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The buxom maid I was consorting with at the time had the annoying habit of beating on me and whinnying like a colt every time she reached a climax in our frenzied love-making, an off-putting sound when one is doing his best to horse the young lady properly and quietly so as not to rouse suspicion in the house. After her third or fourth neighing spasm of the hour, I left her pudgy young body spread across the counterpane in her family’s back room, tucked away my highly satisfied prod, buttoned up my britches and got back to my chores which that day, as I recall, involved white- washing the whole, long row of slope-roofed outbuildings.
Spring was reaching into the hills of Maryland although it likely had yet to visit the wooded ranks of blue mountains I could see on the western horizon. My family’s nearby farm was small, poor and overpopulated. I was the oldest of eleven, and I had been an itinerant farm laborer in the region for four years or so by 1775, from the time I was fifteen and had reached nearly six feet in height. I generally enjoyed the work, and always enjoyed the girls. I had a prediliction for girls which some would call a weakness but I considered a virtue, and for some reason which I never fathomed, women were usually attracted to me or were at least most were tolerant of my advances.
Every Wednesday morning the bow-legged farmer I was working for and his fat wife, who found me all sorts of nasty jobs when I did not look busy enough, had me hitch up their old buggy, and they set off for Frederick Town on their weekly shopping spree. Most locals went on Saturday but Wednesday was their habit. As soon as they were out of the yard, their youngest daughter and I were groping at each other, mashing our mouths together, tearing at each others clothes and hopping onto the large bedstead in the unused, upstairs room at the back of the house where we hoped we could pleasure ourselves without the servants hearing us. It was a fine and exciting time to look forward to and kept me happily employed despite the meager wages, most of which I spent on Saturday beer, older women and ocassional gambling.
This soft day while I was mixing up my white wash in a big tin tub, my shriveled member still atingle and my aching back not yet fully recovered, a young rider came pounding into the barnyard on a lathered horse, dismounting at the run and yelling, “Where’s Brown? There’s a mess a’trouble.”
I told the red-faced man that my employer was in town, probably in a tavern with his nose in a tankard or in a cathouse with his cock in a bawd, while his wife spent his silver on yard goods, frewfaws and whatnots. “Tell him, say it’s the rebellion!” he yelled as he remounted. clamped down his tricornered hat and twisted his horse’s head about. “Meeting tonight at the church,” he cried over his shoulder as he spurred off, scattering geese.
I put down my big, sloppy brush and pondered the news. There had been a spate of rumors about trouble with England over trade and taxes. Annapolis, we in the back country had slowly learned, was in a foul mood, and people were taking sides or being forced to do so. Even here in the back-country, neutrality was not the style. Most of the wealthy high-hats favored the King, the lord proprietor and his popular governor, a one-time army officer called Eden, although there were wealthy families I knew by reputation, like some of the Catholic Carrolls, who were said to be against British policies. The leaders of the hotheads were younger and more rural men, often ambitious firebrands of some property from outside the capital city itself, slave owners and tobacco growers for the most part but a few ship builders and traders as well. Out here on the hilly frontier, the iron mongers were among the loudest troublemakers, especially a fellow named Johnson whose glowing furnaces belched smoke just north of town.
News had trickled down from New England of an infamous tea party and of resulting harsh measures by Parliament including the closing of the port of Boston, but few expected real conflict, certainly not killing. There had not been that kind of trouble since I was ten years old and the so-called “massacre” up there inflamed the rabble rousers. Some Frederickers, so I had heard, had sent money and messages of support to their fellow-troublemakers in the North, Now, if this sweating rider was right, warfare had broken out. I wondered what it meant to Maryland and to me as I listlessly stirred my whitewash.
Maria came stumbling out into the yard, stuffing her soft, round boobies back in her nearly-outgrown every-day gown and still lacing up her dark-red corset, her sweat-stringy hair in wild disarray and her apron over her shoulder. “Who was that?” she asked.
“Rider with news,” I said, picking up my brush, my mind on other things.
“Tell me,” she demanded, standing before me, still warm and excited from our recent tumble among the quilts, looking distractingly bulbous and decidedly luscious as most girls are wont to do. I felt the urge again; youth is a steady world of wonder kartal escort and want. I reached for her, and she slapped my hands aside.
“Man said to tell your father there’s a meeting at the church. He said something about a rebellion.”
