Chapter 45: On the River

When we had nothing better to do, and the big river was nearby, we enjoyed taking pot shots at the officers on the poop decks of passing ships. We seldom hit anyone as far as I could tell, but even at 500 yards, my rifle was very accurate, and I often scattered the afterguard. It was judging the moving target that was the problem, but I enjoyed seeing men scrambling about after one of my shots. Occasionally the tars replied with a bow chaser, aiming at the smoke cloud my riffle produced, but I knew enough not to hang around after I fired.

Then one fine day, they were waiting for us. George, a fellow named Micah something and I were well concealed in the rocks above the river, shooting down at a fairly steep angle and feeling fairly certain they could not elevate their guns to reach us easily. We were wrong.

I fired and scrambled to my second stand where I had stashed some ammunition. Up came the covers on the port side, over went the wheel, rolling the big ship some twenty degrees or more, and out flashed a dozen heavy cannon, throwing a couple of hundred pounds of solid shot our way. The balls smashed into our hiding places like an avalanche, throwing off shards of stone and iron and shaking the hillside. We had barely time to recover from that onslaught when the second salvo struck just as Micah stood. The upper part of his body disappeared in gore with one arm flung high in the blue sky along with his weapon. What was left of him tumbled down to the river.

Below us the ship wore about, making a huge circle, and blasted out at us again, this time with hollow shot that exploded above our hiding places, raining down pieces of hot iron. I felt something hit my thigh, and then the final broadside roared from below, and that was the last thing I remembered for some time.

I awoke in a small, airy room, under linen sheets, buck naked with bandages on my leg and head. The cloth felt very fine on my skin. I was hungry and needed to piss. In the next few hours, with my bodily needs well cared for, I found that I had been hauled to the nearby home of the widow Van S--, a lady of some years with exquisite manners and frightening insight. Her servants told me where I was and who my benefactor was, and by afternoon I met the woman herself.

"You look much better," she said, putting her dry hand on my forehead.

"I feel better," I told her, watching her quick-shifting eyes.

"You're lucky to feel anything," she said with a smile.

"How long have I been here?"

"This is the third day," she said. "We were not sure you would wake, ever."

"What happened?"

"Concussed I believe they call it. One of those British cannon balls hit near you I suppose. We heard them clearly, smash after smash, incredible anyone survived that pounding."

"Yes, it was frightening. Scared the ... Wonder why they did it?"

"Got tired of you plinking at them, I suspect." She smiled her very wrinkled face.

"George all right?"

"He the short fellow? Yes, he hauled you here on his back. Remarkable, big as you are. Then he went off to report, said to tell you Micah was dead."

"I knew that, saw him die." The spurting blood replayed in my mind.

"Your wounds are not so bad. We sewed up you leg after we drew out a jagged piece of metal and put a few stitches in your forehead. There." she said touching my head.

"I'd like to get up," I said.

"What's stopping you?" she asked.

"Modesty," I said, and we both laughed. She called a servant who produced my clothes, cleaner than they had been in some time, with the rents in my shirt and britches neatly mended. I dressed, went downstairs carefully, feeling a bit woozy and sat on the front porch, the verandah if you will. I watched the river flow by, and the old lady came and sat beside me, handing me a glass of red wine.

"Good for your blood," she said.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked. "It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?" she said. "Family's been here since sixteen-twenty-something, fifty years before the English came, both my late husband's family and mine. I knew him all his life."

"Patroon?" I asked.

"Yes, one of those," she said.

Another woman joined us on the porch, sitting on the other side of me, also with a glass of wine. She smiled in passing and I nodded to her.

"This is Mrs. M-," said my hostess. "She's also a widow, but more recent."

"My condolences," I said, looking at her and seeing a smooth face and full figure. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties. Stately might have been the word that best fit her. She was not fat, just big.

"We do not wear the veil here," she said. "I hope you understand."

I nodded and told both ladies my name and said I was from Maryland.

"We are glad to have you up and about," said Mrs. Van S-.

"I hope there is some way I can repay you for your kindness," I said.

"I'm sure there is," said the older lady.

"Indeed," said Mrs. M- with a smile.

