Chapter 97: Young Betty

Obviously, especially in hindsight, the man should never have brought his wife into camp. She was too young, too comely, and too willful to be a proper officer's wife, especially when there was a severe shortage of women which led to every one of them being flattered shamelessly and watched constantly.

Not that she did not deserve flattery. She was a very pretty girl, but a girl, not yet a woman, and her fool of a husband expected her to be able to deal with all the compliments, all the walks in the garden and stolen kisses, the flirting and the propositions. She was not prepared for that, and rumor had it that she had submitted to at least two young officers who had poured punch in her and taken advantage of her out in the moonlight.

He was both political and militia, her fool of a husband, a fire-eater from Massachusetts, a mature, wig-wearing man who had seen service from the first days of the revolution, so I was told, and a good enough officer, resolute they said, steady under fire. He had been some sort of magistrate, a deacon of his church, and had a rather puffed up opinion of his own competence and importance.

The slim girl, who was called Betty or Bets, never seemed to grasp that she was driving her husband crazy and putting herself in danger when she flirted with younger men, especially her blustering mate's junior officers. I observed part of this risky pageant, just as a curious watcher of women, not thinking that the time might come when the girl would be my responsibility, my problem.

As we moved steadily onward toward the Delaware, losing tired or weak-hearted men as we went, the baggage train and remaining camp followers became more and more of a problem. Finally officers were told to shed their wives and excess belongings. Buxom young Betty's husband, who was very dutiful I had been told and rogered her briefly every night in the back of their wagon, his feet braced on the sideboards, wept when he told her.

Foster's outfit, not needed as rearguard or for scouting duties for a while, got the task of seeing that the wagons actually departed and that the dependents were put safely and properly on their way, well out of the area of conflict.

I had taken on this kind of task previously, and found pleasure in the work from time to time when the woman was willing, so when my lieutenant told me to see to it that the robust major's young wife, along with a wagon load of their belongings including her clothes and his wine, was safely put on the proper road and escorted as far as need be, I smiled.

"No, y'slimy bastard," said Lt. Foster, rather deep in his cups and with one of the slatternly washerwoman awaiting his service, tapping her foot. "Y'touch one curly blonde hair on that young'uns head, or anywhere else, an' I'll fry y' bleedin' stones. Keep y'hand's to y'self and y'britches buttoned tight. Jus' do yer bleeding job and get yer ass back here fas' as you can." He turned away, already unbuttoned and the woman sitting on his cot smiled up at him.

I gave his back what passed for a salute, got my gear together, sharpened my blade, drew fresh powder, checked my mare's shoes and went to meet the girl, Mrs. Major F--. She was red-eyed and sniffing, hardly the fluffy beauty I has seen from a distance, her light, blonde hair all awry, her eyes puffy from crying. Her teamster had been taken away from her and put to work by the artillery. Her husband was off somewhere doing something important, and she was not going to leave without his goodbye kiss, so she told me without even looking up to see who I was.

Her traveling costume was a long, dark green skirt over several petticoats, topped by a tight-fitting, brass-buttoned, puff-sleeved, cord-braided black jacket with green trim and yards of cream-colored lace at her turned-back, brass-buttoned cuffs. She was right out of a style book or off a fashion baby. She was bareheaded but wore a scarf. She looked ready to me and surely good enough to eat.

The wagon was large, heavy, well made, canvas-covered and mule-drawn. I tied my horse on the back, told the woman that we both were in the army and had to follow orders, assured her that the major would catch us before we got too far, gave her a hand up to the seat beside me, patted her slim thigh absentmindedly, accepted her wet-eyed smile and flicked the reins. Her eyes were a very light blue, almost transparent.

After an hour, she stopped sniffling, introduced herself, and I told her my name. Since we were a lot closer to the same age and had been sharing some of the same hardships for the past couple of months, we had no trouble finding things to talk about, including General Washington, with whom she had danced twice. He was about my size, she said with a weak smile but a different shape.

Except that she insisted on gushing about the gallant young officers, it was a pleasant way to pass the time. I guess I was a bit older than she was and her husband at least another ten if not twenty years her senior. We stopped to eat our dinner in early afternoon, and then the mules ambled on at their steady pace and our conversation melted away as the miles unreeled.

Near sunset, as I began hoping for another roadside inn to appear, I essayed a new tack. "Aren't you a bit young to be married?" I asked.

"No," she said quickly, sitting up very straight, "many of my friends wed before they were sixteen."

"That what you are?"

She nodded. "My husband has been very good to me, ever so kind. I'm glad I married him. And he's quite wealthy, you know." She thrust her shoulders back and lifted her chin, jutting out her prominent little bubbies, hard as green apples.

"Had you known him long?"

"Oh no, but my father knew him."

"Was it your father's idea then?"