“Rebellion?” she demanded, holding my arm and getting spots of whitewash on her soft, lovely face and freckled chest.
“I don’t know where or who, girl. He didn’t say.”
“Damnation,” she said, stamping her foot and jiggling her charms, “you ain’t worth a tinker’s dam.” She turned on her heel and stomped off to the house. I watched her retreat enjoying the swing of her ample hips. If I had to choose between plump ones and skinny ones, I would take the fat meat rather than the lean, every day and twice on Sunday, if I could get it.
By the time the elder Browns returned from Frederick Town, the back of their listing rig loaded with parcels, boxes and a small keg of cut nails, which I suspected meant another job for me, I had almost finished my task. It was not neat, but it was whitewashed, and I assumed that the spring rains would clean up after me. Since I was tall enough to reach the eaves of the sheds, the job had gone pretty quickly, but I was certainly arm weary and paint spattered.
I knuckled my forehead to the “master,” and reported his hurried visitor. The big man made a thin mouth, asked no questions, rubbed his stubbled chin and went off to his home. I carried the load of goods inside, as usual, and overheard snatches of conversations as I did, enough to tell me that trouble was surely afoot.
It was late and the moon was down by the time Mr. Brown got home from his emergency meeting at the nearby Presbyterian church. I guess you had to expect the Scots to be in the midst of any rebellion, and of course, they were. I waited on the back stoop, smoking a short pipe of his tobacco and enjoying the smell of oncoming spring. The sap was rising, and I had been mentally undressing Maria and absentmindedly jousling my aching stones.
“Well?” I asked, taking his reins and forgetting to sir him.
“It’s those fools in Massachusetts, m’lad,” he said, shaking his shaggy fringe of hair. The man owned a wig but seldom wore it. “They’ve fired on the King’s troops, killed some, maybe a lot b’damn.” He spat a gob of snuff phlegm. “The whole of New England area’s up in arms. We’re going to send some men north.” He trudged off to his darkened home while I took care of his animal and then rolled up in the loft, wishing I had someone to talk to, filled with questions about the future.
That Saturday the Frederick taverns were abuzz with the news. Fist fights broke out between bragging loyalists, often called King-lovers or bloody tories, and us level-headed patriots, usually called stupid rebels, ocassionally disloyal Whigs but sometimes much worse. Frederick Town was, it seemed, a furnace of radicalism and rebellion although I must say that I had not noticed it up until that time, being much involved with my youthful pursuits, in other words, chasing girls. This local rumbling was sort of peculiar, if you think about it which few were doing in those overheated days, because Frederick was chockfull of Germans who had come from parts of the world with a lot less freedom than the English colonies possessed. It was kind of humorous to hear some fat-bellied German sounding off about the rights of “Englanders.”
There were taverns in the town where nothing but German was spoken as well as sung, and many of the local political leaders were bi-lingual with their first tongue being the more guttural continental language. I frequented the few inns and ordinaries where Englsih was much more common, but I had many friends who spoke only German at home and I had bedded a number of giggling frauleins.
The big news that weekend was that new militia companies were being formed; some labeled them minutemen which led to a number of coarse jokes and vulgar references. Since I did not own a rifle, musket or shotgun, and since I was not particularly interested in politics or warfare, I took little interest until the next Wednesday. That sunny day marks the start of my participation in the American Revolution.
When the Brown’s rig wobbled out of sight and I headed for the back room, loosening my belt and rapidly hardening, all but salivating, my palms itching for her warm body, I found myself stymied by the rebellious call to arms. “Have you joined a milita company yet?” Maria asked blithely as she stood at the foot of the old rope bed, our usual starting position, hair tied back as mine was, her bodice nearly wide open and stay strings beckoning.
“Not I, my girl,” I answered, unbuttoning my foreflap and presenting what she wanted most in it alof its wood-rigid, red- headed and blue-veined glory. “It’s a lover I am, not a soldier.”
“Then nought for you, m’lad,” she said, lifting her chin and staring at the ceiling. She sniffed, pulled her dress down and then grinned at me.
“What’s this,” kaynarca escort I demanded, undoing her stays, my stiffened member waving before me like a skipjack’s bowsprit. She pulled away. slapping my hands and ignoring my condition as best she could. When my spear is up and ready for action it is about as hard to ignore as a bull in a pig sty.
