Chapter 23: Vanessa

My horse had gone lame, and I was afoot that morning, carrying my rifle, the captured muskets well hidden, when I almost walked into a Tory company camped alongside the road. One man saw me, yelled and waved as I ducked into the pine trees and ran for it, in no mood to tackle a dozen, well-armed men. They came crashing after me, hooting and hollering like it was some kind of game or cross-country hunt.

I stayed low and moved as fast as I could through the dense woods, across a stream, up a wooded hill and out into a plowed field. Small houses stood on the horizon, and I galloped in that direction, skittered into the first tiny cabin I came to and found myself a puffing spectator of a very healthy rogering. The beefy black man who was horsing the lean woman from behind hardly missed a stroke as he glanced up, annoyed. She was bent over with her hands gripping the log wall, legs well apart and knees flexing at double-time pace, her dress across her shining back.

"Who the' hell are you?" he demanded, holding the woman's hips and still heaving himself into her, grunting with every hefty thrust.

"Man in trouble," I said, admiring the long muscles of the lithe woman he was rogering.

"Busy," he declared, pumping faster, clamping his mouth closed and coming while the woman shook, her head down between her elbows crying out nonsense words of relief. "No more, no more," she sobbed.

"There," he said, withdrawing his massive member and stuffing it into his loose-fitting britches which seemed to be supported by a rope belt as well as wide galluses. "Bitch warn't respectful when I ast her for it." He tucked in his homespun shirt.

The woman crawled onto her narrow bed, pulled the quilt over her head and sniffed as I heard the first cry from my pursuers.

"There's some men out there, want my blood," I said.

The big man peered out the door. "Passel of 'em," he said. "Get in bed with that gal; cover up. Becka, you take keer a'this man, y'hear." The big man left, pulling the door shut behind him, and I put my rifle in the corner, got out of my boots and under the thin quilt facing the wide-eyed woman.

"You's white," she said, her large, soft mouth was only inches from me, and I was tempted to sample it.

I nodded, pulling up my knees to make myself smaller. The lean woman quickly rolled out and went to her tiny hearth. She rubbed her hands in the fireplace and came back, put some on my hands and said, "Do your face, be quick." She rubbed soot on the back of my neck and on my forearms while I closed my eyes and blacked my face and ears as best I could.

When she was satisfied, she said, "Get down in there," and skinned out of her dress. She had a fine body, full hipped with hard, pyramidal breasts. She was very dark, almost blue-black, her hair tightly kinky. She got me to roll over so my back was to the door and slid in beside me just as the door slammed open. I put my hand on her firm butt and held my breath.

"Who's this hussy?" an angry voice demanded.

"Thas' Becka," a husky voice answered. "You busy, gal?"

The young woman turned from me, put her leg outside the covers, held the quilt to her bare chest and said, "Cain't you see? Me an' this buck's verra busy."

The door closed, and we heard the men laughing as they went to the next slave cottage. I patted Becka's back and kissed her gently on the cheek as she collapsed beside me, shaking, actually laughing.

"I had 'nuff for now, mistuh," she said, pushing away my probing hand and standing quickly, finding her dress and pulling it over her head. I stood and watched it roll down over her wide hips like a tide.

"Later?" I asked, sitting on the side of the bed, my hands on her ribs.

She smiled up at me. "Later," she said as I kneaded her butt. She pushed her belly at my face and laughed.

The plantation I had found was Tory-owned and, for that back-country area, good sized. There were twenty-some adult slaves and almost that many children. The chief crop, other than slaves, seemed to be corn but there was some tobacco, wheat and other grains. The big house was nothing special, just a square frame structure with black window trim and three chimneys. The man I had found enjoying himself with Becka in what he termed a disciplinary action but looked like just plain, everyday swiving, was Jeff, the foreman. I wondered how many farms had slave overseers but never asked.

Becka brought me some corn pone and bacon and told me to stay put. "Lots a'men, white men, wif guns up at the house," she said. "They wants you." She poked a finger into my chest and smiled.

I ate and stayed in the small hut, peeking out from time to time but not seeing anything worth remembering. The day's main meal was in early afternoon and always-smiling Becka brought me some scraps and a half-loaf of good bread. "They's still up there," she said. "Enjoyin' theyselves, chatting wif the massa, pestering my missus, put a price on y'head, too."

