Beware! Napoleon is Coming

We had always lived nowhere. Well, next to nowhere really. On the shore; between the sea and the land.

The Seaweed Hut was grim. Always damp. Always too cold or too hot. My grandfather had left it to my father. Better that he had left him nothing. At least that way we could have lived inland and been beggars. Some people looked kindly on beggars. They thought nothing of Seaweeders. My mother only married my father because they were cousins. Because her family were Seaweeders he was the best she could do.

I didn't think I had any cousins so I never believed my marriage prospects were good. Now that I knew that I was around thirty they hadn't improved. I say around thirty. I obviously had a birthday but Sod knew when it was or even in what year I was born. It mattered little when your only role in life was collecting seaweed.

Ever since I could remember, I'd helped my parents rake it from the seashore, dry it and load it on a handcart and lug it up to Sutton Poyntz. They sold it to a farmer who didn't keep many animals to spread on his land as fertiliser. It paid little but that's what they did. That's all they could do. Even among the piss poor there was a pecking order which you couldn't escape. Ploughmen ploughed, labourers laboured and we lugged seaweed.

After they both died of smallpox six years ago I just kept on doing it because that's all I knew. I didn't catch the slightest bit of it. Even God didn't want me.

Now to make things worse, Boneyparts was waiting across the channel. Everybody knew that he was French and that he raped women and livestock and that he ate babies. Of these things being French was the most unforgivable.

Everyday, as I raked up the seaweed I kept a close eye out for Froggy ships.

I was ready to run away. Fortunately, I didn't have any livestock or babies.

Often the local volunteer militia would march along the shoreline looking for any sign that Boneyparts was trying to sneak into England. Everyone of them had a uniform but none of them had the same uniform. Most of them were old soldiers led by some pompous local squire. They suggested that I keep a knife or something handy to fight Boney off if he came. I told them that I would but really my plan was still just to run away.

Everyone knows that the King owns England and Scotland and Ireland too; I'm almost certain. He owns all the seas and oceans of the world as well. He owns other vast territories even if the people there don't think so. Great Lords own large parts of this country and farmers own smaller bits. What is not certain is who owns the land between the wet sea and the dry land. That's where the Seaweed Hut is. Just above what I hope is the highest tideline.

It is made of a frame of driftwood collected from the sea (which no-one owns). This is covered in dry seaweed (which no-one owns). Over this are various pieces of old sailcloth, savaged from the shoreline, held down with rocks.

I own the Seaweed hut now. Unless there are any taxes or duties to be paid in which case it's just a pile of sea junk that nobody owns.

Oh, I just realised that I didn't tell you my name. Sally, Sally Tew.

......................................

I had nothing but when the winter storms came I was petrified of losing it. I added extra large rocks to the roof and sides. Huddling inside on a cold windblown night I prayed that the English Channel knew where the highwater line was and didn't wash me and the hut away.

Waves were sometimes thrown right up to the hut. Sometimes not just waves. Often flotsam and jetsam would hit the hut. Mostly it was stuff I didn't need. Occasionally, it was things that had been washed overboard from vessels.

The general rule was that if I didn't need it, it stayed on the beach and got in my way and if it had any value it got washed out to sea again.

Despite my fears, if anything heavy crashed onto the hut, I would venture out to see if it was any good. I say ventured, mostly I crawled on my hands and knees. Usually, I just got soaking wet and disappointed.

...............................................

A December gail had been whipping in from the South West for a day and a night. I had little choice but to lie in my cot with a blanket over my head. Keeping the small fire alight wasn't easy. A tiny hole above the doorway on the leeward side of the roof allowed most of the smoke to escape but still my eyes stung a little.

Twice already that night a loud thud in front of the hut had drawn me out into the storm. The first time it was an old piece of ship's timber; useful but not that valuable. I dragged it behind the hut. The second was a bale of calico. When that dried out, I could sell it. I pulled that inside.

Sleeping is not easy on perilous nights like these but I'd just drifted off when something was thrown against the hut. It didn't sound like a ship's timber yet it didn't sound quite like a bale of cloth either. My first thought was to leave it but what if it was worth the trouble?

Pulling a piece of sailcloth over my head, I pushed open what passed for a door just enough to squeeze out. Timing my run with the surging waves, I made my way around to the seaward side.

I grabbed the bundle of saturated clothing and tried to keep low and drag it at the same time. It was too heavy to be just wet clothes. The wet clothes contained a body.

My first thought was to leave it. The sea would sort it out. It wasn't my problem.

Then the body groaned. Still my instinct was to have nothing to do with it. When it made another pitiful sound I did something really stupid. I cared a jot.

I clung onto one leg and pulled it over the sand and shingle that surrounded the hut. Fortunately, the rest of it came too. All those years of lumping seaweed had made me strong.

