Francine
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Rebel In The SouthChapter 15: Francine free porn video
General Greene detached Von Steuben to head up Virginia's defenses and headed south again, looking for whatever was left of Gates' defeated army. At Hillsboro, North Carolina, where a rag-tag government sat, no one knew where Gates was, but we were told that Cornwallis had abandoned Charlotte after the fight on King's Mountain. That is where General Greene finally found General Gates, in Charlotte on December 2. Gates, disgraced as well as defeated, seemed as happy to see us as we were to finally find him, and the transfer of command took place.
Two Marylanders, Otho Williams and John Eager Howard, both colonels, were there in command of what little was left of the Continental regulars, mostly the famous Maryland Line. These two had been fighting the British for as long as anyone and were among the best and the bravest I ever saw. Another fine Maryland soldier, General William Smallwood, seemed very unhappy, especially after he found that von Steuben outranked him. He left to plead his case in Philadelphia. I think he was disappointed that he had not been chosen to replace Gates. Politics like that is way beyond me. My goals were simple, avoid getting shot was number one and staying warm, dry, fed, and laid was all wrapped up in number two.
Young William Washington, a big man on a large horse, and what remained of his cavalry company were also camped near Charlotte, having survived several skirmishes with Tarleton's Tories and sword-swinging dragoons. By then Banastre Tarleton had acquired a butcher's reputation for slaughtering prisoners and men trying to surrender. Whether it was earned or not, most of us rebels believed that "Tarleton's Quarter" grew out of the actions of his men on the Waxhaw in May when they bayoneted Buford's Virginians who were laying down their guns. This action, as well as a collection of old hatreds, probably incited the backwoodsmen to shoot down Tories on King's Mountain long after they had surrendered. The war in the South was a lot meaner than the fighting had been up north. It took me a long time to figure out that you could not trust anybody down there.
The second day we were in Charlotte, me and the rest of Captain Foster's bunch met old Dan Morgan, Brigadier General Daniel Morgan, who was the meanest-looking fighting man I'd ever seen, near as big as I am and a lot tougher. I am sure was glad he was on our side. He had a face wound that was hard to even look at, the bullet evidently went in his cheek and came out his mouth taking a mess of teeth with it. The Old Wagonmaster, as some called him, had fought the Indians and the French, and somehow had survived 500 lashes on his back for striking a British officer. I never saw the old man's back, but folks that knew say the scars were still there, left from the time of Braddock's campaign. I still shook thinking of the dozen blows I got from a bull whip and could not imagine taking a hundred, much less five times that.
Morgan had been at the siege of Boston back in '75, and I knew his sharpshooters from back then, and he was with Arnold in Maine and at Quebec, at Saratroga with his riflemen, at Valley Forge that awful winter, and then at Monmouth, one tough old coot. He'd finally resigned because of his rheumatism, rested up for a year, and now was back with some of his Virginians. Gates and Greene were awful glad to see him.
In Charlotte we were billeted in the large home of a well-known Tory named Sir Alexander something-or-other. It probably would pass for a mansion these days with its high ceilinged rooms and ornate plaster work. The main stairway was wide and seemed to float unsupported to the upper floors, and several first-floor rooms had huge, dangling chandeliers with cut glass bobs and decorations.
Captain Foster and his small company occupied the house and raided the well-stocked cellar at once. I do not believe that we were told that any members of the family remained although their house slaves were certainly in evidence, and several of the boys paired off with some of the dusky girls before the sun set and the last bottle was drained. I flopped into a small bedroom on the third floor that was likely part of the servants' quarters judging from its barren furnishing. It did not bother me. I was tired enough to have slept on the pine floor.
Early the next morning, I heard my thin door squeak open and sat up quickly reaching for the pistol I had left under my cot. I ghostly figure approached in the dim morning light from the narrow dormer window. It seemed to float across the floor in a billow of white and black. My feeble brain finally figured out that it was a woman in a voluminous night dress, her long dark hair hanging loosely down her back with a few tendrils caressing her breasts. I pulled a corner of the quilt over my tumescent member.
"Who are you?" she asked quietly, looking down at me and ignoring the big pistol pointed at her middle.
"Cap'n Foster's corporal, ma'm," I think I stuttered out hoping my foggy brain would wake up soon. I sat up and swung my feet to the cold floor.
"Oh," she said, and quickly sat beside me on the narrow bed, shaking her head to the side so she would not sit on her hair. "I'm Francine. This is my house."
"Really?" I said, putting aside the horse pistol and holding down my trembling lance which rose most mornings to an impressive standard, "the whole thing?"
"Of course," she clearly stated. "My father is Sir Alex. I'm his youngest daughter. And my husband is Captain Fletcher of the Loyal Legion, serving under Lord Cornwallis." She lifted her chin with pride.
"Is he now?" I said, enjoying the feel of her shoulder and knee, her warmth and smell. She had long arms and legs for a short person.
"Um hm," she said. "And all these slaves are mine and all the land as far as you can see. Have you looked from the window?" She nodded, almost childlike.
"Mrs. Fletcher," I said, since it was on the top of my barely-waking mind, "why are you wandering around in the dawn and sitting on a strange man's bed in your nightdress?"
"That's a good question. We were told, my cousin is here, too, she's in there, sleeping, we were told to stay in our rooms on the far side of the house until you left. They made us lock the door. I got up to use the necessary. I hate those jars." She paused and put her thumb to her lips. She was one of the very few Southern women I met who had almost no discernible accent, but she was very soft-spoken. "I wanted to see what a rebel looked like, and I didn't think I'd wake you so easily. I heard you snoring last night, right through the walls."
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