"How much?" I asked, stuffing food in my mouth.

"Ten shillings," she said, "silver." She pushed out her lips and lifted an eyebrow, one hand on a thrust hipbone.

"Hoo," I said, trying to look impressed. I took my purse from my belt and dumped some coins out on her bed. I sorted through and found what I wanted and gave the girl two crowns. "Here's your reward," I said, putting what was left back in my leather bag.

She jingled the coins in her hand, raised the other eyebrow at me and then put them in a small wooden box on the shelf built into the side of her hut. "Be back," she said, hurrying off. It was pleasant to watch her body move beneath her worn dress, likely the only one she owned. Some women just like being with men, and I decided that Becka was one of those. It is fortunate for men that there are such women.

I spent the time cleaning my rifle and honing my bayonet with a pocket whetstone, waiting for dark when I planned to disappear and head north again, by a different route. The big overseer and an older black man showed up just about sunset. "Come outside," Jeff said, cocking his head to look at me. "Leave your gun."

I did as I was told, and the older man examined me, turning me around. "Won't fool nobody 'cept a blind man," he said with a smile.

"Got by this morning," Jeff said.

"They was lookin' at Becka, not this big man," he said, laughing.

"This here's Joseph," Jeff said, "he was overseer 'fore me, Got sick, worms or something, an' I got the job."

I shook Joseph's callused hand; it felt like a piece of gnarled wood.

"I need a horse," I said.

"You can steal one, I suppose," Jeff said.

"I got some money," I told them.

"Becka said you did," Joseph said. "You be careful 'round her; she'll get it all."

"How 'bout Harold?" Jeff said, and Joseph nodded, scratching his chin.

"Harold's a free man, free black man," Joseph said, "horse trader, a fair one. You tell him me and Jeff sent you over, he might sell you a horse, a good horse."

"How far?" I asked.

"Day's walk," Jeff said, pointing east. Joseph nodded.

"They got men out on all the roads. Don' know why they's so interested in you. What's you done?"

"Nothing much," I said. "They likely to search again, I'd like to wash my face?"

"Don' like bin' black?" Jeff said with a small laugh.

I smiled at him.

"Reckon you can do that. Well's over yonder."

I drew up a bucket full, pulled off my shirt and washed my face, neck and arms as best I could, drying myself with my old shirt before I put it back on. When I returned to the small slave house, Becka was waiting for me.

"You leavin'?" she asked, hooking her hands behind my neck and wiggling her hips, rubbing me with her belly.

"In the morning," I said, running my hands down her back to her hard buttocks, pulling her to me.

"Reckon this is later, then," she said. "I ain't never had no white man. Massa here, he leave us alone mos'ly, wife's like a hawk, watches everything."

"Up to you," I said, turning her around in my hands so her back was to me and exploring her breasts and belly. She was firm all over.

"You want t'pay me for doin' it?" she asked as I drew her dress up to her hips and stroked her fuzzy mound.

"Nope," I said.

"Why not?" She turned and worked on my waist buttons. "I hear tell some do."

"Tain't right," I said, "makes you something you isn't."

"How you know?" she asked, holding up her arms so I could skin her out of her only garment.

"I know," I said, bending to kiss her and hold her. I carried her to the bed, quickly stripped and rolled in beside her on the narrow cot built into the wall.

"Lor, you is hairy," she said after some exploration. "Never seed such a hairy man."

"And you are certainly smooth," I said, prying her knees apart.

"You in a hurry?" she asked.

"Only got tonight," I said, lowering myself into her without any effort; it was a well-traveled turnpike but an exciting one nevertheless.

"Ah," she moaned, "hold, hold, not ready for anything that big." She heaved and wriggled. "Damn," she said, licking her fingers and then stroking my waiting shaft.

It was not long before we were shaking the whole cottage. I kept banging into the log wall with my elbow, knee and butt as I swived this strong, willing woman until we achieved our mutual goals. She exhaled, "Uh, uh, uh," when she came, from somewhere deep in her throat, her back bent and legs tensed. Then she all but purred, lying beside me, her head on my chest and arms about my ribs.

