"And we rather doubt their convoy is actually close enough to even Mid-Atlantic, as of yet, Lewrie," Curtis added. "And most certainly, will not be taking a southerly track anywhere near your course."
"I see, Sir Roger," Alan replied, much eased that he'd not be swanning about for days or weeks, in a fruitless search. "Very well, then, milord. Should I stay aboard Queen Charlotte, to await orders, or go back aboard Jester? I am completely at your convenience, sir."
"No, best let Mister Codrington fetch them to you," Admiral Howe decided, after another stupendous yawn, and taking his chair once more. "I fear our hospitality, at the moment… given the circumstances… is none of the best, after all."
"I'll take my leave then, sir? Milord Howe? Sir Roger?" Alan said, beginning to bow his way out. "My congratulations once again, on this victory… a glorious way to usher in the summer."
"A most glorious first day of June, Commander Lewrie, aye!" Sir Roger Curtis brightened, making a little note to himself that he stuck in a side pocket of his "iron-bound" dress captain's coat.
"Sorry we could not make you more welcome, Commander Lewrie," Lieutenant Codrington said, once they'd gained the gangway. "After your actions, as well, in escaping those frigates, and shaving their battle line, well…! There should have been a bottle in it, at least!"
"I quite understand, sir," Lewrie chuckled in mock rue. "I'm quite satisfied the fleet was here, to rescue me, as it were. Uhm… when you come aboard, Lieutenant Codrington? The fleet will be off for home, soon?"
"I doubt that, Commander," Codrington told him. "Still all the Frog ships that got away to deal with. A letter to send?"
"Aye," Alan answered. "A letter of condolence to the parents of a lad who was killed this morning."
"I apologize, sir, I didn't know…"
"None needed, sir," Alan allowed. "I'd hate for them to think he's still, well…"
"I'm quite certain Captain Curtis will have a frigate sailing for England with our good tidings, Commander Lewrie." Lieutenant Codrington scowled. "Dashing, really-sails set 'all to the royals.' When I fetch you the documents, you may rest assured your letter to the lad's parents will be aboard that frigate. My word on't."
"My heartfelt thanks to you then, sir," Lewrie said as they shook hands on the agreement.
"Ahoy, th' boat party, below! Make ready!" A petty officer shouted down. "Side-party… uhmm. Sorry, Mr. Codrington, but…"
"Do make no fuss over me," Alan offered. Most graciously, and modestly, he thought. "You've better things to do, at the moment, I'm sure, than take men away from repairs. Or seeing to their mates."
"Oh, thankee, sir!" The petty officer beamed in approval.
"An hour, no more, sir," Codrington promised, casting an envious eye over Lewrie's shoulder to the beautifully formed sloop of war that rode fetched-to, two cables off.
CHAPTER
7
"Ship's comp'ny… off hats," Bosun Porter ordered, speaking in a throaty rasp, though one almost soft and reverent, for once, as the ship lay once more fetched-to, just at sunset.
Once free of Howe's fleet, just after sailing them under the horizon, the winds had come more westerly, more like what was expected in the Bay of Biscay, and Jester, on starboard tack, had loped nearly forty-five miles farther, by dusk. Now she lay cocked up to weather, some sails full of drive, others laid all a'back to snub her motionless.
T'gallant yards a-cock-bill, though, to signify a death, and a burying- lift-lines purposely put out of trim to speak grief.
The entry port on the starboard gangway to weather was open, and a party stood by with the canvas-shrouded corpse on a long eight-man mess-table board. The small hump beneath the Red Ensign seemed too small to bother with.
How much room did a mere boy take, Alan wondered; short before- shorter, now? There'd been little to find of his head and shoulders but scoops of offal. Josephs's body looked arsey-varsey; the two round-shot at his feet more headlike. Heretical it might be, but Lewrie had the thought anyway, as he opened the prayer book to the ribanded page… custom said the sailmaker took a final stitch through the nose of those dis-charged-dead, to assure the crew that the departed was truly gone over. Now, if there wasn't a nose, or a head…?