"Our male slaves have either run off or been taken by the British," said Mrs. Van S-. "There are a number of chores that need a man's hand."

"I'm still a bit weak," I said, "but I'll get to them tomorrow, I hope."

We dined and I ate well. I sat on the porch some more, smoked a clay pipe that one of the maids found for me and enjoyed the life of leisure. By the time the sun went down, I felt almost myself and took a brisk walk in the fast-fading twilight until my long-idle muscles complained.

When I returned, Mrs. M- was waiting for me on the porch. "Come," she said, taking my arm. She was wearing a long, lacy robe that flared open from her waist revealing her legs. She was barefoot. She led me up the stairs and into a bedroom, closing the door behind us and then leaning back against it, smiling.

"There is other work that needs doing," she said, turning the key, "man's work." She faced me, untied her sash and opened wide her arms. We held each other and kissed, gently, repeatedly. "That was nice," she said after a bit, and put her hands behind my neck and kissed me hard, gnawing at my mouth, grinding her big body into mine, jabbing in her tongue. There was a lot of her. She was making throat noises, hungry ones. Her robe fell open again as she pulled my shirt over my head, taking care not to dislodge my bandage. Her large body was truly admirable, firm and full.

My hands explored her flesh as she ran her fingers down my chest and then worked on my waist buttons. Her breasts more than filled my hands. I sat on the side of her bed and yanked off my boots and britches while she stood and watched me, hands on hips. holding back her robe and letting me view her charms from nipples to knees. Her breasts stood out from her chest like young mountains, and her untamed brush filled her groin with a triangle of mystery. Her hips were as wide as my shoulders and then some.

"You are the hairiest man I ever saw," she said as I sat and looked up at her, admiring her overflowing body and enjoying the feel of my rising passion. "As well as one of the biggest," she said as she stepped between my open legs. "When they brought you in," she whispered, shaking out her curls and reaching to tap my swelling member, "and I saw this big fellow here, and I knew I had to have you."

I pulled her closer until I could nuzzle her full and dangling breasts, each big as a cannon ball with their large and prominent nipples. My prod rose until it poked into the thick hair at her groin. I spread my legs a bit wider, grabbed her lush buttocks and pulled her to me, sliding up into her as I did. She was ready, dripping and pulsing.

She gasped as my thick rod slowly disappeared, put her hands on my shoulders and leaned back against my grip. I got one leg inside her knee and then the other, held her tight, half rose and rolled over so that she was on the bed and I was atop her with my feet planted beside it. I weighed about two hundred in those days, and I suspect she was not much more than twenty-five or thirty pounds lighter. She heaved her hungry body into mine, throwing both legs high and then outward before locking me in, taking me deeper and deeper as her fists pounded the bed. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. I rogered her until she came, spasming again and again, mouth open, her legs locked in the middle of my arched back and her whole body shaking up and back, up and back, enjoying every inch of it, gasping out her pleasure.

The second time was much more patient and a good deal longer lasting, deep under the covers and mutually satisfying, more like love than war. She seemed to enjoy having my hands and lips explore her hills and valleys almost as much as she did having my fierce yard jumping and probing within her.

We rested and learned more about each other, her name was Elena, her husband had commanded his own ship, she had not lain with a man for almost a year as her tightness demonstrated. We kissed and petted each other, and then I rolled between her legs, felt her knees rise beside me and had her again, spearing her until she shook and moaned, her breasts rolling from side to side as she turned her head and upper body in ecstasy.

"Shall I go back to my bed?" I asked her as we lay panting side by side. I could feel fresh blood on my managed thigh.

"Up to you," she said, "I'm satisfied for now. You can cross this task from your list."

"Think I'd get more sleep," I said, patting her leg.

"I'm sure of it," she said, patting mine.

I dragged myself out, picked up my clothes and tiptoed down the hall to my small room. I slept like a stone.

The next day, after ignoring a pale imitation of my normal morning uprising, I got a long list of chores. I moved furniture, repaired doors, cleaned outbuildings, chopped wood, mended a broken window, replaced a fence post, turned a press to make some cider, and checked the hooves of all the animals after I mucked out their stable.