Hi-I hope everyone had nice holidays. I apologize, as usual, for not updating sooner. I assure you that this story is always on my mind and so is proper updating of it, but I can't always get to it. Again, sorry.
Alright, the first part of this chapter features a character speaking in French to another. It has been 30 years since I've had conversational French in school, so I am rusty at it. I relied on memory and some other sources for help. I hope I have the words right. If you are French or speak it fluently and I don't have it right, please send me a private message thru this site and I'll be glad to correct it. For those who don't speak French, you can probably guess what the woman is saying given the circumstances in the scene.
Enjoy!
Chapter 20: Troubling News
"Oh, baise moi, Major!"
The young woman's body hungrily lapped up the militia leader's touch. She moaned lustily in her own language with occasional words of appreciation in English. The lady relished having a man between her legs again, especially the strapping and handsome George Rogers Clark, who was making a name for himself in the Northwest Territory defending the frontier. The women there gossiped of his prowess in bed, which made him infamous in more discrete conventions.
"Tu est tres bien," she wimpered as he thrust heartily into her.
Major Clark and his militia were on furlough in the small, fortified village of Logan's Station in Kentucky. After supper, George had the opportunity to converse with Anna Calaise, a French fur trader's wife. He found out that the couple was from St. Genevieve on the Mississippi River and that the woman had accompanied her husband to Kentucky as he trapped for a month. They took up temporary lodgings at the station for protection. Mr. Calaise, the trapper, just happened to be out for a few days, somewhere in the animal rich wilderness and the girl was lonely for a man's affections. Clark wasted no time propositioning the girl, and she was equally as fast at bounding into his bed.
"Profundement, s'il vous plait," she pleaded earnestly as her legs, wrapped about the man's waist, tightened against him.
"Pousser fort!" the girl begged as Clark heaved his hardness into her, breathing heavily as he did, trying to hold himself back. It had been weeks since he'd been with a woman.
George had only a limited grasp on the language of French, knowing only a handful of words. That small bit was just enough to be able to say a few things to the large population of French in the Northwest Territory—an adequate supply to get him through a basic conversation with the Francais trappers and traders when a translator wasn't available. He understood nothing of what the girl beneath him spewed out in French, but he assumed she was goading him on. Clark was sorry to be missing her crude and passionate affectations to him but was more regretful that the woman was so vocal, making him afraid that they would be discovered.
"En silence, chere," he murmured in his best French.
Anna, the trapper's wife, shifted her hips beneath the man, desperately trying to find a slightly different angle to receive him, one that may satisfy her more.
"Oh, ne pas arreter," she begged, moving her hips up now, meeting his thrusts.
The officer opened his eyes and stared at the lovely creature below him. Her blonde hair, so light that it looked nearly white, was messed up and wild upon the pillow. The young woman's face was contorted in airy joy, her eyes closed and lips parted. George, holding himself up on his elbows, slowed his rutting to languid, deep pushes, fighting against himself to not go back to his former, fast rhythm.
He watched as the girl's hands shamelessly massaged her own breasts, pinching the tips into hardened pink puckers. Indeed Anna kneaded the orbs, trying to quell the tension she felt within them since the officer had momentarily paid no heed to them.
After a moment, her left hand moved from its task toward Clark's head. She wove her fingers into his unruly copper locks, and coaxed his head to her chest. Once there, she presented him with her right breast, plumping it in her hand, bringing his mouth and her nipple to an inevitable meeting. The officer's lips caught the hardened peak between them and sucked the bud sharply.
The girl gasped and writhed at this, arching her back as he continued suckling strongly on her nipples. As the French woman cooed gratefully below him, he whispered a command.
"Monter," he directed softly in his best French.
The girl opened her eyes and smiled up at him, answering, "Oui."
He hoped she understood his request, but when she hesitated a moment, he ceased his attention to her breasts. Holding the girl tightly, he turned onto his back on the bed, taking the girl with him. George pushed himself up and back to where he reclined against the pillows gathered next to the head board. Anna, now sitting up with the major, kissed the man, then rose up onto her hands and knees, turned, and straddled the major's lap. Facing away from him, she let her body slip back down on him, glad to be impaled on his stiff prick again.
Clark was glad to rest a moment and let her take over. "Tu est plus solide," she bellowed as she propelled herself up and down upon his cock. His hands came to rest on her hips, forcing her down, burying himself within her silky wetness.
"Mon Dieu," bellowed Anna, as she arched her back, pleasure flowing through her.
George moved forward and murmured in her ear. "En Anglais, s'il vous plait."
"Excusez," she apologized in a rasp, not interrupting her rhythm.
