulder.

	Someone knocked and she pulled the quilt over us and said, 
"Come."  A maid entered, nodded her head, and said, "British 
officer downstairs, ma'm.  Wants to see you.  Sorry, ma'm."  She 
smiled and fled.

	"Damn," the woman said, rolling out of bed.  She found her 
long nightdress on the floor, yanked on a robe, grinned at me, said, 
"Stay there.  I'm not through with you," and closed the door silently 
as she left, making sure her lush breasts were decently covered.  

	I went to the window, ignoring the heavy-veined pole that 
stuck out before me, and looked down to see a single horse 
tethered to the back porch.  Soon the lean, young officer appeared 
and then Margaret.  He waved his hands and talked loudly while 
she stood, arms folded, and answered him briefly. Finally he turned 
on his heel, mounted and rode off, scattering chickens.

	I sat on the side of the bed, waiting for her return.  She 
entered her bedroom in a rush, slammed the door behind her and 
ran to me.  "Damn them," she cried, sitting on my knees and 
yanking up her nightgown.

	I pulled her forward, grabbed her buttocks and slid my long, 
hot ram into her.  She sobbed on my shoulder while her hips heaved 
back and forth as I gradually re-entered her and extended myself 
fully within her wonderful body, enjoying the taste of her breasts.

	"They're out retrieving the girls," she moaned, "taking them 
back.  They wanted Cassie's sisters.  Oh damn that's good.  More, 
more, more."

	I lay back and she rogered me until she came, gasping and 
quivering on my pike, my hands on her shoulders as she bent herself 
to me.

	"Who is doing it?" I asked after she collapsed on me and I 
rolled us back under the quilt.

	"That popinjay," she exclaimed, clawing at my body, bouncing 
on my belly.  "The one who put on that affair.  You saw him."

	"I recall," I said, rolling her over and getting situated between 
her legs, starting again with slow, six-inch thrusts that made her 
squeal and shudder, withdrawing my shaft until its sensitive head 
barely touched her quivering outer lips and then sinking it back into 
her tight and shuddering cunny, lancing her, smashing it in to the 
very hilt.

	As I bent up above her she sprayed out the words between 
clenched teeth.  "It's his doing, that fool, that pervert, the bastard.  
If I were a man, of, oh, I'd, I don't know, Oh, oh."  And she 
subsided into groans as the pace of swiving reached an unbearable 
rate, and we both climaxed again and then fell apart.

	"Will he be back?"

	"Oh yes," she sighed, "I'm sure he will be.  I sent him off to 
the tenant house."

	I rolled out of bed, dressed, and we breakfasted and laid 
some plans.  She was right, and he was back in an hour, leading a 
horse with two young girls on its back, their hands tied behind 
them.  The young man dismounted and stalked to the back door.  
Margaret, as we had decided, suggested he look in the barn.  When 
he came in out of the sun, I stepped from a stall and was right 
behind him.

	"What are you looking for?" I asked, and he jumped and 
whirled, drawing his straight sword with a metallic hiss.  I slapped 
his face back and forth a few times and disarmed him, stuffing his 
heavy pistol in my belt.  I took his purse, roped his feet together and 
hoisted him up so he dangled head down and three feet off the 
floor.  He pleaded and moaned, but I ignored him, freed the girls on 
the horse, called out Cassie and her sisters and then showed them 
my prisoner.

	"What should we do with him?" I asked them.  Margaret 
stood back and looked at me with disapproval.

	"Roast him," one girl suggested.	

	"Whip him," said a slight redhead.  "He used his whip on us."  
She displayed a wide bruise on her thigh.

	I found some hand tools in a rack near the barn door including 
a sickle, a trowel, some limb clippers and a very mean-looking three-
pronged weeder.   I parceled them out, told the girls not to kill the 
man but suggested they could cut off his clothes and his hair and, 
perhaps, whack him here and there.  Then I took Margaret by the 
hand and went back to the house as cries for mercy rose in pitch.

	Cassie came and fetched me in fifteen minutes or so.  "We're 
done," she said.  "You should see him.  He's blubbering, bleeding 
too."

	The man's fancy uniform still clung to him but in ribbons and 
tatters.  His white flesh showed a multitude of nicks and scrapes and 
his dangling member was grossly bruised, his ballocks nearly torn 
away, hanging by a flaccid ribbon of purple skin.  He had lost a 
tooth or two and his nose was bleeding and one eye appeared to be 
torn away but was not, just the eyelid.  I lowered him to the barn 
floor, pulled him upright and marched him off by the scruff of his 
neck to the riverbank.  The girls had chopped off most of his hair 
and nearly cut away one of his ears.  I was surprised he lived 
through it.

	"Can you swim?" I asked the sniveling man as we stood four 
or five feet above the fast-flowing stream.  He shook his head.

	I drew my big bayonet and poked him in the back, just hard 
enough to puncture the skin.  "When I count to three," I said, "I'm 
going to carve your liver out and feed it to you.  One, two," and he 
jumped, feet first, thrashed about, cried for help and disappeared 
from sight around the bend of the stream.  I wiped my blade on my 
britches and sheathed it.

	After one more enjoyable night in Margaret's bed, I forced 
myself to leave her home and go find out how the war was going.  
Nothing had changed.
	
	

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