"Not exactly. I have eleven brothers and sisters, so, well, the house is crowded; there's still six at home now. My next older sister, Marie, married at fifteen and my oldest brother left home at fourteen. He's married now too. He was a minuteman; said he got two Marines along the road from Concord."

"Was your husband married before?" I asked, having seen the man only from a distance.

She nodded. "Twice," she said. "But he has just two children. Some died though. His first wife died in childbirth. He still mourns her, carries her image. I don't know what happened to the second. She died a year or so ago, fever I think. His children, both boys, are, let's see, two and four, yes, that's right, maybe five. We have a nanny that cares for them at home."

A stage-stop tavern appeared, well-lit and friendly looking, and I pulled into the yard. While I saw to the three animals, she used the privy and then waited for me and took my arm when I offered it. We ate together, quietly, and then she went to sleep with the women while I bunked in the stable loft since the men's sleeping room was already overcrowded.

Before I slept I thought of other women I had helped transport, of the comely Philomela, who had killed a German and saved my hide, and of the widow with the small casket whose name eluded me although I could see her wonderful body, feel her luscious mouth and gaping, grasping nether lips and long legs. I tried to picture Philomela humping me in the drumming rain as I sank into sleep with my hand between my legs, my poor stones throbbing with need.

We breakfasted on hoe cakes and got an early start, the girl very chipper and admiring the countryside, which looked wornout and abandoned to me. We had not seen much other traffic, going in either direction, so I was reasonably alert when two riders approached from the rear and passed us on a humpbacked hill. They were both young and armed, and both noted the girl, so I put my musket where I could reach it and laid my pistol between us.

"What's this for?" asked the girl, touching the heavy weapon.

"Precaution," I said as we topped the rise, and I was proved right. One was afoot, legs wide spread, while the other sat his horse right across the road, pointing a big bore gun at us. The mules stopped without my command and stood breathing hard, ears flapping. The man on the ground came and held the harness.

"What'cha carrying?" he asked.

"House goods," I said, "Lady's clothes and such."

"Why'nt cha git down," he said, pointing his pistol up at me. The man on the horse held a short musket of some sort, a shotgun perhaps or carbine. They both appeared to be very serious about their work.

"Got no money to speak of," I said.

"Pretty gal," said the one doing the talking.

"Officer's wife," I said, setting the brake.

"Do tell," he said with a smile. "Git down here, right now, both a'ya."

I stepped across the woman, jumped down on her side of the wagon and put my hands up to help her put her booted toe on the wheel. When her feet touched the ground, I tossed her into the ditch, drew my pistol from the back of my belt and shot the man who had just walked around to see why I was so slow. He took the ball in the chest, stepped back on his heels and sat down, looking very surprised. I dropped my gun, kicked him in the face, took his pistol, rolled between the mules and shot the other robber's horse in the belly.

The animal screamed, kicked and fell, rolling over the cursing man. His weapon went flying. I had no trouble dispatching him since he lay half under the horse's haunch with a broken back and crushed leg. I smiled down at him as I cut his throat. Then I put the bleeding horse out of its pain and went back to check on the first man. He had stopped breathing. My shot had hit him almost squarely in the chest I noted with some pride.

I pulled the girl out of the ditch, bushed some straw from her hair and shoulders, asked her if she was all right. She nodded, wide-eyed, and I helped her back up to the seat. I added the robbers' guns and ammunition to our supply and retrieved their purses for our exchequer. It had been a profitable few minutes that had churned my blood to a froth and hardened my aching member which now lay trapped and throbbing half way to my knee, a prisoner in need.

We left the bodies where they sprawled, and I did not bother trying to catch the other horse. The mules moved off at their pace, and by the time we rounded the next curve where I could look back, large, black birds were already landing on the dead horse.

"What happened back there?" Betty asked. "Why'd you throw me down?" She was still picking dry weeds and straw from her clothes and fly-away hair. Her big skirt was full of burrs and her high-laced boots muddy.

"I thought they might shoot even with the mules kind of shielding us. Didn't want you to get hurt."

"Scared me blue," she said. "Not them, you. Didn't know a big man could move so fast."

"Sorry," I said. "My job's to keep you safe, get you started home."

"Weren't they just robbers, highwaymen?"

I nodded, reloading my pistol.

"You expect more trouble?"

"Never know," I said.

She moved as far away from me as she could.

"Don't think you had to kill them," she said, looking straight ahead, chin wobbling.

"They'd a killed me, used you, probably killed you and then taken what they wanted, burned the rest."

"What do you mean used, poked me," her voice dropped, "raped me?"

I nodded, tamping down the load and putting the small ramrod back in its place under the barrel. "You know how to use one of these?" I asked her.