"Oh, tres bien!" she groaned.
Clark chuckled, knowing enough French to know her words were a compliment. She had drawled so much in her native tongue in the last few moments that he was sure that she was giving him a French lesson in addition to the fucking.
The militia commander held the girl's hips firmly as she rode up and down on his hardness, not wanting her to come off him during the enthusiastic encounter. He didn't resist when Anna took his hands and guided them around to her front side. The young woman placed his left hand on her left breast, where he immediately began plumping it and rolling the puckered tip. She put his right hand in her lap. At her coaxing, he pushed his hand into her crotch, his fingers sliding over the slick folds of flesh. The officer quickly located her womanly pearl, rimming it with his fingers. She squealed in delight as his digits worked the bundle of nerves deftly.
"Oh Major," she bellowed, "Mon Dieu!" The pretty blonde continued to grind her body in ecstasy upon the warm lap of her bed partner.
And George, though enjoying the attentions of the girl in the privacy of his cramped quarters, tried to convince himself that her howls of appreciation were not loud enough to be heard outside the door. He had his doubts.
Major Clark was getting close to the edge, ready to lose himself. "I don't know how much longer I can last, chere," he informed breathily.
With that, the girl quickened her pace, ready for the man to let go. As she climbed higher, she cried out as she neared the edge of herself.
"Oui! OUI!", she gasped.
Then the two of them came together. Clark sighed in satisfaction as he spilled his seed into her.
With a hand still on the girl's breast and the other firmly tucked in her womanhood, he wished at that moment for a third hand to clamp over his companion's mouth. He wanted to silence the woman's ecstatic moans.
"By God," George Clark thought to himself as the girl wailed while the orgasm waned, "her caterwauling is going to bring the whole fort. Then I'll have to explain why I'm in bed with the frenchman's wife!"
The couple untangled themselves from one another and crawled beneath the covers. Mrs. Calaise huddled against the militia officer's body, seeking his warmth. Clark didn't push the young woman away as he shifted against the bed, his back longing for a comfortable spot. He finally found an agreeable dip in the mattress and settled in, folding his arms behind his head on the pillow.
Alas he only enjoyed his relaxation a moment when a knock at the door disturbed the quiet. "Major! Major Clark!" Captain Bowman called through the door.
George put a finger to his lips, motioning for his companion to stay quiet. She did stay silent, her mouth occupied with trailing kisses on his neck.
"Yes!" Clark answered. He let out a sigh as he felt the girl's hand massaging the inside of his left thigh. The officer closed his eyes, pleased that the young woman was ready for a second round of lovemaking. The man was all too happy to oblige her, glad that he still had youth and stamina.
He lifted Anna's chin, bringing her mouth to his. They kissed again in an unhurried manner, as if they had all night and forgetting that they had just been disturbed. The major sighed into her mouth as he felt her hand gripping his manhood, spent and still slick and sticky with her fluid. The officer became aroused again despite his adjutant standing on the other side of the door.
"George, a messenger is here," Joe informed.
Clark, busy with the French girl in his bed, wished his second in command would leave. "Give him quarters for the night," the commander yelled back as the girl nuzzled his shoulder with kisses. "I'll see him in the morning."
The captain wasn't easily deterred. "It's a Redcoat, here under a white flag," he insisted. "He says it's urgent!"
George heaved a breath of frustration. He took the wrist of the girl in his bed and gently pulled her hand from his groin. "I'll be there momentarily," Clark answered.
"Get up," he whispered to Mrs. Calaise. "You cannot stay here tonight."
The French fur trader's wife frowned. Both rose from the bed and began to dress. Clark was dressed quickly and out the door equally as fast.
George strode across the space to join his two captains, Bowman and Logan. They handed him a bundle of papers brought in by the redcoat private.
"Where is he?" Major Clark queried as he took the documents.
"Over there," Ben Logan answered, pointing toward the fire ring in the middle of the fort. George looked across the short distance at the young man who was warming himself, as one of the women was fixing some food for him.
He eyed the man with suspicion, always wary of the British. Then he glanced through the correspondence, finding a letter addressed to him from Colonel Harry Burwell. George was immediately suspect as to how mail to him had fallen into the hands of His Majesty's army. He supposed that a messenger had been detained and the mail intercepted, but hoped that the carrier hadn't really been a spy in the employ of the British. No matter what the situation, the fact that his personal correspondence was seized by the English and now delivered by a redcoat private was disconcerting to him, leaving a sour feeling in his being.
George picked up the letter from Colonel Burwell marked 'urgent', and began to read it. Ben and Joe looked on at him anxiously as he perused the note.
