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Sex Story

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 - white church, grassy square 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, 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 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 men 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 remains 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 heavy 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 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.

"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, Dorchester 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 ahppy, 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, genturing 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 musekt out of his hands and bash him in the side of the head with it. That made a very satisfactory sound, 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 vboice, 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 the bayonet on my musket into the tree trunk at about shoulder level, stepped up on it near the muzzle, 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 local 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 live 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 furniture, 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 some 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 tip-toes 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-by- side. We hung and heaved together as long as we could, hard work but the best kind.

"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. 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.

"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 three inches wide tapering to a point and welded to a ring just like the one on my sticker. The leather- wrapped handle seemd 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."