Chapter 96: The Colonel's Wife

The colonel's wife must have been a burden to him. He was a New Englander, from Rhode Island I believe, and she was a New Yorker, from one of the old Dutch families. He was dark and hawk nosed with eyes like flint. She was blonde, blue eyed and ripe as a summer peach. They were both ambitious.

As we retreated, the group of camp followers with Washington's army dwindled and shrank to a pitiful, and mostly ragged, few, but the colonel's wife and her entourage, were a shining and welcome exception. She pranced through the tent lines with a light step, stopping to talk to this solider and then that, dispensing sweets and notions from a basket carried by the Irish girl who followed her, dodging the grasping hands of the men eager to haul her into their tents or bedrolls for a quick romp. No one tried to grope the colonel's wife but I'm sure she was the subject of many nighttime thoughts and wet dreams.

According to camp gossip, the colonel's comely wife had consorted with every general in the Continental Army with the possible exception of Washington himself and his artillery commander, the rotund Henry Knox, and there were stories about her bedding both of them, separately of course. I got to know her maid, Bridget Kathleen Monahan she was. And I spent several happy hours between her pudgy legs. Bridget generally swived only sergeants, but made an exception for me because of my wounds, so she said.

The blonde woman with her Negro driver and Irish maid was a frequent visitor and regularly went back and forth to the Hudson River for food, wine and supplies. The colonel's table was almost always the most popular dining place during the long, cold, discouraging retreat.

We in the rear guard knew her red-wheeled wagon and liveried driver on sight, whether or not the women were aboard, so they were easily passed through the lines. It did cross my mind, briefly, that information about our movements and strength might also be traveling on that fancy wagon, but I did not say that to anyone. Just a vagrant thought, you might say.

Then the lady disappeared or at least was very late in returning from her last trip home. Lieutenant Foster's company was sent out to investigate. The dozen of us scattered, generally north and east with orders to find the wagon and the woman and to report back in three days to a rendezvous point. On my second day of exploring, I reached the big river and wandered south, checking on the barns and stables as I went, moving at an easy pace. I considered it a wild goose chase done to please the colonel and his friends and thought we had about as much chance of finding the woman as I had of bedding her.

Then I saw the big, red back wheel sticking out of a shed with the black wagon body atop it. The carriage house was an outbuilding to a fine, square, stone home with four chimneys, several ells and a wide expanse of lawn leading down to the river bank. I tethered my horse and walked into the shed. There were the two, big-footed white horses that always pulled the lady's wagon as well as the fancy harness they wore. It was undoubtedly her rig.

"What chu lookin' fo'?" asked a quiet voice.

"Mrs. McF--," I replied after I got my pulse rate down and turned to face the lady's black driver with my bayonet in my hand.

"She in d'house yonder," he said. "Cavortin'."

"Bridget Kathleen with her?" I asked.

He nodded and smiled. "They's both carvortin'."

"Can you get me something to eat?" I asked.

He nodded and disappeared while I sat on a box and waited. The sun was setting behind me and the cold was rising fast from the river. Bridget herself brought some bread and ham on a plate along with a pitcher of beer. She sat on a stool and watched me eat.

"You here looking for her?" the Irish girl asked.

I nodded and chewed, enjoying the sight of her lush body and ready smile.

"They ain't holding her," the girl said.

I kept eating and listening.

"She done decided. Her husband, he'll be along directly."

"Decided what?" I asked, finishing the beer and wiping my mouth on my arm.

"You can't win. No sense in suffering this winter."

"They decided that?"

"They did," the girl said.

"And what do you think, Bridget Kathleen, my fine beauty?"

She smiled. "I'm 'dentured, don' get to think." She tossed her head and hurried away.

The driver shared his pipe with me and then went to his bed in the loft of the carriage house. I fetched in my horse and saw to his needs. An hour or so later, Bridget returned with a couple of blankets, a stoneware bottle and a smile.

"I 'member you," she said, making up a bed in the back of the black wagon. "You the one with a root like a maple tree, ain't cha?"

I added my blanket roll, and we climbed in and got reacquainted, warming each other and gnawing at one another's mouth. She grunted when I entered her and heaved her big rump about to get comfortable as I began plowing her rich acres. She moaned and groaned and urged me on until she squealed with delight and the driver hissed a "sush up" down at us.

We slept after a while and in the chill, early morning, I roused Bridget again, and we wasted the first hour of the new day testing each other's abilities to give pleasure. She won, but I was a happy and satisfied loser.

"I need to see her, the colonel's wife," I said, as the girl pulled her clothes together and raked her fingers through her curly hair.

"Dangerous," she said, looking serious.

"Just for a minute. Ask her to come look at her horses."

She nodded and kissed me. I had some rye whisky and some water for breakfast, fed my horse and waited. The carriage house door swung open, and there was the colonel's lovely wife with tall Redcoat on one side and a big Hessian officer on the other.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked as I stood.

"Just to see that you were all right, safe. So I could report," I said.

Major André, if that is who he was, smiled, made a leg, and said something like, "My pleasure," then he departed. The Hessian said, "Come," grabbed my upper arm and dragged me toward the house and then down the basement where he tossed me in a narrow room. He locked the door. The woman never said a word.

About noon, the door opened and there was the colonel himself, in his uniform. "Good Lord," he said, "why didn't you just shoot him?"

"T'ought you should zee him," said the Hessian who had hauled me to this cell.

"Yes. he's one of Foster's. Get rid of him," said the colonel, turning on his heel. The door slammed closed and the bar slid into place. It was a long, hungry day marked only by the departure of the colonel and his wife and their servants. I was able to see the distinctive red wheels rolls pass my small, high window.

In the morning, two German grenadiers hauled me out, gave me some water and brought me upstairs. Five or six men sat at the table, eating their breakfast. The wonderful smells nearly floored me. My stomach growled and ached.

"Ve haf decided to haf a hunt. Dot's right, nein, hunt? Suche, ja? For boar, pig, mit spears, lances, ja," said the officer sitting at the head of the table. He was a colonel, I believe, anyhow he obviously was in command.

The man who had brought me in glanced at me. "You iss d'pig," he said and laughed, his mouth full of sausage. "Schwein, ja, das schwein."

"Ve gif you, vot, ten minutes, zehn, ven ve finished here, den ve come mit lances and dogs. You run, hide, ve hunt."

I scratched my beard and looked around the table. They ate, shoveling in the food, sloshing beer.

"Run, dummkoff," yelled the officer nearest me. He poked at me with his fork.

I ran to the carriage house, found my belt and bayonet where I'd hung them, strapped them on and then found my boots. Then I ran. The river bank was too steep, so I galloped toward the nearest woods, south of the house and ran until my lungs were on fire. I rested and doubled back, heading downhill and hoping to find a creek. In the distance I heard dogs baying.

I found a stony creek and drank. Then I sloshed along, ankle deep hoping to ruin the scent and looking for a sapling to turn into a weapon, a lance to ward off dogs. I found two very straight young trees right along the bank, hacked them down, sharpened one end and cut them at about five feet long. They would have to do until I could capture a better weapon.

As a rounded a narrow bend in the creek, a growling dog jumped on me from above. I clawed him off and threw him sprawling and scrabbling to the bank. He got his feet under him and lunged at me, right onto one of my spears. The dog howled and I heard crashing in the woods nearby. I ran uphill, found a tangled deadfall and hid, trying to control my breathing. I could hear a horse snorting nearby and one or more dogs sniffing about.