Chapter 13: Honor's Family

"Those beasts," said Madam Von R--, "are holding a fair, as they call it, and have a girl, a very comely girl, as one of the prizes in some sort of contest."

"One of our people?" I asked. "A rebel?"

"Of course. Why else would I bother?" she said impatiently. "Go get her out of there."

"Yes'm," I said and set out. It made for a very curious weekend.

That Friday I nosed around and found that there was, indeed, a competition, open only to militiamen, no British regulars or mercenaries, and that, indeed, the prize was a girl, a maiden as she was advertised, of some sixteen years. Most men in the tavern doubted that, doubted there was a women left in New York over the age of twelve who was a virgin. "Less'n she were awful fast," one said. "Or powerful ugly," joked another.

Early Saturday, I set out to get me a militia uniform and fell into real luck. The first inn I tried was chuck full of young men from the Eastern Shore of Maryland who had been recruited and uniformed by some wealthy tobacco grower, perhaps one of the much-divided Taliaferro clan. They were called riflemen and all carried heavy-barreled long guns. I wandered about until I found the biggest of the bunch and invited him out to try some rye I told him I had in my saddle bags. Sipping whisky from Maryland, I told him.

I left his body behind the stable, deep in a pile of manure and straw, and buttoned his fancy jacket about my chest. Then I presented myself as a contestant, paid the one crown fee, and displayed my borrowed Pennsylvania rifle. I was given a number, seventeen as I recall, and told that the three-part competition would begin at high noon.

"Where's the girl?" I asked.

The busy adjutant smiled. "Some a'my boys are gittin' her ready."

I feared she would soon lose her virginal status if she had truly brought it with her to the city. I went and drank a bit more, cleaned my weapons and rested in the shade after firing the rifle twice and finding it pulled slightly right. I polished some balls until I was sure of their roundness.

At twelve or so someone rang a big bell and about a score of men, in a wide variety of uniforms, appeared and displayed their numbers. We crowded around the adjutant who had evidently sponsored this thing, and he told us the rules: rifle shooting at one hundred yards, then knife, tomahawk or ax throwing at twenty paces, and the top finishers then in a catch-as-catch-can melee for the young female. Then, with a flourish and a grin, he hauled up the prize.

And she was, a prize that is. A young, long-haired blonde girl, slender but womanly, wearing a long pale frock, bare foot and grim faced, probably sixteen or less, nubile but barely ripe. "The winner," the adjutant cried, "gets her for twenty-four hours, then she goes into the regiment's rest house."

The girl stared out over the crowd, her mouth wiggling and her eyes wet. She was pale but her cheeks were pink and her knees shook. I watched her grip the boards with her toes and felt pity for her.

We got three shots at three penny pieces set on a post. By the time I got my turn, only two men had hit even one of the coins. The brisk wind was from the sea, and I had watched some men who claimed to be dead shots miss wide, post and all. We had to fire standing, and at a hundred yards, a copper is a mighty small target.

I was lucky, my first shot hit low and spun up to strike the coin and knock it flying. My second shot was better, not dead center, but pretty close and the crowd made a noise as the coin seemed to disappear. My third shot went a triffle high; the ball might have been a bit irregular, but it clipped the top edge of the coin without dislodging it. The upshot was, I won the shooting contest, but five men got at least one penny so they were surely in the running as we moved on to throw at a board target about a foot square nailed to a tree.

Most of the contestants were terrible at throwing things at that tree. By the time I was up, only one had stuck his blade in the target. I plunked my first throw right in the middle and then, I suppose, got overconfident, and barely nicked it with the next two, but burying my big blade into the old tree both times. Two tomahawk tossers, one of whom threw underhand, beat me with two good hits, and the three of us went to the final round along with four shooters, stripped off our shirts and stepped into an area marked off with chalk dust. I wondered if I had not heard all the rules.

I had seen a few melees in my time so I picked out the smallest man out there, grappled with him hard, grunting and flailing about while the others tussled and eliminated two of our number. I threw my opponent out of the ring and took on the biggest of the ones left, ducked his wild swing and kicked him right in the stones. Another man jumped on my back, and we went at it pretty hard until I got my arm about his neck and twisted his wrist, forcing him to yield. I went back to the fellow rolling in the dirt and holding his groin. He shook his head when I asked if he wanted to continue. I found the last pair wrestling each other, pulled them apart and floored them both with little effort since they had just about exhausted each other. So I won without working up much of a sweat.

I yanked my shirt back on, recovered my knife and rifle and the grinning adjutant dragged the girl to my side and handed me the rope tied about her thin neck.

"Y'want a'do here right here, boy?" he asked me in a nasal, New England twang. "Like t'watch'cha, big as you is."

I shook my head, untied the young woman, took her hand and led her away as the crowd dispersed. Two men approached as we headed for a tavern nearby, a place I more or less trusted, and both offered me money to let them have a few minutes with my prize after I had deflowered her. We both ignored them.

I got the girl to a corner table in the back room, poured her some beer and then waited until we both had calmed.

I introduced myself, told her I was a rebel and from Maryland.

She said her name was Honor, and then she sniffed. "They took my mother and sisters to that place."

"Their whore house?" I asked.

She nodded and made a face, a sad face.

"You know where it is?"

She nodded again, vigorously. "Gonna put me there."

"Stay here," I told her. I hurried off despite her protests and was back in fifteen minutes with a well-worn skirt of hard material, what they called Scotch cloth, an apron of linsey woolsey and a pair of wooden clogs. She wrapped the skirt about herself almost twice, and we were soon on our way.