He shook himself, to silence such fell musings. The light of a spectacular sunset was fast fading. He had to hurry.
"O God, whose beloved Son didst take little children into His arms and bless them; Give us Grace, we beseech Thee, to entrust this child, Richard Josephs… gentleman volunteer… to Thy never-failing Care and Love…" he intoned from the prayer book. And followed its suggestion that, for the interment of a child, Lamentations 3:31-33 was particularly apt. "… for He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men…"
There followed Psalm 130, tried and trusted by sailors since time immemorial. Most of them knew it, and could recite it softly, with the older men leading:
Out of the Deep have I called unto thee, O Lord;
Lord, hear my voice,
O let thine ears consider well,
the voice of my complaint…
And it got especially tearful, and Lewrie could hear rough tars beginning to weep, when they got to
… My soulfleeth unto the Lord before the
morning watch; I say, before the morning watch.
A lesson from the New Testament, the equally familiar 23rd Psalm, and then, since they had no clergy aboard to celebrate the Eucharist, or speak a homily, Lewrie skipped ahead to the Committal.
"In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Richard Josephs, and we commit his body to the deeps… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make His face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him, the Lord lift up His countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen."
There was a dry swishing noise as the mess table was upended, as the Red Ensign collapsed, followed by a splash alongside. Josephs was making an end to his first and only passage, sped by the weight of combative iron to abyssal depths, where, it was hoped, there was no corruption, until the Day of Resurrection.
Thank God, he knew it by heart, for he could no longer read the text of the prayer book. His eyes were just as full of tears. Damme, only a year older'n Sewallis, he thought! As he, and his crew, began to chant the Lord's Prayer. Even as the westerly huffed impatiently over the gangway, fluttering the pages of both prayer book and Bible, as ratlines quivered
and shook, and an eldritch wailing keened aloft in the rigging. And ghostly wind-mutters spoke in the shrouds.
"… for ever and ever, Amen," he concluded.
"Saints presarve us!" an Irish Catholic seamen whimpered, and a number of the burial party on the gangway crossed themselves, muttering like sentiments. There was a surge forward to the bulwarks.
" Es come!" An ancient-looking member of the sail-maker's crew swore. " 'E's come f r 'im!" he declared.
Lewrie stepped to the starboard bulwarks and peered over the side, and once more, his hackles and nape-hairs went up. Heart rose in his throat, stomach chilled in icy terror, and his breath stopped, faint!
There were seals in the water, close-aboard, cavorting about; their wine-bottle bodies swirling half submerged, round in a circle below the entry port where little Josephs had splashed!
Sweet Jesus, save us, Lewrie gibbered to himself!
A seal's head broke water, about ten yards off to windward, a sleek, bewhiskered hound's head, with wide-open, gentle puppy eyes.
Lir, Lewrie gawped! Seals, this far out to sea, why else A …!
More heads appearing, in a pod as they back-paddled, gazing up at the sailors along the rail, as more and more left off their circle to join them, until the entire pack was motionless. Just breathing and staring! Bobbing on the slightly restless sea, letting wrinkly wind-stroked waves break over them as the sea got up.
"Seals, not sharks, Cap'um," Mister Buchanon whispered harshly near his ear, which made Lewrie like to jump right out of his skin! "You be th' one t'tell 'em, sir. 'Tis seals, come fr him. You'll see. They won't be afeard no more, when 'ey hear 'at."
"Calmly, lads!" Lewrie called out, still skittery with fear of the unknown, himself. " 'Twasn't sharks that have come to… take him. 'Twas seals\ Look at 'em. Just playful seals!"
"Aye, 'tis a selkie, th' tyke's t' be!" the Irish sailor said, with a note of gladness, and pleasure in his voice. And several more West Country men agreed aloud, still crossing themselves cautiously, but sounding almost crooning, now, as if a wrong had been righted.
"Goo'bye, lad!" one called down to the depths. "Goo'bye, boy! 'Twill be playin' t' yer heart's content, ye'll be doin', now on 'til foriver!"
