TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS
S T A V E
XVII
She dozed, mons against his hip and a naked leg cocked over his, owning him. Clothes tossed about. The Coat on the floor. From time to time she rocked. The cellar cool and them tight, fending off a world soon waking, which it did, voices intruding through the kitchen floor.
“Should we get them up?” Sounded like Bess.
Others laughed.
Go ‘way, Obedience mumbled in her head.
Then a stamping. “Where’s MacEachran?” Tim lifted the cellar door. “Get up, Geordie!”
Geordie startled, throwing Obedience off. In the background fifes and drums.
“We’re ordered to the alarm posts!”
“What is it?” Obedience cried and covered herself.
“There’s a battle,” Tim said.
“Battle?” Geordie grabbed his trowsers.
“In Trenton. Washington attacked at dawn. Caught the bloody Hessians sleeping. A courier come ten minutes ago . . . Help him, Mrs. MacEachran.” Obedience scrambled for her chemise. “Damn your nakedness, woman; get your husband dressed.”
“What of the Hessians?” Geordie cried, buttoning up his fly.
“Routed . . . Give me your hand.”
He hoisted Geordie out and the door banged, and he’s gone just like that.
She flopped, her hip joints aching. Then a sudden sharp cramp. Like a slap. Then quick, another. And after a wince, she thought, good . . . good. She combed through her pubic hair all knitted from his semen and rubbed the puckered skin beneath. Good. And there the cellar all vivid and she cold and naked . . . And he’s gone . . .
Her brow wrinkled – the cellar all vivid.
I did not ask for this.