“I’m saving my little pussy for the minutemen,” she sighed, wiggling nicely under my petting of her firm buttocks and ripe breasts, my unleashed ram poking at her plump belly and rising toward her boobs.
“Haven’t had time,” I alibied, trying to get her to turn around and assume the straddle-legged postion that would reveal the back door of her wonderously tight little cunny.
“Sorry,” she said, twisting free, “you’ll have to make do with the widow.” She made crude milking motions with both hands and laughed.
“I’ll join up next week.” I was probably panting by then and certainly bar-iron hard and needy as the poorest beggarman.
“Companies’ll be filled. You’re plumb out of luck. Put that ugly thing away.”
“Come on, Maria, just once.” I held up the juicy head of my blood-gorged ram.
“It’s never just once for you, you randy beggar. Be off.”
“How can you be so cruel?”
“Easily, very easily. Johnny Harmon’s joined. He’ll be here any minute, just as eager to please me. Run along now, m’boy, defer to your betters.”
I grabbed her long braid and kissed her thoroughly hoping I might melt her resolve. All I got was a slap for my troubles so I stuffed it down my leg, buttoned up and went back to my chores, sharpening tools and mending fences, whatever I was supposed to be doing that day since it was still a bit early for plowing and planting. And then along came slim, handsome John Harmon, perhaps all of nineteen, on a fine, long-legged stallion, with his embroidered waistcoat, tri-cornered hat, proud cockade and polished boots. He tossed me his reins, smirked, brushed off his soft britches and stalked toward my Maria, adjusting his bulging codpiece.
“Whoa, Harmon,” I cried at his back. He spun about. “What company did you join?”
“My own,” was his haughty reply. “Father’s uniforming us, Harmon’s Mounted Legion. Come watch us on the square this Sunday if you wish. We’ve almost forty men already under arms.”
“Room for a few more?” I asked.
“Perhaps ten,” he said. “You own a rifle and a horse?”
I shook my head and he laughed, waved dismissively and strode off to enjoy the many charms of Mr. Brown’s youngest. I ached.
The next Saturday I found a German company that still had room for men who could shoot and was not too particular otherwise as long as you could hold your beer and not sing off tune. I had enough Deutsch-sprechen to enjoy a flaxen-haired whore and order a lager beer, and I was pretty good with a fowling piece when I could borrow one, so I signed up and watched them march about, taking orders in a rough mix of languages, many not knowing their left foot from their right.
“Nex’ Woche, veek,” the florid captain told me, “mit rifle comen, ja?”
I nodded and hurried back to see Mr. Brown. It took some persuasion and a lot of promises, but I talked him into letting me borrow his prized Pennsylvania rifle and powder horn which usually hung above the hearth in his dark-timbered main room. I made some bullets with his six-ball mold, went out in the woods and practiced, wasting a good bit of powder and lead but becoming reasonably proficient once I got used to the weight of the long rifle and the delay between the pan flash and the firing kick. Steadied against a wall or tree limb, you could regularly hit a fist-sized target at better than fifty yards if you did not flinch, a shot you would not even try with a smoothbore musket.
The upshot was that I passed my test and was mustered in to the fifth Frederick company and issued a well-worn Tower musket, a cartridge pouch with a missing flap and a new black rosette to wear on my hat, if I had owned a hat. I gave the fancy hat bow to Maria and hung Mr. Brown’s rifle back in its place of honor. That Wednesday the girl and I were firmly joined at the foot of her bed, and I was heaving to and fro, hefting her clear of the floor from time to time, a true test of my hip and knee joints. She puffing like a tea kettle, head down between her elbows, as I rammed her from the rear when young Mr. Harmon rode into sight below us. She wiggled and pushed me off. I stood back, soggy but still inflamed, furious at the interruption, very impatient but staying out of sight, my rigid tool in my hand.
Maria leaned out the open window, spilling her barely-covered breasts forward, and yelled, “Not today, Johnny, I’m sorry. I’m not well. Next week, promise.” Looking over her shoulder, I saw him toss her a kiss and remount. She turned toward me, smiling. “There,” she said, looking down at my straining lance which trembled with desire, “I hope you’re satisfied.”
I laughed, anything but satisfied, pushed kozyatağı escort her back to the edge of the high bed, plunked her down, tossed up her skirts and was back into her before she could protest. She yelped, wrapped her chubby legs about me, and we heaved together until we both were sated, and then rolled in bed to rest, undress, recuperate and have at it again.