Christ, what sort of madness is this, what heresy have I countenanced? Lewrie wondered. Though his hands were calmer, easier, and no longer terrified-most of 'em, anyway, he thought; noting how a landsman or new-come was being told the Real Facts of Life by the old and experienced "sea-daddies."
"Ye selkies…" the old sail-maker's assistant chortled. "Poor chub'z a good lad, 'twoz Josephs. See ye take th' best o' keer o' him, hear me? An'…" More fresh tears ran down his aged cheeks. "An' when it come me own time, pray Jesus an' all th' saints, ye come f r me, when I go o'er th' side. God pity ye… an' God love ye."
One by one, the seals' heads submerged, into a swirl of barely disturbed water, until only the oldest and largest was left, blinking incredibly huge and soft brown eyes at them. Why he did so, Alan had not a clue, but… he waved to him. The seal seemed to nod, as a sea broke over him, and came up blinking once more, his huge gentle eyes swept clear of saltwater tears, Lewrie could conjure, with droplets of sympathy bedewing his mustaches.
And then he was gone.
As if he'd never been, he submerged, making not even the tiniest ripple on the waters; he sank out of sight, and he was gone. And Alan Lewrie shivered like a wet dog, having to grip the bulwarks' oak to keep a grip on his sanity. Shivering at the revealed presence of a sea god far older than Jesus!
"Christ!" was all he could mutter in icy awe, as he came back to his senses. And wishing to be far away from that hoary phantasm.
"Ahum," he continued, "Mister Knolles? Hands to the braces… put us back on the wind, and get us underway."
"Aye aye, sir," Knolles replied from the quarterdeck astern.
Bible and prayer book gathered from the deck where he'd dropped them, bent pages reverently smoothed out. That took a few welcome and contemplative moments. Hat back firmly on his head. Back to his place along the weather bulwarks of the quarterdeck, where he could pace, as a symbol of authority… Christ, as a symbol of Reason!… again.
"Mister Buchanon," he had to ask, though, drawing the sailing master to his side, where they could talk confidentially. "What are they, the what-you-call-'ems… selkies?"
" 'Ere's a legend, Cap'um," Buchanon told him, " 'at long, long ago, 'twas a battle comin' 'twixt Good an' Evil, an' Lir, a as one o' oP gods, come t'this fishin' village, lookin' for help 'gainst Evil. Now th' villagers cried off, d'ye see, sir. Said 'ey's too poor, 'ey didn't know a thing 'bout fightin', nor weapons. 'Eir men go away t' fight, 'eir wimmen'n babes'd starve. So Lir-so me da' tol' me-put 'is cess on 'em all. Said he'd come again, oncet th' battle woz won. Good did beat Evil. Never for very long, though… an' ain't that just th' way of it, sir? Well, ol' Lir come back t'at village, 'bout th' time 'ey'd all forgot, an' laid his curse. He turned 'em into selkies, Cap'um. Seals with human souls, sir, who remembered livin' ashore, an' how good 'twoz. Drove 'em inta th' sea, weepin' an' wailin', where 'ey'd bawl all 'eir live-long days."
"Doesn't sound like a good god, to me, to punish so," Lewrie sniffed in disapproval. Of action, tale, or truth, he didn't know.
"OP Testament's full o' such, though, sir," Buchanon countered wryly. "But, here's the cruelest part o' Lir's curse. After a century'r two, his cess seemed t' sputter out. One at a time, 'ey swim ashore on some rookery beach, an' woke up people, again, Cap'um! Thought 'ey'd paid for 'eir sins, at last, an' woz free. But, oh no!"
"Don't tell me they got so used to being seals, that…" he kenned with a wry grimace. "They began to ache for the sea?"
