Chapter 57: Mickey

I reported back to Captain Foster and requested leave for a week, saying my wounds had been acting up. Real trouble was I could not stop thinking of Mercy and seeing her torn body in my dreams. He told me to stay away from Pamela and wrote me out a pass, reminding me that General Washington and a French general were expected soon.

Neither Missy nor her daughter was overly happy to see me. Missy was entertaining a white-bearded gentleman in a long-tailed coat, old-fashioned wig and high boots whose name Martha did not know. He evidently was the richest man in Surry County and had a number of farms in adjoining Sussex County as well. The gentleman had arrived by carriage complete with liveried footmen the previous day and spent the night, Martha said with a sneer, in the guest room under the eaves.

"I think Missy done galloped wif him 'fore she put him to bed," Martha said as she handed me some buttered toast.

"How old is he?" I asked

"Lordy, I don' know, ole as sin." Martha shook her head despairingly. "Wish she'd find her a man more your age but in better shape."

Charlotte, unhappy with her mother's un-widowly behavior, had gone over to Williamsburg where the American army was gathering and where young Mr. Cartwright was, I assume, practicing law or whatever he did. She was leaving as I arrived and barely waved at me in passing. Charlotte married him as soon as the war was finally over in '83 and settled down to be at least as domestic as her mother, who never married again but was seldom without male companionship.

I was tempted to go see how Amy and her family were doing out in the hills, but decided instead to visit Booker Forest, since his home was much closer. I still wanted to jump in Missy's bed and make up for my cowardly behavior on the previous visit. Booker was happy to see me and even happier to tell me that he had asked for Miss Elizabeth Finney's hand in marriage and had received both her father's and the young lady's approval of the match. The rape she and her sister had ungone had not resulted in pregnancy, he told me. They were to be wed on Christmas Day. In fact, he had just returned from a visit to Alexandria and was full of news both foreign and domestic.

On my way back north, I stopped to visit Sarah McB--, hoping she might invite me into her large bed for at least a night and help me shed my dark goblins and fears of mortality. Unfortunately two of her children were sick. She had not been sleeping much for almost a week and was no mood to even consider such dalliance.

I stopped to chat with Harley, the blacksmith, and he stuffed a wad of paper notes into my hand, my share for the horses, he told me. I had just about forgotten them and wondered for a moment if the rifleman called Corn had survived his chest wound. We went to the nearby tavern and enjoyed a few beers. The inn-keeper looked at me as if he thought he should remember my face, but I did not bother to remind him of the blood I put on his floor.

"Need a woman?" Harley asked as we stood pissing at the side of the inn, watching the fireflies flicker in the dark woods.

"Could use one, I spose," I admitted, feeling the urge rise.

"Got a good girl that'll do ya fine," he said. "Dentured, kind'a small, but willin'. You kin give her a few shillin's."

"Where is she?"

"Back at the smithy. She's 'sposed to be m'wife's servant girl. Got her for almos' two more years, pretty little thing. Got a mark on her face. Ain't looked at her papers lately. This here's '81 ain't it?"

I nodded.

"Two more years," he said. "C'mon. I used to have a real apprentice, good boy, but he runned off and joined the army. This here girl can do most all he could save the liftin'. Doubt if she goes seven stone."

"She learning' to be a smith?" I asked as we rode slowly back to his furnace.

'Sort'a, anyhow, she's a good one, cuts nails like a machine an' can shoe a horse good as I can. She does me when the wife's away, too. Could get a rise ought'a granite grave marker. Hah. You'll see."

We stabled the animals, and the smith yelled, "Mickey, where are ya?"

The girl came running in, smiling. She wore a shapeless dress that fell open at the top and reached just below her knees. She was barefoot. Her dark hair hung far down her back. I think she probably could have sat on it. She was only about five feet tall, barely that, but all muscle.

"'Arley," she said, with London or Bristol still on her tongue, "what'cha need? Y'wife's a'sleeping. Been at the jug, she 'as."

"This here ugly feller's my fren," the smith said, waving at me. "I want y'to be nice to him, swive him up one side and down t'other if he needs it. Says he does."

She smiled at me and looked back at Harley. "Yes sir," she said, "I'll be banking the fire first if ye's through with it and seein' y'in the mornin' then."

"Thas' fine," he said with a beery smile. He waved at both of us and shuffled off to his house, climbing the steps on the hillside one at a time.

"'E's a good man," the young woman said. "Couldn't 'ave a better master." Her coarse dress was tattered in places and only loosely laced between her ample breasts. She looked healthy and happy.

I watched her rake the coals back and cover them carefully with ashes, her plain face glowing red in the reflected light. The muscles in her strong arms were sharply defined, and her body showed in interesting ways as it moved beneath the worn cloth. Then she turned toward me, dusting her hands and smiling again. "Lord," she said, "ain't chu a big 'un." Don' know if my bed'll 'old ye."

"Mickey is it?" I asked.

She nodded, "They calls me that. I like it."

"Do you like swiving with strangers?"

"No," she said, "but ye be 'Arley's friend, so y'aint' no stranger. Sides ye's a lot more my age than any I seen lately. Most a'is friends are long in the tooth, y'know what I mean. Couldn't 'ardly satisfy a randy spinster, most a'them. I has to put on that they's doin' good, play actin' like."