Chapter 46: The Marine's Bride

Our ambush had produced a light carriage, piled high with chests and boxes, and containing a British captain of Marines and his charming, young wife, all frills and ribbons, teary-eyed and wobble-chinned after a loud, rough trip to our hilly place of encampment. We had shot down their two outriders and then killed the driver when he produced a horse pistol. The big, bluff Marine sputtered and swore as we trussed him up, and all of us ogled and gawked at his lovely bride who hung to his arm like a cocklebur.

We had hauled them back in triumph, with my bottom ensconced in the driver's seat and my horse trotting along behind. Our captain tried to talk to the man we had captured, but was only able to ascertain the fact that his bloody, blasted, butt-headed driver had gotten them hopelessly lost prior to falling into our filthy, rebellious, rotten and despicable hands. His cursing was colorful and highly profane, and his frilly wife covered her ears at times as she sat on a stump and watched the questioning.

Her traveling costume was full skirted broadcloth with a tight bodice of silk embroidered with flowers and cut so low and square that fully half of her chest stood exposed for our admiration. The girl had a tiny waist, surely cinched in by sturdy stays, good shoulders, narrow hips, a round bottom and long legs. Her carefully arranged hair was light brown and wavy with reddish highlights and was tied back with a grosgrain ribbon that matched the decoration near her wide skirt's hem. She was likely a year or two shy of twenty. And she was scared. She had every right to be since she was surrounded by horny men.

They were supposed to be going toward the coast where the captain was to board a ship, perhaps at Amboy or New York, although he refused to say, but were traveling in exactly the opposite direction when they fell into our hands. Our captain had his prisoner write out a pass for his wife and her driver and then bundled him off to the headquarters company and pointed to me.

"You brung 'er in, didn' you?" he demanded, licking his full lips as he looked at the girl. He was obviously tempted and his codpiece bulged. I admitted my guilt with a smile.

"Then y'kin take 'er back, an' no funny stuff." He handed me the scrawled note and the Marine's fat purse. "Gi' 'er whatever's left when y'finishes, delivers 'er safe 'n sound. Save some t'git y'self back." He gave me a nudge, half drunk as usual. "And go empty-handed, no weapons, unnerstan'? Git shed a''er soon as y'can. Get back 'ere."

"Yes sir," I said with a sloppy salute, having no intention of doffing my bayonet and hoping I could conceal a pistol somewhere. After a tearful farewell, the young lady climbed back up into her rig, kerchief to her eyes, and I told the horses to walk on, dragging my cob behind us on his reins.

We were not five miles down the road when I heard a thumping behind me and faint cries of, "Stop, please stop." I stopped, climbed down and opened the carriage door. She sat back in a shady corner, pouting.

"I'm lonesome," she said, wiping away a nonexistent tear. "And queasy."

"Can't drive from in there," I told her.

She nodded and leaned over to exit the narrow door, fully exposing both breasts with their tiny pink nipples for my inspection. They were barely as big as my fists, but dove white and blue veined, green peaches. She looked up, smiled and said, "It's muddy, isn't it?"

I took in her small, soft slippers, got her into my arms and deposited her on the driver's seat where she arranged her huge skirt and looked pleased with herself.

I clambered back up, told the horses to get moving, and asked her name.

"Philipa," she said, in three parts: Fil-ah-pah, "but Madam Arnest to you, my man." She sniffed, raised her chin and then laughed at herself, covering her mouth with both hands. "Did you ever hear such language, in your whole life?"

"A few times," I told her, "but your husband has a rich vocabulary."

"I'm from Rhode Island," she said. "Near Providence."

"Good men from there," I said, "some of the best in this army. And Greene, of course, Nathan Greene. He's first rate."

"That big traitor," she said. "That's what my father called him, and Knox too. One's as bad as t'other, he told me, rotten apples."

"Your father's loyal then, a Tory?"

"We don't use that word," she told me. "Yes, we are loyal to the king."

"And Parliament, too?"

She nodded, and then the conversation lagged. We stopped and supped a while later, and then I helped her back up, admiring her leg and haunch as I did, carelessly giving her a thorough feel from hip to knee. The team seemed to be in good shape so I let them gallop a bit before we settled back to our usual walk.

"How long is this going to take?" she asked as the sun began to slide into the forest behind us.

"Can't say," I told her. "You want me to hand you over to the first patrol that comes along?"

"No, I mean you can go as far as New Brunswick, surely."