"Aye, sir, 'at 'ey did." Buchanon chuckled. "Fell in love an' wed, had babes an' houses, an' lives worth livin'. But then, some night, sir… when the wind's blowin' soft off th' sea, an' th' moon is shinin' soft an' pretty, 'ey gets t' starin' at it, walkin' th' beaches night after night, lis-tenin' t'th' others out there, callin' to 'em…? Comes a time, sir, 'ey can't resist no more. Strip off eir clothes, an' swim out, with no lookin' back, an' turn back inta seals, 'ey do, Cap'um! Have a high old time o' it, for a while, back with 'eir ol' friends in th' sea, as selkies again."
"And then that gets old, and they remember being people, and their loved ones ashore?" Lewrie shivered.
"Doomed t'go through th' whole pain, over an' over, again… 'til th' end o' Time, Cap'um," Buchanon intoned, as sure of his lore as he was of the next sunrise. "But, 'tis said, sir… 'ere's times 'ey come back ashore, t'fetch 'eir gits. Selkie makes a babe, he's half selkie, himself, then. An' he can't resist wadin' out some night, neither, when his da' or ma does. No matter whose heart it breaks. 'Twaz a heavy curse Lir laid on 'em, sir. A heartless bugger, he."
"No, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie protested. Or felt that he had to, as a rational man. As some sort of a Christian. "Lir sent the seals-selkies-to take Josephs? That'd be robbing God of that lad's immortal soul! That'd keep him from Salvation!"
"Th' lad'z from Bristol, sir," Buchanon explained, shaking his head, utterly convinced of his lightness, no matter that he was speaking an ancient pagan heresy. "Little Josephs might o' been a selkie t'begin with, livin' 'at close t'th' sea, from a seafarin' fam'ly? I seen, or heard, o' such before, Cap'um, back home when I'z a lad. A spell as a seal… Lir didn't rob God. Jus' borrowed Josephs's soul, for a piece. More like, th' lad'll appear in 'is world again, might be a foundlin', an' grow up t'be a sailor. Maybe one with a better run o' luck, th' next time, an' a longer life. After he pays off whatever sin he done in his oP life afore, sir… then, he'll go t'his true reward. B'sides, sir… 'ere's more myst'ries in 'is here world'n we can shake a stick at. An' we just saw one, sir, and 'at's a fact! All folk can do sometimes is be left t'wonder."
"Amen to that," Lewrie said automatically, looking astern at their wake, a gray specter, only darkly sunset-tinted upon the foam. Wondering if it would be a wonder-or a sign of a further curse from Lir!-to espy another seal. "Well, then. Ahum! Thankee, Mister Buchanon. That'll be all for now. Do carry on."
"Aye aye, sir," the sailing master replied, doffing his hat in salute as he wandered over to the hands by the wheel, as Seven Bells of the Second Dog were struck up forward.
Lewrie went below to his cabins for his supper, stowing Bible and prayer book in the shelf above the chart table on the way.
"Yer rhenish, sir?" Aspinall inquired, cleaning his hands on the fresh white apron he wore. "A glass o' claret tonight, then?"
"Brandy, Aspinall," Lewrie decided grimly. "Big'un!"
"Aye, sir. Best for what ails ya, says I," Aspinall rambled on cheerily, as he poured three fingers-worth into a snifter. "Sad it is, sir. That little tyke? But, a stout measure o' something always bucks a body right up, sir."
Toulon came slinking out of hiding, into the cheery light from the overhead lanthorns, wailing a welcoming "Maa-ahh-awr!" with even more urgency and enthusiasm than he usually showed. And that was not insubstantial, to begin with. Greeting his master (as much as cats may be said to have the concept of master down pat) with a desperate show of affection. Or a desperate need of it, himself.
Never known to be a particularly doting tribe, except when it suited them, still… Toulon seemed to empathize as he climbed Alan's chest, patted and kneaded furiously, and reclined on his shirtfront finally, little head butting under Alan's chin, licking and purring in remarkable, commiserating ardor.
"You feel it, too, Toulon?" Lewrie asked softly. "Scare you, too?"
"Maiwee?" was the ram-kitten's shuddery reply, as he turned himself boneless, to flatten his body even closer.