By the time I got the sailor into the hut we were both like drowned rats. In the course of being dragged his poor head had banged against several rocks and was bloodier than a butcher's block. What was left of his clothing was ripped and torn. Which is how I knew it was a seaman and not some unfortunate woman.

I lay on the floor panting in the dim light from the fire.

What should I do now? Maybe stopping him bleeding to death would be a good idea.

Kicking the door open I thrust a pail outside. Within a minute or so the sea had half filled it. I ripped off what was left of the man's shirt and rinsed it in the cold water. After bathing his head I felt sure there were no gaping wounds there. This was no time for modesty, so I took a knife to the rest of his clothing. I washed him down. Sure enough, there were plenty of cuts and grazes but nothing that would take his life.

What would do for him was the cold. He was shaking and shivering. I managed to get his naked body into my cot and pull the blanket over him.

His teeth were still chattering with the cold. By now so were mine. My clothes were still wet and I had nowhere to sleep. The tiny fire gave off very little heat.

I slipped out of my dress and slipped naked into the cot. Pressed close to and slightly on top of him, the life preserving warmth began to slowly return.

He slept. I didn't. I'd never been this close to a man before let alone a naked man.

...................

By dawn the tempest had abated. I pulled on some clothes and went out into the blinding morning light.

I climbed the tussock grass that lay behind the hut and retrieved two of the pots that I'd placed there yesterday. They had done their job and had collected fresh rainwater.

Lighting a cooking fire on the leeward side of the Seaweed Hut, I soon had a stew on the boil. As well as sea vegetables it contained land vegetables and shellfish.

I took a cup full of the liquor in to the sailor. He still slept so I fetched myself a bowl of stew. By the light coming in from the open door, I sat and watched him while I ate. He looked a little younger than me but not much. Like most seamen, his face was burnt brown but more sort of oily.

He moved a little. Then he opened one eye. "¿Dónde estoy?" he said.

I dropped my bowl and cried, "A bloody Frenchy."

"No franceso, españolo." he said softly.

"What?" I shouted.

"No Fretchy. esSpanish." he mumbled in a strange accent.

I knew we were at war with France and I knew we had been at war with Spain but were we at war with them now? My father knew all this sort of stuff but I didn't really care. He said that at some point we had been at war with nearly every country in Europe. But he also said that at some point we had been on the same side as nearly every country in Europe too. When we were at war with them, they were heathen monsters. When we were on the same side, we were helping them defend themselves against the heathen monsters.

Father was almost certain that we'd never been on the same side as the French.

He once told me that we had even been at war with our American Colonies. I was doubtful, but he said that they didn't want to belong to England anymore. He thought that we should leave it for a few years. Then they would fight amongst themselves and then they would beg the King to take them back. He was usually right about these things.

I pressed the cup of warm liquor to his lips. He spluttered some of it down. "Gracias." he said in that silly lispy voice. Then he went back to sleep.

Now, I was confused. If I didn't hand him in straight away, and we were at war with Spain, I could be hanged for harbouring a spy. On the other hand he was much too weak to do any spying at the moment. I could put him on the handcart and push the twenty miles to Dorchester but this could take me a day. If I walked there, by the time we got back he could have regained his strength and could run off to do his spying and I would be in trouble for letting him go.

I decided to do nothing and hope that Spain was our bosom friend. I would try to think of a way of asking him later.

He was in and out of sleep for the rest of the day. Each time he awoke I got him to eat a little more.

Once he pointed at me and said, "¿Nombre?"

There was obviously only one of me so I supposed he meant name name not number.

"Sally." I said.

He put his hand to his chest and gently said "Me llamo Francisco o Pepé."

I didn't know about Spanish, it sounded more like an Irish name to me. I said, " What?"

"Pepé." he whispered and then he drifted off again.

What a strange name for a christian man. I presumed the Spanish were Christians not Musselmens.

...........................................................

As night fell I knew that we would have to share the cot again. At first I thought that I might sleep in my shift but it smelled of seaweed and seafood stew.

Pepé was sound asleep as I pulled the blanket over our naked bodies. I was exhausted and I hoped that I would sleep undisturbed all night. At least that's what I told myself.

That is nearly what happened. As firstlight crept through the cracks around the door, I awoke.

I was aware of the warm body pressed against my side. More than this, I was conscious of something hard pressed against my thigh. Now, I may be a simple seaweed girl but I knew what it was.

Should I just get out of bed? Of course I should. But I might never get this chance again. Remember, I had no cousins and nobody else was going to marry me.

At my age I was untouched by human hand; well anyone else's hand anyway. Over the years I had explored my own body pretty well. Not just with my hand either but with almost anything that would safely fit inside me.

Now I was on the verge of trying the real thing.