"You afraid of Redcoats?" I asked with a smile. "Or the loyal militia?"

"Of course not, but, well, I've never really been alone with a man, not really, and I do not like the hirelings, the Germans, the ones I've seen."

"But you are married, aren't you?"

"Oh yes, well almost, we are going to be. Paul needs to have approval or some such silly thing, Captain Arnest, I mean. We are betrothed, but the dowry's not been paid. Formalities."

I swallowed down that information wondering if I had a silly virgin on my hands, a fact that might or might not change things in the near future.

"How long have you known your captain?" I asked.

"Oh, years and years, since I was a child. He and my family did some sort of business now and again." She nodded firmly.

"What business?" I asked.

"We were slavers mostly, although our ships did bring in rum sometimes if the black cargo went to the islands."

"Filthy business," I said firmly.

"Tis not," she stated clearly. "It's all legal Besides look at the people that indenture themselves. What of that trade, eh?"

"Can't say I like that either but down where I come from half the folks are or were indentured or redemptioners."

"Where's that?" she asked, but before I could even say "Maryland" a group of horsemen appeared before us, blocking the roadway, a scruffy, well-armed bunch on dirty horses. They wore red cockades, squashed-down tri-corned hats and mean looks, and they carried Royal-issue muskets. Jersey militia, I quickly guessed, fearing the worst for my passenger and nothing good for myself.

I was not wearing anything that marked me as a soldier, and I had forgotten to hide a pistol under the seat, so there we were, this fluffy girl in a low-cut dress and me with a bunch of ruffians in the middle of nowhere.

"Get down, bof a'you," their leader ordered, spitting tobacco juice off to the side, and I set the brake and helped the girl down to the roadside, enjoying the feel of her hips, ribs and firm boobies.

"We've a pass," I told the man, as two of his band started tossing trunks and cases down from the roof, enjoying themselves while the girl jumped each time a box struck the ground.

"Lemme see." He held out his hand, having stuck his pistol in his belt. He took my paper, squinted at it, turned it about, tore it in half and then balled it up and threw it into the trees. A lean militiaman came to my side, grinned at me, and held my arm loosely. He smelled of whisky.

"You a sojer?" the leader asked as one of his men snatched the necklace from the girl's throat while another held her arm and yanked a gold ring from his finger. She stood quietly, shocked I suppose, very pale.

"Yes," I said, "Maryland Line. This here lady is a Royal Marine's wife. We captured him and are returning her."

"Thas' right dumb," he said, getting down from his horse. "She ain't much, but she's enough to pass the time." He stuck his hand between the girl's small breasts and tore her fancy garment open, shift and all. It hung from her elbows and hips. "Look at them putty li'l bubbies," he cried to his men who were busily looting the baggage.

I pulled away from the man holding my arm, butted the group's leader in the face and pulled his pistol from his belt. I smashed the barrel into the forehead of my surprised guard and then shot the man who had torn the girl's dress open squarely in the left eye, blowing away the back of his skull.

"Run," I yelled, pushing the shocked young woman toward the trees as I tossed away the pistol and grabbed up a fallen musket and cartridge box.

The girl ran as best she could with her heavy skirt and flapping bodice, and I grabbed her wrist and pulled her along as a shot crashed out behind us. I assumed the leader's demise might slow the men, and I guess I was right.

We made it to a clearing, a meadow, before I heard pursuit being organized behind us, arguing and cursing, in fact, is what it was. We circled the edge of the old pasture and hid on the far side where the trees grew close together. I loaded my borrowed weapon and looked at the girl. She was breathing hard, but she was in control of herself as far as I could tell. Her fancy shift, which she had managed to get back on one shoulder, was nearly transparent and highly distracting, and I could see no reason for her to be wearing stays.

"What's going to happen?" she whispered.

"Get that skirt off in case we have to run some more," I told her.

"My feet hurt," she whimpered.

Two men appeared on the far side of the meadow, looked about and then vanished back into the woods. I let out a deep breath and hoped they would be satisfied with whatever was packed in those hump-backed trunks. I supposed that all three horses would go with them. I wondered where we were and checked my pan.

"Here's another one," the girl said.

I looked where she pointed, and he appeared between the trees, crouched over and coming steadily toward us from the left. I guessed the other one we had earlier seen was coming the other way. I pulled out my big bayonet and fixed it to my musket. It barely made a click. I put my finger to my lips and the girl imitated my gesture.