"Scared the Devil out of me, let me tell you," Lewrie confided to his creature. He stroked Toulon down from forehead to tail-tip, in thankfulness that there was somebody there to give him comfort at least. "Was it even real, puss? Did it really happen like I think it did? God!"
Should it ever come my time, Alan thought, cringing at the very idea; that's one way to escape the Devil and his fires. A back gate for the damned-become a selkie!
"Wouldn't do you a bit of good, would it, Toulon?" Lewrie told the ram-cat. "Can't abide your sponge-down now, much less a swim."
"Moi," the cat sang under his jaw, paws working as he slinked higher toward his collars.
"Christ, what use is a selkie who can't swim?" Lewrie snorted, forcing himself to chuckle. Like most good English seamen, he could not swim a single lick. If a ship went down, most of them said that trying to swim only prolonged the inevitable. Or saved one just long enough to be eaten by something, right after one got one's hopes up, and…
"Damme!" Lewrie sighed, taking another refreshing draught of his brandy, shoving another fey feeling away.
Poor little Josephs, he pondered, instead; barely got his sea legs, and bam! Maybe it is best, that… that Lir took him? Just for a bit, say. Chub might be happy to be a seal, for a while. Happier'n he was 'board this ship, at any rate!
A lad about Sewallis's age and size, Lewrie mourned with infinite regret; dreams shattered, terrified-started!-heartbroken, then dead, long 'fore his time!
There came the faint sound of a fiddle tune from the gun deck. Slow, lugubrious, and atonal, like what Captain Ayscough aboard Telesto had delightedly told him was the "great music" played on bagpipes.
But this was one he recognized-the funeral song played for Stuart hopes, and the dead of Culloden, after the '45: "The Flowers of the Forest." His eyes pricked with remorseful tears. He thought, for an instant, of ordering the fiddler to cease, but…
Toulon climbed to his shoulder, to snuffle at his ear. Lewrie felt him stiffen, heard him chitter, as he did at the sight of a seabird. Claws dug into his shoulder, and the little ram-kitten's tail, which lashed before his nose, bottled up to double-size. He made his chatter again! A seabird, this late in the evening? he wondered.
Or a selkie in their wake!
"I'll not look!" he whispered, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, and taking another deep draught of brandy. "I don't want to know!"
And he didn't, though Toulon continued to knead and shiver his little chops, quavering, and would not get down. And lashing his tiny tail, thick as a pistol swab brush, in a frenzy. Lewrie did turn his head just enough to see Toulon's neck, his whole body, straining aft, intent as only a cat may be intent, upon something astern, almost as if in yearning… or silent, beastly communion.
"Rot!" Lewrie muttered harshly. "Rot, I say! Has to be!"
"Muumhh?" Toulon said at last, sounding disappointed, as his body lost its lock-spring tension. Then, he was amenable to a rub on his flank, to turn (clumsily) and drop down to Alan's lap to knead a new nest. And rasp his rough little tongue on Alan's hand.
Purring like anything.
Book II
Anceps aestus incertiam rapit;
ut saeva rapidi bella cum venti gerunt
utrimque fluctus maria discordes agunt
dubiumque feruet pelagus haut aliter meum
cor fluctuator.
A double tide tosses me, uncertain of my course;
as when a rushing tide wages mad warfare, and from
both sides conflicting floods lash the seas and the
fluctuating waters boil, even so is my heart tossed.
MEDEA Book II, 939-944
Lucius Annaeus Seneca
CHAPTER
1
A quick inventory, a circular course for his jittery right hand along his uniform. Cuffs shot, waistcoat tugged straight, hat set on just so. Wash-leather purse full of guineas still safe, and, a blank note-of-hand snugly ensconced in a coat pocket… well, then.
A deep, spine-straightening breath before he rapped on the door. As he waited for someone within to answer, Lewrie experimented with a range of expressions on his face. Smile? No. Frown? That wouldn't do, either. Something in-between, perhaps? Though he suspected that "something in-between" would resemble a gas attack, or a pair of too-tight shoes. He was striving hellish hard for Ambivalent!
