Chapter 1: Joining the American Revolution

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 crest 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, oozing my spend and sobbing for more. I 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 predilection 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 occasional gambling.

This soft day while I was mixing up my whitewash 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 heap 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 imbroglio 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.

Young 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 sixteen-year-old girls are wont to do. I felt the urge again; youth is a steady world of wonder 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, up to their hocks and loving it. 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 jostling 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, occasionally 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 krauthead 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 English 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 note of the general uproar 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. "And have you joined a militia 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 in its wood-rigid, red-headed and blue-veined glory. "It's a lover I am, not a soldier." I waved it up and down in pride.

"Then naught 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," I demanded, undoing her stays, my stiffened member jerking abouty 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 pigsty.

"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 position that would reveal the back door of her wondrously 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.

Chapter 2 »