After a moment, he put it down and sighed. "I'm to be a husband," he stated in a startled voice.
"We knew that, George," Bowman said. "You told us a girl was promised to you."
"Yes, well now her father wants to waive a proper betrothal," Clark informed. "He says I can marry her as soon as I can get back east."
The two captains grinned and snickered at each other. They knew their handsome commander wouldn't be a bachelor for long. The women everywhere flocked to him. And lucky him, they thought. He would soon get to deflower his virginal bride, the pretty young Miss Burwell.
Clark stayed quiet as Ben and Joe laughed and joked. He picked up another letter and began reading it. In an instant, he scrunched his eyes closed, then opened them and looked at the missive once more, reading the first two lines over again.
The militia commander's hand dropped to the table top, the note still tucked in between his curled fingers. He stared down at the rough wood surface, silent as the words of the correspondence flip flopped through his mind. The captains stopped their kidding, knowing immediately that something wasn't right.
"What is it, George?" asked Logan, concerned.
Their leader raised the note again and read it aloud from the beginning.
"As you have probably surmised, we intercepted Colonel Burwell's letter to you. However, we now have your pretty little fiancée in our custody. She will remain our prisoner until other arrangements can be made. Perhaps a deal can be reached. Maybe you would consider trading yourself for her?
As you think things over, remember that she is in danger. We cannot guarantee her safety. Nor can we promise that she will remain innocent. Indeed, she may come to your marital bed experienced in the ways of love, or maybe with a redcoat bastard in her belly."
The captains looked down, embarrassed at having heard what the British may do to their commander's bride-to-be. They looked at Major Clark, who stood with the letters still clutched in his hands and an anguished countenance to him. Ben and Joe then exchanged looks and sighed, knowing George had a tough decision to make.
In an instant, and without discussing anything with his two adjutants, Clark walked to his cabin and closed the door. He sat down at his desk, took out a paper, dipped the quill and began to write without hesitation. After furiously scrolling his short reply to the British, he took a pinch of sand from the container and dropped it onto the paper to dry the ink. After a moment, he blew it off the paper then stood.
The major appeared again outside of his quarters, before his two bewildered captains. They needed to know what he had decided. They approached him, and he handed over his written reply without hesitation. After they looked over it, they thought their commander still in shock from the news and having just rashly written a response without truly thinking it through.
"Are you sure about this?" Joe inquired. "What of Miss Burwell?"
"They won't harm her, I'm certain of it." Anger laced George's voice as he spoke.
"Governor Hamilton and his men hurt the locals around here every day," Ben Logan protested.
"Yes, which is why we must stay here and fight for these good people," George proclaimed. The young major, used to being perpetually short of soldiers and supplies, was accustomed to making fast decisions and taking brash risks out of necessity. "If Betsy is their bargaining chip, then they won't chance harming her."
"You'd leave your future wife with the enemy?" Bowman questioned.
"Yes. She will be alive when the war is over," Clark declared. "My feeling is that they will try to strike a deal with her father, who is much closer in location than I. But as a commander, he won't relinquish his command for her, either. He will probably end up paying an inflated ransom for her instead."
"His Majesty's army is the richest in the world," argued Captain Bowman. "They don't need the money."
"I know," answered Major Clark. "But they do so love extorting money from wealthy planters. It seems to be one of their favorite methods of harassing and crippling the colonists."
George Rogers Clark was smug and confident of his decision. He looked ahead at the wall, as if he could see through it into the distance, possibly back to Virginia. His lips curved up into a crafty smile.
"Bring the messenger to me," he requested in a short voice.
He watched as Ben Logan motioned the young man over to them. The redcoat soldier approached cautiously, obviously trying to appear resolute.
"What's your name?" George inquired.
"Private Stamper, sir."
Clark handed him the brief, written reply, letting the young man read it. Stamper frowned and had the audacity to ask, "Are you sure you won't reconsider? I don't think my superiors will accept this."
With that, the red haired major's temper got the best of him, possessing his being. He grabbed the messenger by his jacket lapels and put the youthful soldier's back squarely against the wall.
"George! NO!," the two captains yelled together as they dove in to help. Clark looked intimidating, towering over the youth. Bowman and Logan struggled to pull the large commander away, but he was too strong for them.
"It's quite alright, gents," he said calmly, not taking his eyes off the British prey in his hands. "I have the situation under control."
The two adjutants backed away, knowing not to agitate their leader further. They watched carefully, ready to save the enemy private if they had to.
"Private, I don't care to change my mind," he hissed at the British soldier. "So let me make it perfectly clear what I have written."