I stood behind the largest tree in our area with the girl clamped to my body, my hand on her stomach. She was still wearing her skirt but had thrown away her ruined jacket, so I had just a lacy shift under my hand plus her tight-laced, whale-boned stays. It was like holding a small keg.

The militiaman crept past us, still bent over, looking both right and left. I handed the girl my musket, stepped behind him, clamped my hand over his mouth, ran him headfirst into an oak and broke his neck with a sharp crack. I was about to pick up his musket when the girl screamed. I jumped to her side, shouldered my weapon, cocked and fired, nearly point-blank at a man who had been running at her from the edge of the clearing, teeth bared, bayonet lowered. He spun about, crashed into a sapling and sprawled right in front of us, kicking his feet and pumping out blood.

I sheathed my bayonet and started to reload when she nudged me. "Over there," she said, pointing. A man stood perhaps a hundred yards away, on the far side of the meadow, obviously listening, musket in both hands across his body. I rested my weapon on a tree limb, aimed just above his head and fired.

The shot missed, but I saw him duck. Then here he came, through the high grass on a dead run, right at the cloud of gunsmoke. I had plenty of time to pick up the musket at my feet, check its pan, and shoot him down at ten yards. He somersaulted forward, spewing blood from his chest and back. I checked the bodies, found nothing worth taking except the girl's necklace, loaded all three muskets, and we started back.

"How many were there?" I asked the girl who stumbled along after me, still wearing her huge skirt and holding her torn shift together with one hand and my arm with the other.

"Six, I think," she gasped, "Maybe five, no six. I'm almost sure."

She was right. Two of the militia bunch were left, the man I had hit in the head, who sat with his back against a wagon wheel with blood running down his face and a boy, a tall youngster who was holding the horses.

The girl and I stepped out of the woods, and the boy jumped and fumbled a carbine of some sort from one of the saddles. I tore it from his hands, tossed it away, cuffed him a time or two and told him to go lie in the ditch. He did what I said.

The man who sat with his legs sticking out toward his dead leader, looked up at me and shook his head.

"You kill 'em all?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Damn fools," he said. "Y'gonna kill me?"

"Up to you," I said. "Can you get this boy home or wherever he belongs?"

He nodded. "He's mine, my son."

"Well," I said, "you and your boy get this lady's stuff picked up and loaded on this rig and then you can go, take your horses, too. How's that?"

"Right fair," he said, reaching out a hand. I helped him up, bandaged his head with a strip torn from the leader's shirt, and the two of them stuffed the clothes and linens and things back as best they could while the girl searched fruitlessly for her ring. They piled what was left over inside the carriage. Then they nodded to me and to the young woman, who was wearing a short jacket of rough wool decorated with curlicues of stitching. Her carefully dressed hair had come loose and now hung over one shoulder and halfway down her back.

"You did a good job," I said to them. "You can each take an extra horse." I had found a pretty hefty purse on the man who had torn up our pass and was feeling generous. The man smiled at me and the boy waved as they left. By then it was pretty dark, and when they were gone I wished I had asked how far off the next inn was.

It was not far, perhaps two or three miles. Not much of a place, in fact the stable was in better shape that the ordinary, but it was lit and looked inviting to both of us. We ate reasonably well, rabbit stew and biscuits, good beer and some kind of bread pudding. I smoked a pipe and the girl fumbled with the buttons on her sleeves.

"How did it feel?" she asked without looking up.

I knew what she wanted to know, but I said, "What?"

"Killing that man, with your hands I mean?"

"Nothing," I said, "never even thought about it. Like wringing a chicken's neck. You ever do that?"

She nodded.

"Well then," I said. "We had to do something, didn't we. They sure would have killed us if they had the chance, wouldn't they?"

She nodded again. "Guess so."

"No guess, Philipa," I said. "I'm surprised they didn't shoot me when they saw you, get me out of the way."

She made her mouth small and straight. "They were going to poke me, weren't they?" She played with her restored necklace on the table top, a thin gold chain with a tiny locket. It had been torn from her so the clasp no longer worked.

I nodded and blew smoke at the cobwebbed ceiling.

"Now what?" she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

"We rest, sleep, and tomorrow go on toward the coast."

She nodded. "Together? Sleep I mean."

"No," I said, trying to look pleasant and ignoring my tumescence. "I seldom sleep with other men's betrothed." I ducked, expecting a bolt of lightening after that lie.

"He said it was a tiny room," she said. "Up under the eaves."

"I'll curl up in your carriage," I said.