I rolled onto my back and pulled Pepé on top of me. I hoped he was awake. Even if he wasn't, his thing was. If I could get him into place I could move my hips.

The first part was easy. I was more than ready.

It was a relief when he started to move his hips. He didn't have a lot of energy so I moved mine too. I was glad that he knew he was tupping me even if he couldn't put a lot into it.

Soon, he made some funny noises. His thing went soft and he rolled him off me. I put my hand to my cunny. It felt messy.

My first tupping was alright but not quite what I expected. I didn't feel let down but I didn't feel elated either.

By the late afternoon he was able to get off the cot. He ate some food. I fetched a bucket of seawater and I helped him wash. I had kept a few of my father's clothes in a canvas sack. I had worn my mother's to rags years ago. I hoped the smallpox had gone from them by now. They were a little tight on Pepé but not too bad.

That night as we lay together he held me and kissed me just as I had always dreamed some man would. I caressed his body and he caressed mine.

Just when I really wanted and needed to be tupped he pushed my head down towards his hard John Thomas. He put it to my lips and I parted them to let him in. I had often heard that this is how French men make babies but I had never heard about Spanish men doing it. But I had never heard anything else about them either.

I closed my lips around it and Pepé gently pulled my head back and forth like he was tupping my mouth. I soon got the idea and carried on bobbing my head even when he had let go of it.

Just when I thought he was going to make a baby, he pulled my head away and rolled on top of me and started tupping me the in English way. This was better. He was fully awake and was quite energetic. It didn't last as long as I would have liked but never mind.

We slept cradled in each other's arms. Once in the night I was awoken by him tupping me in the english style.

...................................

The next morning we dressed. I thought about asking for another tupping but decided to wait until tonight. Besides with only sign language I wasn't quite sure how to ask without looking stupid.

Thrusting the pail into his hand I gestured to him to go outside and fetch water. I covered the cot and found the bowls to break our fast. As he turned and said over his shoulder, "¿Por qué no lo consigues tú mismo, zorra inglesa mandona? Yo soy un caballero." (Why don't you do it yourself, you bossy English slut? I am a Gentleman).

No sooner had Pepé stepped outside than I heard shouting and two musket rounds.

I dropped the bowls and crashed through the door. Just outside Pepé lay in a pool of blood. The raggle taggle squadron of militiamen had their muskets pointed straight at me.

"What happened? " I cried.

The man in the fanciest uniform said,"We are on our way from Overcombe to Wyke Regis. When that ruffian came out of your hut he said something in French so we shot him."

"Didn't sound like any French I've ever heard. More like Portogoose or even Spangly." piped up an old man in a faded naval uniform.

"Well, we can't ask him now, can we?" answered the man in charge.

I thought quickly. Questions were about to be asked of me.

"Oh thank God you've killed him your Lordship. I'm sure that he's a French Spy. He's held me a prisoner in here for three days and he's done all sorts of filthy and depraved things to me." I wept to the bigwig. I was going to say that he'd eaten my baby but I thought that that may be going too far. It was obvious that I didn't have any livestock.

"It's Captain Bridges. Now calm yourself, lass. We'd better go inside. I don't want the men inflamed. You can tell me all about it in there." said the Captain.

Once inside he wanted to hear every detail of my ordeal.

I told him that I had never been touched by any man before. I told that I had been held down and tupped a dozen times.

When I said that the filthy spy had put his John Thomas in my mouth and tupped it. The Captain said, 'I don't understand what he did. You will have to show me."

As he undid his breaches he pushed me down onto my knees. His wasn't as long and stiff as Pepé's but I thought maybe English men are made differently than Spanish men.

I took his John Thomas between my lips and did just as Pepé had taught me. I bobbed my head backwards and forwards keeping my lips firmly wrapped around it. It took no more than half a dozen bobs before the Captain made a mess in my mouth. It tasted rather like a really salty seafood soup. Not totally unpleasant but you wouldn't want a whole bowl full. I just swallowed it.

As he covered himself, the Captain gave me a sixpence and said, "With a talent like that my good friend would gladly give you a position in his establishment in Weymouth."

"I'll take it!" I said as I bundled together a few of my clothes and got to my feet.

The Captain followed me outside and barked to his men, "We are taking this young lady to Weymouth for her own protection. She has had a terrible ordeal."

There was a discontented murmur among the old militiamen.

"Strap the Frenchy to the pack mule. They may wish to hang him as a spy in the town to teach him a lesson." ordered Captain Bridges.

More murmuring was heard.

Just before the squadron was ready to march off with me seated sideways on the pack mule just behind poor Pepé's body which had been wrapped in sailcloth, I addressed the commander, "Captain, before we leave, would your men do me a service?"

"And what would that be m'dear?" he leered.

"Burn the Seaweed Hut to the ground."