"You go back to your redcoat commanders," growled George menacingly, "and you tell them that Major George Rogers Clark does not make deals with the British!"
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
A famished Captain Bordon sat down at the dining room table awaiting the cook to fix a quick meal for the officers that had arrived home in the last hour. In anticipation of his commander joining him, the aide de camp had spread a map out on the table and opened his field diary. Hugh and the dragoon leader would do as they usually did: recap their mission and route on the map and notes whilst still fresh in their memories, as they ate. This had become nearly a ritual for them.
The officer had enjoyed a sip of cold buttermilk. It was so tasty that he gulped down a second swallow, and found himself nearly choking on it as he heard Colonel Tavington's angry shouts pierced the air, interrupting Bordon's temporary solace.
"Oh, damn it all!" swore the captain as he put down the beverage. He listened carefully, trying to discern what the problem was and if he would need to get involved.
"Why wasn't I notified?!" yelled the dragoon leader. His voice carried down the stairway and out into the yard through the open windows.
"You weren't here!" a defensive voice retorted.
The dragoon second in command closed his eyes and sighed when he realized that his superior was going at it with the farm manager, Mr. Waldron. Hugh knew from both men's inabilities to find common ground that the confrontation would probably not end well.
Captain Bordon, ever the diplomat and peacemaker, rose from his seat and nearly kicked the chair over as he bolted from the dining room. The officer wiped the milk from his mouth as he ran into the house. The arguing went on as he made his way through the homestead and mounted the stairs.
"I leave an officer in charge," the colonel screamed. "You should have cleared it with him!"
"It was urgent!" the overseer shot back.
Hugh reached the landing of the second floor, winded after taking the steps two at a time. He saw his commander and Mr. Waldron, standing in the middle of the hallway, squared off against one another.
"You all know the rules," the dragoon leader countered. "No unauthorized civilians enter the plantation and no inhabitants leave without clearance!"
"She needed that doctor!" Jake spat, pointing toward Miss Burwell's bedchamber.
Captain Bordon knew immediately that the situation involved the girl. Three days ago, before his detachment left, Betsy had taken to her bed, mildly ill. Mrs. Leyanova imparted to him that the late September heat had made the young lady sick, and she would be just fine with some rest.
Obviously the young woman had become more ill, which concerned the officer. He knew he had his hands full with his superior and the farm manager arguing, a valuable prisoner taken ill, and now a strange civilian was on the premises, as well. The legion didn't want any unauthorized people on the farm for fear of spying or some kind of covert plot. Hugh knew he needed to get to the bottom of the situation double quick.
"Our surgeon is tending her," William Tavington argued.
"Only when he isn't busy with redcoat soldiers," informed Waldron, "whose welfare is put before hers."
"He is following my orders!"
Bordon took a quick breath then moved into the middle of the argument. "Mr. Waldron, please go downstairs. I'll speak with you about this later."
The overseer nodded his head, leaving reluctantly. It was no secret that he—or any of the servants here—were happy at having to wait on and take orders from their new English masters.
The colonel continued to huff. "Not even back an hour and that damned farmhand—"
"Sir," Bordon interrupted in a calm voice, trying to soothe his hothead commander, "Sir. Let me find out the details."
"That doctor may be spying," Tavington said in a low, angry voice as he pointed at the Burwell girl's door.
"Yes, I understand," assured the adjutant.
The cavalry adjutant paused a moment, hoping his commander would take a breath and calm down. The colonel did just that and Bordon was relieved to have diffused the situation.
He went on, an expert in distraction, diverting his leader's attention elsewhere. "They are serving our dinner downstairs. The map and my notes are already spread out on the table. I'll assess the situation here and join you in the dining hall afterward with a full report."
Tavington heaved a sigh, then bowed his head to his subaltern. "My thanks, Captain."
Bordon watched his superior leave the hallway, glad that William had relented. Hugh breathed his own sigh of relief as he gripped the doorknob. The officer rapped on the door, then let himself in.
Once in Miss Burwell's room, he was confronted with a disconcerting sight. The young woman was delirious and thrashing about on the bed. A strange doctor was wiping the girl down, trying to soothe her.
"I'm Captain Bordon, His Majesty's Green Dragoons," he announced as he neared the bed.
"I'm Doctor Sweeney, from the village," the man answered. "I'm sorry Captain. I had no idea my presence would cause such trouble."
"Our surgeon was seeing to her," Bordon advised.
"I understand," Sweeney replied as he wrung water from a cloth in a basin by the bed. "He was doing a fine job."