“You think he believed me?” she whispered in my ear while she kneaded my privates. I was stripping her out of her skirt and petticoat.
“I suppose. He certainly enjoyed the sight of your big boobies.”
“You’re just mean,” she sighed. “He’s a nice boy, and his family’s ever so rich. I may just marry him.”
“Has he asked you?” Her ministrations were having their intended effect, and blood roared in my ears.
“Not exactly,” she said as I rolled her to her back and got between her raised legs, my britches at my knees. She lifted her arms, and I pulled her shift over her head.
“Doubt he will long as you let him roger you,” I said, sliding my throbbing rod into her. “You know what they say about buying a cow.”
“Gah,” she said, locking her ankles high on my back, “wish he was more like you in some ways.” She bent her knees, humped up her pelvis and we began again. Soon the ropes were singing and the bed was thumping the floor in an accelerating tattoo.
And so it went into the summer as I learned something about being a soldier, more curses and songs in German, and John Harmon and I took turns, unbeknownst to him, bouncing on the Brown’s generous girl child. Then came the call for volunteers to go to the aid of Boston after that slaughter near Charleston they were calling Bunker Hill. I had nasty dreams about bayonets and redcoats after that news.
Michael Cresap, looking like he belonged in a casket rather than a uniform, raised and captained one company and Thomas Price the other although Otho Williams soon shared that command. Most of the men recruited for both of these scratch outfits were frontiersmen and experts with the long rifle, many from over the hills and well into the Ohio Country. Almost all of them supplied their own weapons, powder and lead as well as a sheath knife or small ax, some called it a tomahawk. They wore loose hunting shirts, moccasins or soft boots and round hats. A few even painted their faces like Indians as they went to war, a style that seemed to excite some of the local girls.
Before they left Frederick Town in July for their march to Boston, Cresap’s men put on a shooting demonstration that was long remembered. I stood in the noisy crowd and cheered as the fierce looking company arrived. A series of paper targets, about the size of a Spanish dollar, were fixed on a board nailed to a shady tree. The riflemen paced off a hundred yards and began firing. Target after target was holed or nicked. Then one of the men held up a board edge on and a rifleman smashed from his hand. A group fired from the prone position, on their sides, and one even on his back. We cheered and clapped, laughed and hoorahed. Then five men ran across the square firing without pausing. They too hit the targets or at least the board they were on. Finally a frontiersman in baggy, leather leggings held the target board between his knees and stood with his back to the tree, smiling. One of his fellow volunteers hit the center of that target. The man bowed from the waist as we roared approval. That was the end of the show.
In the tavern afterwards, word got about that two of Williams’ men had decided they could not leave their families and had asked to be relieved. Volunteers were being welcomed to fill their places. For some reason, probably the rousing show of marksmanship I had just witnessed, I made my way to the courthouse and saw the recruiter. He looked at me, evidently liked my size, and asked, “Can you shoot?”
“Well enough,” I said. “I’m in the fifth militia hereabouts.”
“You got a rifle?”
I thought fast. “I can get one,” I said. “By Wednesday.”
“That’s the day we leave. You married?”
I shook my head.
“You of age?”
“Sign here then, make your mark.” He pointed to a place on the big paper filled with men’s names and I wrote out mine, very carefully. He shook my hand and gave me another cockade to show my alliagence.
That Wednesday should have been little Johnny Harmon’s turn to have his way with Maria Brown, but I waylaid him as he stepped from his chestnut gelding, hoping the girl was not watching from her window.
“Come here, Harmon,” I called from the barn door, “Got something to show you.” Over he came leading his handsome horse.
I grabbed him by his silk jabot, yanked him off his feet, banged his head against the lintel. then dragged his limp body into an empty stall, gagged him and trussed him up. Then I hurried off to go to war.
First I told Maria that Johnny Harmon had sent a message saying he could not come. She pouted prettily as I undid her stays and helped out of her stylish petticoat. I had noticed that she always dressed better for him than she did for me. We enjoyed each other in several of our favorite ways, all more hurriedly than either of us liked, and then I told her that I was leaving and gave her my new bow. She kissed me and fondled me, made me promise to write, said she would pray for me and then asked, “Once more,” as I was about to pull on my boots.
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