Rebel in Boston

The next time we went into the occupied city nearly got us killed, but I did have the opportunity to repay Roxy, with her generous and instructive help. A marching patrol of four Redcoats and a young officer came around a corner that morning and down the street we were on before we could do anything about it. They stopped the colonel, demanding his name and address, and I knew I would be next. I tried to recall the name of Roxy's tavern but could not so decided to play dumb.

The officer dismissed the colonel and brushed a woman with a broom on her shoulder aside and came to face me.

"Name?" he said.

I made a gurgling sound, choked a time or two, crooked a shoulder forward and forced out, "Ed" in a soprano voice.

"Edward is it?" the man said, glancing at the soldier beside him.

I nodded vigorously, drooling.

"And what do you do?"

I went through the motions of casting and reeling in.

"Fisherman?" he said, "Go on with you." he waved to his men and moved on the along the street. I exhaled. By then the colonel had disappeared so I made my way to the tavern, looking for Roxy.

She saw me from across the room since I guess I'm too tall to easily miss, raised a dark eyebrow and gestured. Again I followed her up the stairs and watched her latch the door behind us. I held her, felt her and kissed her some. "He said I owed you," I told her when we sat on the bed beside each other working on buttons and laces.

"Did he?" she said, pulling off her sturdy shoes, her large breasts all but tumbling from her unlaced blouse.

I nodded, following her example. "Now what?" I asked, half riled.

"On your knees, m' big lad, an' pay y'r debt," she said with a chuckle in her voice. She spread her legs and gathered her skirt about her waist. "Now move in closer." I did, admiring and amazed at the pink petals that appeared while she gripped my shoulders. "Now," she said, "your tongue is what I want. Lick upward, if you will. Gently. Slowly and deeply. Lick, boy, lick."

She held my head, hands clawed, and I followed directions. I had done a few girls back on the farm, just kiss and run, but never like this.

"There," she said when my tongue found a small, firm protuberance that felt a bit like a knotted cord. "Right there," and she leaned back, still holding my head, drawing me into her. "Deeper, deeper," she cried, and I obeyed, my hands at her wide buttocks. I licked and kissed and nibbled and sank my tongue into her, feeling her lips flutter against my mouth, aware that she was becoming wetter and wetter, until she moaned, "Enough, enough," and grabbed my shoulders again. "Now, up and at it," she cried, and I stood and took her, sliding into a warm, greased channel that was waiting and throbbing for me. After a bit, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes while I held her hips and rogered her soggy quim until she gasped, shuddered and squealed with pleasure, kicking her legs behind me.

"Damn, damn, damn, y'are a good `un," she said, pulling herself upright and yanking my head down to kiss me. "I've got to go back to work. Put that thing away."

I did as I was told and stumbled down the stairs behind her. The tavern was much busier, and she hurried off while I got myself an ale, feeling I had been turned a bit inside out.

"They's out an' about tidday," said the wizened little man who suddenly appeared at my side. "Take care."

Still trying to recover from Roxy's attentions, I simply nodded and asked for another beer. I spent the day in that tavern, watching Roxy work and drinking beer on the house. I ate some bread and gravy, and about sundown the colonel appeared, looking worried. He came and sat with me while I tried to clear my head and look attentive.

"Something's up," he said quietly. "Streets are full of lobsters."

I nodded, and he took my beer away from me and drank it down. I followed him out the back door, down toward the muddy docks and then in and out of old, brick streets, marshy areas, tumbled shacks, rocky ledges, and other places I doubt many Bostonians knew existed. When we finally came in sight of the place we had concealed our rowboat, we saw there were guards along the shore, about one every fifty yards or so. Across the black water I could see General Washington's flickering campfires.

"You have a weapon?" he whispered, gripping my arm tightly.

I shook my head. He had ordered me not to bring any. "Just a small knife in my boot," I said.

"Have to do," he whispered. "Get rid of that Redcoat, and do it quietly."

I took me perhaps five minute to creep through the sawgrass and nettles until I was crouched behind the sentry. It seemed more like five hours, and I was sure he would turn and see me at any moment. Then I rose, coughed and stumbled over a rock at the same time. The man whirled, leveled his bayonet tipped musket at me, and yelled, "Halt right there, y'beggar!"

I decided to play drunk rather than dumb since it was closer to the truth, but the hair rose on the back of my neck as I stumbled on toward the soldier.

"`Alt, I said," he demanded, jabbing his spike in my general direction. I wove a bit, scratched my head, said, "Got to puke," and reached out a hand toward him. He raised his musket across his body to block me, and I bent as if I was going to fall and gulped, drew my little blade and drove it up into his belly, grabbing his face with my other hand to cover his mouth as best I could. I felt his warm blood on my hand, withdrew my knife and stuck him again, higher, just under his crossbelts, bending his back across my knee. He dropped his musket with a clatter on the shale and fell to one knee, trying to pull my hand from his jaw. I pushed his chin back and sliced across his throat. A torrent of blood splashed out, drenching my right leg, and I let the dead man fall, rolling down toward the lapping water as I felt the urge to vomit. I shuddered and spat; the feeling passed.

The colonel was beside me at once, handed me the musket, and we ran to the boat and dragged it toward the water, bending low. I was about knee deep in the swirling stream when someone yelled, "What's goin' on there?" I drew back the flint and cocked my musket.

"Don't fire," the colonel hissed. "Go get him."

I did not hesitate but ran directly at the man silhouetted against the starshine. The beach was wet, rock covered, and I slipped several times as I charged ahead, covering the ten or twelve yards in just a few steps. I faked a jab high, just as I had been taught back in Frederick, and when he blocked it, I swung the gun's butt into his groin. The man grunted, slashed at me, his spike cutting my cheek, and I speared him through the chest and drove him back to the hillside. He dropped his weapon and grabbed mine, gasping, "No, no, no," as I pulled out my bayonet and stuck him again. Black blood poured from his mouth, and I let go of the musket and ran, falling twice, back down the beach and into the icy water.

Col. Backus helped me climb aboard, and he rowed us back to the other shore, wordlessly while I tried to forget the torrent of blood the man had spewed at me.