And why the Devil'd she remove herself to this set o' rooms? he asked himself with a quick, fleeting scowl; her old'uns were nice enough, and not that dear. She have a comedown, 'spite of the money I left her? Waste it all on fripperies, or gamblin'…?
"Yessir?" A mob-capped oldish maidservant inquired of him as the door opened with a rusty creak, at last.
"Commander Alan Lewrie…" he flummoxed out, not sure exactly what sort of expression his phyz wore, then. "Come to call upon Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino. Is she in?"
"God be praised, sir!" The square old crone cried in delight, clapping her hands together, and raising enough noise to wake the entire neighborhood. "You're her Navy fella, come back at last! Come you in, sir! Come you in\ Let me take your hat, Commander Lewrie… have a cane, an'… no? Mistress]"
She bawled that with the door standing wide open. Cartmen and vendors were stopped dead in their tracks in the narrow, steep little street that straggled uphill from the Old Moles. A curate and his wife out for an invigorating uphill stroll, both clad in old rusty-black dominйe ditto, were frowning heavily as Lewrie sought some way short of strangulation to stifle the old mort's bellows.
"Mistress Phoebe!" the woman halloed upstairs. "'Tis Commander Lewrie! He's come, ma'am! Hurry!"
At least he could use his foot to slam that heavy old door, to keep their reunion somewhat private, as a delighted shriek came from above, quickly followed by the patter of petite feet on the carpet and floorboards and stairs. Lewrie's lips twitched as he attempted to regain the composure of his face anew. And trying to recall just exactly which demeanor he'd thought most suitable.
"Alain!" Phoebe cried breathlessly-almost brokenly, as she appeared on the tiny middle landing of the narrow pair of stairs. Her brown eyes were fawn-huge and lambent, as if suddenly aswim with tears of joy, and her cheeks flush with emotion.
Oh, damme, Lewrie thought with a shudder, a definite lurching in his chest, and an instant, tumbledy flood of warmth; why the Devil she have to look that handsome! That young and…!
He went to raise his right hand, as if to doff the hat he didn't wear to her in genteel salute, but it got no higher than his midchest, appearing to her as an invitation, before she dashed down the stairs to fling herself upon him with such a fierce ardor that he was almost driven backward, off his heels, to the floor.
He rocked one heel backward to balance, put his arms about her to hold her up, savoring all over again just how tiny, how petite and perfectly formed Phoebe Aretino was. With her arms about his neck and most happily dangling, with her heels far off the floor, showering his face, his neck, his eyes, with a positive deluge of kisses, whispering betwixt each some French, some English endearments, and declarations of how much she had ached for the sight of him.
To support her, of course… doin' the gentlemanly thing, Lewrie swore to himself!… he was forced to place his hands under her bottom. Touch her small, spare, incredibly soft…!
"Phoebe…" he whimpered. He'd meant to growl, to caution her about the maid, whose presence Phoebe was blissfully ignoring. Meant to greet her pleasantly, in point of fact. Merely pleasantly, but… Their lips met, open and inviting, coffee-hot and musky, already, as she, still oblivious to the cronish maidservant, lifted her ever so slim thighs and wrapped them around his waist!
"Phoebe…?" he essayed again.
Well damme, he thought, in a hopeless muddle! Meant that'un to be japing… cajole her down! But it had come out throaty, caressing.
He evidently had called upon her just about the time she'd arisen from bed, or just after her morning ablutions. Phoebe hadn't taken time to throw on a morning gown in which visitors could be decently received- only a spiderweb-thin silk dressing robe. No corsets, stays, or underpinnings, no chemise, nothing even atу cumbrous came between his hands, which were now beginning to rove her back and bottom fondly, and her tender young flesh, but that dressing robe.
Damp ringlets of lustrous dark brown hair toyed about his face and collars-rich, sultrily Italian, Mediterranean, exotic and dark-as-coffee hair.