Hugh reached out cautiously touching Miss Burwell's flushed cheek. She jerked her head to the other side of the pillow, moaning as she did.
"Shhh," the doctor whispered as he dabbed the sweat from her forehead. An instant later, the girl quieted, mercifully fainting.
The officer put his hand on the girl's forehead. His eyes widened when he felt how hot she was, even after just having a cold rag against it. He thought the young lady had a strong constitution and that she was having a mild spell of heat sickness. Bordon was truly alarmed at just how sick the girl had become in three days.
"Mrs. Leyanova told us that she was only a bit weak," he muttered, gazing down in frank concern at the girl.
"She worsened, so they sent for me," the doctor admitted. "I've cared for members of this family for years."
Sweeney pulled the blanket down leaving only a sheet on the girl. He was doing his best to cool the young woman off, hoping her fever might break. "This is the worst she has ever been with this disease."
Captain Bordon looked across the room at the doctor, question clouding his handsome features. He was confused at Doctor Sweeney's comment, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Has no one told you?"
The officer said nothing, only nodding in query at the village physician. "She has Malaria," he informed the dragoon. "Contracted when she was a child."
"She's still only a child," Hugh opined in a worried voice.
"Of course," Sweeney agreed. "She was age ten at infection. Nearly died. She continues to have relapses of these malarial fevers, usually once a year." The doctor went on to explain to the officer about the condition; describing the internal pain, severe aches in the muscles and the joints, nausea, fever, chills, vomiting.
Bordon had seen soldiers in the throes of Malaria and Yellow Fever and knew just how bad it could be. A handful of dragoons had succumbed to the two conditions in the months that Hugh had been in the cavalry.
"Poor girl is bad off this time," Doctor Sweeney admitted. "This is the worst I've seen her. The servants agree."
"Is she going to die?" the captain asked as he sank down into a chair next to the bed.
The physician stopped what he was doing, staring down at his sick patient. Then he lifted his head and looked at the officer, seriousness etched in his countenance.
"I don't know," he answered. "She's deathly ill. I've given her as much quinine as I could. Give her anymore and it will poison her and kill her quicker than the fever would."
"I've done as much as I can do for her," the doctor informed as he began to pack his case to leave. "I apologize again for the ruckus my presence has caused."
"No. It was a misunderstanding," the dragoon officer replied, his voice hesitant. Seeing this young, healthy, vibrant youth near death had shaken him to the core. "I'll clear it up."
Bordon stared forlornly again down at Miss Burwell. When he looked up, he saw the doctor at the door, bag in hand ready to leave.
"You can continue to see her for the duration of the illness," the cavalry captain announced. "I'll see to it that you will have free access to come and go as needed. I will give you a pass to cross our lines, and I'll advise our guards to let you in. You will have no trouble."
Captain Bordon knew this was the right thing to do. In just a few moments with the man, he deemed him a legitimate physician and not a spy. He also knew that this man, having treated the family members for years, knew the girl better than the dragoon surgeon did. Sweeney could devote some time to treating the woman, as the regiment's doctor had orders that their men came first.
"My thanks. I'll send one of the servants up to sit with her," the doctor said, then closed the door.
Alone in the room now, Hugh Bordon was at a loss as he studied the poor girl. This youthful, willful, sometimes brash girl, seeming to always border on defiance with her redcoat captors now teetered on the brink of death. And the officer was powerless to help the young lady. The feeling of helplessness, the same emotion he'd felt when his wife and son were dying of cholera, made him sick to his stomach.
Hugh took her hand, holding it gently in his. The captain's heart overflowed with regret for her. She was so young, with a hope filled life ahead of her.
"Don't die, missy," he whispered. "You're too young. You have a whole lifetime yet to be lived."
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
Author's notes: I kept General George Rogers Clark true to who he was in life with his decision in Betsy's situation.
When Clark and his men fought the battle of Vincennes on February 25, 1779, he had few men, the gunboat hadn't arrived yet to support them (it had gotten lost on the flooded river system), and no heavy artillery. So he used psychological warfare to win. When British Governor Hamilton was forced to surrender the fort, the redcoat officer tried to make deals with Colonel Clark. Clark refused all deals, demanding a total and unconditional surrender with no terms. Clark did, as usual, extend the courtesy (as was done in traditional warfare then as it was considered civilized) of letting Hamilton make a refusal, and then counter offers to the surrender, but Clark didn't accept them. He truly didn't like the British and Indians allied to them scaring and/killing the people in that area and swore early on that he would not make deals with Redcoats. He was as mentioned, always short of soldiers, supplies, weapons and support, so he became a master at using psychological warfare to help in situations.