"Old Jeff, there," she whispered, stroking me steadily, eager for more, "he proud a'his tool, mighty proud. You saw him a'horsing me when you got here. He's got a prod like a hoe-handle. But, damn, you are strong, man an' you got what they calls 'durance. You got him beat six ways from Sunday."

The second time was much more leisurely, more exciting, more long-lasting and more exhausting. I had to go piss before I could sleep and when I returned, Becka was softly snoring. I got my big body conformed to her small one, relaxed and slept, wondering about escape, thinking on horses, trying to picture Nina, eager as always for the morning.

Pink dawn slid under the ill fitting door of Becka's windowless cabin, and I awoke, hard as usual and aware of the warm body beside me. We had slept spoon fashion and now my prod was creeping up between her bare thighs, seeking a home, probing, searching, all but entering. I let my hand wander along her body to hold her breast as I poked at her until I got the thing well lodged between her thick lips. She put her hand down and touched it, sucking air between her teeth and then massaging herself as I arched to my work.

"Mornin', " she sighed as I surged into her. "You still in a hurry?"

I slowed down and we enjoyed my cockstand as long as it lasted, heaving together in a variety of positions, and then Becka went off to do her morning chores, happy as a lark while I lay on my back and tried to remember how to breathe, thoroughly spent.

She was, she had told me, a house servant and maid to the master's only daughter, a young woman who was a recent widow. Rain set in before the sun was fully up and increased in tempo, a regular squall, turning the world gray and muddy as sheets of water blew across the field like armies on the quickmarch. Becka returned in an hour or so, soaking wet, with a piece of soggy corn bread and some ham for me.

"I tole Miss 'Nessa 'bout you," she said with a grin. "That girl's been mean and flighty off an' on lately, needs a man. I tole her that and said I had jus' the thing for her. I never, never been poked like that." She laughed, swinging her hips.

"You did?" I said around my mouthful of corn bread.

"Um hm, tole her you could freshen her right up. Nobody but us need know."

"I got to get goin', see about getting me a horse. Don't have time to go around serving widow ladies."

"Might rain all day," Becka said, sitting beside me, hand on my thigh. "Sides, she's a young un, bright an' pretty. You'll like her, enjoy her. You clean up some an' I'll fix it. I'll fetch'chu a piece a'soap. You kin scrape your face, cain't you?"

Becka trotted off, her bare feet splashing through puddles, and I ate my food and mulled her plan. I was never one to miss an opportunity to lie with a woman, young or old, but I had run into some problems doing this kind of work from time to time as a favor to others. I preferred to find my own women, make my own difficulties as well as my own bed.

Jeff soon arrived with a chunk of yellow soap, a piece of toweling and a knowing grin, said he had heard about Becka's plan, and allowed as it likely could not do any harm. I undid my greasy hair, stripped down, got out between cabins and washed as best I could in the pouring rain, touching some of my stripes and wounds carefully, doing my clothes as well as my long hair and hairy body, hoping we would get some sun to dry things out before I was put to stud. I shaved with Magda's little knife, kneeling bare-assed to look in a sheltered puddle, nicking myself a time or two, but getting my chin reasonably smooth and pruning back beside my ears to a reasonably straight line. And the sun did come out an hour later as the clouds blew on eastward so everything more or less dried, even my thick mop of hair, by late afternoon.

Becka praised my appearance at supper time and tied my hair back with a fresh piece of black ribbon. She said the girl's name was Vanessa McD-- and that she was right eager to meet me. She said she would take me to the young woman around sundown and that I should be nice to her and spend the night and enjoy myself. I ate some squirrel stew and corn pone and took my ease on Becka's bed, thinking there were a lot worse ways to fight a war.

At purple dusk Becka led me to a small clapboard house with a fieldstone chimney that was a half-mile or so from the big house, chattering all the way there about how fine and pretty her mistress was and how nasty and vile her late husband had been. "Girl made jus' a'awful mistake, she did. I tole her an' tole her an' tole her." The black woman shook her head. "Then she got lucky an' he got hisself kilt. Hah! You be nice to her. She done had a hard time, all these boys swarming 'round lately. An' she cain't have none."

"Why doesn't she just pick one, get married again?"