"So long, Alain, mon cerf formidable]" she crooned in his ear, a tiny, breathless huskiness to her usually small voice. "Mont' an' mont', you be away, an' on'y ze une lettre! Mon coeur, ah mees you si trиs beaucoup]"
"Phoebe!" He sighed, chuckling with uncontrollable, undeniable delight, by then, as he dipped his head to kiss her throat, the soft flesh under her chin, her slim neck below her ears.
Knew this'd happen, he chid himself; knew it! But not anywhere near as harshly as he might. God help me, but…!
Nature had her way with him, by then. Unbidden, in spite of a whole host of good intentions, the fork of his breeches felt nigh to bursting with a raging tumescence which he swore could serve as taffrail flagstaff in a full gale! He took a clumsy step toward those first set of stairs, felt her shift against him, meaning to keep his balance under such a tempting, alluring, top-heavy cargo… and he was lost. Again.
"Ma chйrie," he muttered, "ma petit biche. Ma choul"
"Oh, Alain, 'urry!" she teased, glancing upward. "Mon amour]"
Well, he thought, not a touch rueful; s'pose we have to get reac-quainted first. In for the penny, in for the pound, an' all that!
They'd not quite attained real privacy, not that first reunion. A trail of his shoes, sword and belt, neck-stock and coat littered up the second flight attested to that. Waistcoat gone, long-tail shirt and breeches open, he'd played horsey to her hunter, and trotted her to the tiny upper landing, into her bedchambers, and all about the room. Laughing all the while, crying "Yoicks, Tallyho!" and making bugle calls through his nostrils. "Trot! Canter! Draw sabers and… sound the Charge!" As he recalled from seeing the local Yeoman Cavalry practice their drill back in Angles-green. Spitted upon him, Phoebe had shrieked aloud, open windows to the street bedamned… and more than once, too, he smugly congratulated himself… before they'd collapsed exhausted across her high bedstead, in shuddery giggles of delight, tears of ecstasy, and much-needful pantings.
A quarter-hour of kisses, caresses, strokes of dearly remembered skin. A quarter-hour of endearments, of pledges of heartbreak over the long separation, many sighs and shudders, and rolling about, twine and countertwine, stoking the coals with kisses becoming more and more intimate and giving…
Looking up at her, rough sailor's hands on her slim, swansdown hips as she bestrode him, rocking and riding bold as a plumed lancer… riding Saint George with her head thrown back and her carefully coiffed hair come down in sweaty "а la victime" ringlets. Incredibly slim arms, her waif-slim waist, and taut little belly… Phoebe's small breasts in his eyes, large dark areoli and pouty little nipples mesmerizing him all over again, bedewed with perspiration as she flung herself, thrusted to meet him. So tiny, she was, so gamin and light, so completely engrasping and enfolding about him! So utterly kittenish, yet minxlike and enthralling! And so strong, her slim little fingers, on his shoulders as she leaned forward, face crumpled, tears flowing, breath rasping harsh and insistent between her moans and cries.
He slid his hands up to surround her breasts and she leaned in to support herself, eyes flying wide open as she began to smile, expectantly, speared to the utter depths of her heart, of her soul, in one more of a series of "the little deaths." As his own release built to more than he could stand without bellowing like a steer, not a moment more could he wait, withhold himself, delay his pleasuring in hopes it might help her attain hers! Hard and greedy now, niceties bedamned, and Phoebe took his hands in hers, crushed sword-bruted, rope-bruted palms into her tenderest flesh. Twined fingers and keened aloud, a victory paean that went on and on, rising falsetto in time to their every shift and judder, until at last…
She screamed a weak, thin scream, twined fingers tighter, and leaned back, trusting him to keep her from falling, as his own head exploded, as he departed his life for a maelstrom of colored stars, tumbling down a cannon's barrel into the swirling sparks and flame points of eruption. Exploding upward, delirious and aswim, reeling and rolling in a fever-dream, feeling her grip him, grip him, grip him and spasm, as their senses tumbled around the cosmos.