She shook her head, and I stopped the wagon. I handed her the heavy pistol. "Use both hands," I told her. I reached my arms about her, put my chin on her shoulder lightly, enjoyed the smell of her and then showed her how to cock the thing fully. "Now put your finger here, hold steady and squeeze hard. Just hold it straight out at what you want to hit, like that tree."

She did, turned her head and pulled the trigger. The pan flashed, she flinched and the shot went very high. She leaned back in my arms and looked up at me, exhaling. I enjoyed the feel of her for a bit, took a breath and then reloaded the pistol, using less powder.

I handed it to her and she made a thin mouth, looking very young and determined, like a twelve-year-old who couldn't get his hoop to roll straight, cocked the thing, held it with both elbows in at her waist, aimed and fired. She hit the tree and yelped in surprise, all smiles. I patted her back and she turned quickly and kissed me, right on the mouth, the smoking gun still in her hands.

I got the stoic mules going, reloaded again and put the pistol between us. Then I loaded the robber's pistol which took a slightly bigger ball. I had taken his bullet mold and shot bag from his belt since he did not need them any more. His purse had not been worth bothering with.

"You really think they would've, you know, done it to me?" the girl asked, looking away from me, hands between her knees.

"Likely," I said, "you're too pretty to ignore."

"Been told about that, about rape I mean," she said. "Women spoke of it, back there, some of the women. Talking about Germans, they were."

I nodded.

"Must be awful," she said. "I like swiving, but I sure wouldn't..." She stopped and looked at me, hand to her mouth.

I smiled.

"Did I say that?" she said and laughed, tapping her heels on the floorboards.

"You miss him?" I said.

She shook her head and then nodded. "He did me proper, he did, most every night. I could hardly sleep las' night, needed it I guess."

I held my peace, biting off a chew of tobacco from my twist, adjusting my britches a bit while I reminded myself that she was only sixteen, and she was married.

"Right back in there, that's where we..." she said, turning, pointing into the wagon and grinning at me. "Somebody's coming," she said.

A Continental cavalryman reined in beside us, saluted casually, asked the lady's name and then handed her a sealed letter.

"Them two bodies back yonder yours?" he asked.

I nodded. He smiled, turned his horse about and left, heading back the way he had come.

"It's from my husband," the girl said, "I know his name, his hand." She pointed to the bottom of the letter. "Read it." She handed the paper to me.

I gave her the reins and scanned through the short note. "He says he'll miss you." I said. "Say to behave."

"No, no," she said. "Go on and read it all."

I did. It was personal and maudlin, filled with pet names and tender feelings, instructions and advice, lovey stuff and many kisses. When I finished, she made me read it again, and then she took it, folded it back up and held it in her hands, sniffing. She looked very pretty, tasty as we said in those days; good enough to eat.

It was late when we stopped, and the girl took in food like a dock worker, cleaning her gravy-laden trencher with a crust of bread before I was half finished mine. She washed it down with cider, picked at my crumbs, had a slab of pie and then opened her letter again and looked at the writing.

"You know your letters?" I asked quietly, our hips and knees touching.

"Mostly," she said, rubbing her leg on mine.

"See that," I pointed, feeling like a randy school master, "what're those?"

"That's an "o' and a "v," she said. "Is that an "e"?

"First letter's an "el," I said. "L-o-v-e, that's love."

She kissed the letter, and then read the word to herself several times. "Where's it say 'kiss'?" she asked. I pointed.

"K and i and are these s's?"

"Yep," I said.

"Those are the first two words I've ever read," she said. "Papa didn't believe in girls reading."

We got back on the road and back to our pleasant chatting. I had not been paying any attention to the world around us, and when I did I saw a good-sized storm brewing in the West and rolling toward us. I tried to hurry the mules without success, and the rain caught us in the middle of nowhere. The girl scrambled back under cover, and I followed the first farm lane I saw only to find a deserted place with its door hanging by one hinge and the top of its chimney tumbled down. I drove right into the barn, got down, unhitched the mules and fed them, hobbled them and let them nose around. They did not seem to mind, good critters, strong and docile.

"What's this?" the girl asked, combing her hair, then opening the tailgate and hopping down as I finished with the animals, displaying a lot of leg.

"A dry place," I said. I found my poke, produced a small loaf of bread and a sausage. I sliced both up on the driver's seat and shared with the girl. We drank rainwater collected in an old, mossy well bucket and watched the storm grow worse with lightening flashing between big, roiling clouds. She flinched with every flash and rumble. I gathered some kindling and fired it with the flntlock of my musket. I fed the fire with broken barn boards, and we huddled together away from roof drips and blowing rain, my back against a big, squared post.

The girl sat comfortably in the crook of my arm, head back on my chest. "How long's this going to last?" she asked, her ankles crossed, high-booted feet just past my knees. She was warm and soft.

"Record's forty days," I said.