"Gal's still in mourning. This here's where they lived after they got married, used to be a tenant house. Go on in. I'll see you tomorrow, maybe. You be nice."

I bent and kissed Becka's nose, patted her bottom and watched her run off, black legs flashing. Then I knocked and entered the small house.

Vanessa was, as Becka had claimed, a delicate beauty. Light haired, dainty, slender, poised, she was probably little more than five feet high and certainly did not weight a hundred pounds, but she had a very mature body and a very frank and open look. Becka had told me that the girl had married at sixteen and was wed less than a year when her well-bred husband got himself killed in a duel so she was probably no more than eighteen when I visited her. Her husband had, people said, cheated at cards.

She was wearing a fringed and bead-embroidered black sacque dress over a quilted gray petticoat, very stylish and low-cut, full-hipped, purple-trimmed and almost flat and skin tight in front with a horizontal neckline, a wide point down to her belly and sewed-in boning. It emphasized her small waist, full hips and swelling breasts which stood, round and firm, well outside her rib cage when she stood up straight with her arms back, as she often did. In fact, she generally stood very straight although I doubt that her dress gave her much choice about that.

I introduced myself, made what passed for a bow in response to her head nod and knee bend, and took the window seat she offered, feeling a bit foolish and noting her soft blush. The girl produced a bottle of dark wine, stemmed glasses and some sweet cakes, and we sat and sipped and nibbled and exchanged pleasantries for a while, avoiding the topic of the war as well as the purpose of my visit. I think we spoke mainly about the morning rain.

"Becka and I talked about this," Vanessa said, eyes shyly lowered. "This visit of yours. She thinks I need a man. And, well sir, she certainly was impressed by you."

"Was she? Interesting woman, that one? Claimed I was the first white man she's ever known," I said.

"What a story," the girl hooted, obviously delighted. "She's our favorite bed warmer when we have company. You were likely not even the hundredth white man she's been with. Becka just loves to swive. It's all she talks about." The girl blushed nicely.

"That, at least, is the truth," I said as she poured me some more wine, holding back her long hair as she bent forward.

"You heard about my husband?" Vanessa asked, turning serious, her hand at her heart.

"Some," I admitted, sniffing her perfume. She may have been a bit heavy--handed in its use.

"I made a stupid mistake when I was mad at my father, married a man I hardly knew because he was so pretty, came from such a good family. He was about ten years older; so I thought, well, Vanessa, he will be mature, stable, you know, all grown up, and I can learn to be a good wife, mistress of his fine estate with his help, have pretty clothes, go to parties, perhaps to Europe or the islands. He was a third son. I haven't inherited much, except some debts, gambling debts." She looked away and sniffed.

"And he wasn't what you expected?"

She shook her head of soft, brown curls and moved to sit beside me on the bench built into the wall, smoothing down her wide petticoat and squaring her shoulders. I took her hand in mine. "Not in any way," she said.

She smelled good and her chest rose and fell more rapidly atop her low-slung black dress with its edging of violet lace. She fingered a locket between her high, firm breasts. I could not tell if she was wearing stays, but the dress seemed so hard and tight about her ribs, that I doubted it. She sat up very straight and her eyes actually glistened with eagerness. She licked her lips with the pink tip of her tongue and looked up at me. I got in my question before she could speak.

"You sure you want to do this, spend the night with me?"

She nodded. "Will you leave if I ask, if I change my mind?"

"Any time," I said, lifting her chin and kissing her as gently and sweetly as I could. "But I'd like to stay." I scooped out and caressed one upright breast, my thumb atop it. Her nipple was already hard. I rubbed it. Her breast was firm and warm, smooth and soft to the touch. A real handful and my mouth watered for it.

"I'm scared, a little bit scared." She took a deep breath.

I released her firm poont, put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me, kissing her long and seriously, finding no whalebone, just a yielding body beneath the stiffened satin. "What are you afraid of?"

She pulled away a bit, looking up at me again, hand up on my chest, "I don't know," she said, swallowing, almost fully out of her dress at the chest, both shoulders bare, round mounds rising and falling, pink buds popping out. "It's complicated. You're awful big, y'know. And a stranger. And, and a rebel." She dug her thumbs in the top of the dress and yanked it up, smiling at me as her boobs jiggled invitingly.