Soldier, Spy Ch. 01

[This is chapter one of a completed four-chapter novella to finish posting by the end of the first week of November 2020.]

Chapter One: Possessed: July-August 1775, Manhattan

20 July 1775

Bester drew his cloak tightly about him; dipped his tricornered hat at his superior, Captain Lamb; and, scanning the street, slipped out of the battery redoubt at the tip of Manhattan Island. The cloak wasn't for the cold. It was to hide Douglas Bester's uniform identification that marked him as an artillery lieutenant in the American rebels' Continental Army. Ever since the British had tried—and barely failed—to break out of the siege at Boston the previous month at Bunker and Breed's hills, a new move by the British was anticipated and spies were assumed to be moving about in New York City. The British still had access to the outside world from Boston via their fleet of warships, and there was every fear that they would abandon Boston only to attack New York.

For a month and more the artillery militiamen who manned the battery protecting both Manhattan and the approaches to the strategically important Hudson River had been on round-the-clock high alert. The men were frazzled. As an officer, the twenty-five-year-old, sturdily built, muscular, handsome, and dark-haired artillery lieutenant had been under as much, if not more, tension than most. In his case there was added tension that he couldn't talk to any of the men about—he could only endure and look for opportunities where they might present themselves.

He should have returned to the nearby barracks and sleep the sleep of the dead in anticipation of his next shift scanning the waters of the harbor, but he was too keyed up for that. It had been too long since he'd had the type of relief that he, a robust, highly sexed man of particular interests, needed. Instead of moving in the shadows of the battery walls to the barracks, he turned his steps into the interior of lower Manhattan, seeking out as many forms of relief as he could manage. Fraunces' Tavern, on Broad Street, would provide at least some of what he needed. As well as being a meeting place for revolutionaries to share what news could be had of the British movements, Bester could seek out the calming effect of tobacco and the numbing solace of ale.

A well-formed and outgoing military officer, Bester had no trouble finding a place at a table in the crowded tavern. His friends were calling for ale for him even as he cast off his cloak, hanging it on a peg by the door. He moved across the room, through boisterous clusters of men, to be offered a pipe as he sat at his friends' table in the cloud of smoke and noise hovering over the tavern room. He had hung his uniform coat up with the cloak and had now become just one of the many men in the room in a billowy white cotton shirt, navy-blue britches, and gray stockings. He wasn't just another man in the room, though. He was particularly well put together, his black hair tied off with a ribbon at the back of his head, rugged and dark facile features strikingly marked by hazel eyes, a muscular torso, and well-turned thighs and calves. He stood a full head above most of the men in the room and outweighed them as well, although he would be described as solid rather than heavy. He could wrestle any man in the tavern to submission and all there recognized that he could. He'd done so for sport on many an occasion, wrestling only in his britches and showing the curly black matting of hair on his chest and arms. He was truly a man's man and in his prime.

He also had a nature that most men in the colonies didn't have—and even fewer willingly revealed. He was attracted to other men rather than women, and at this particular moment he was in great need of release. Thus it was that he was particularly observant when his mug of ale was delivered by a tavern boy—not a boy, really, a young man—although all servers in taverns were called boys. This one was one Bester had not seen in Fraunce's Tavern before. He was sure he would have remembered seeing him before, as just the sight of this one set Bester's juices going.

The young man was sandy haired and slim. He was considerably younger than Bester and yet looked to be in his majority—which, in itself, piqued Bester's interest. The ale server was quite comely, moving like a dancer through the crowd as he delivered mugs of ale. He had a beautiful smile, long lashes above pale-blue eyes, and sensuous lips. A charge went through Bester's body as the ale was delivered, because their hands touched in the transfer of the mug and the young man looked down into Bester's eyes and the rugged soldier caught the unmistakable smile of interest.

The world of men preferring men was a tightly held secret and suppressed one in colonial times. When two men of this interest met, there were unmistakable looks that passed between them. Bester felt his body tighten up as the young serving man gave him such a look and took a fraction of time longer than was necessary to withdraw from the touch while transferring the mug.

Bester immediately felt himself starting to go hard, but when he looked up again, the young man was gone. He hadn't gone far, though. He had returned to the bar to pick up more mugs of ale and he was distributing them around the tavern. But he kept looking back in Bester's direction, and despite the conversation at the table on the status of the British presence and of various colonial leaders' calls for a break with Britain, Bester found himself frequently picking out where the young, lithe, sandy-haired server was in the large, smoke-filled room.

He saw that the young man did keep looking back at him, but he noticed that the server also was listening intently to the conversations at the tables in the small groups of men standing about, as if he was gleaning as much of what was being said as he could. This disturbed Bester a bit. He had moved into a conversation at his table about the capabilities and ranges of the cannon in the nearby battery at the tip of Manhattan, but seeing the interest being displayed by the tavern boy, he bit off what he was going to say next. Captain Lamb, the commander of the battery unit, had warned all of the men about British spies being about and needing to be vigilant about what they said in public, and he realized that a single mug of ale had loosened his own tongue. He went silent, hoping that those in conversation at his table wouldn't notice that he had clammed up.

Going silent, though, permitted more attention to go to observation, and it became increasingly evident the tavern boy was eyeing him and conveying an invitation. When, after looking meaningfully in Bester's direction, the young server moved to the back of the tavern room and then through the beaded-curtain-covered doorway of a corridor leading to the back of the building, Bester excused himself on the excuse of the call of nature and followed through the door. The corridor was dark and the young man was several paces ahead of Bester, but he turned and gave Bester a smile before continuing on, which Bester recognized as an understanding between the two.

No words need be spoken. Douglas Bester stood facing the back wall of the tavern, arms bracing himself against the brick wall in the shadows, pulled far enough away from the wall for the young tavern server to kneel between him and the wall; unbutton his britches fly; fish out a now-hard, thick, and long cock; and take it into his mouth, with his hand cupping Bester's ball sack and squeezing and rolling the balls, while he sucked the soldier's cock.

Bester's need was so strong that he wasn't able to endure this very long. He pulled the young man up onto his feet, unbuckled him, and pushed his britches down to the cobblestones.

"Climb my hips," he growled, and the young man raised his legs and hooked his knees on the larger man's hips. He gave a little cry of pain and surprise—and of his own need—as Bester's staff penetrated his channel.

"Yes, yes, plow me," the young blond man exclaimed in a strangled voice, as Bester gripped and spread his buttocks cheeks and moved deep inside him.

"Plow yourself," Bester growled.

Unbuttoning the soldier's shirt, laying his cheek against the black curls between Bester's muscular pectorals, and gripping the man's biceps in his hands, the young man did that, moving his pelvis on the cock, fucking himself on the buried shaft.

Both men, coming into this in high need, came quickly. They just held there, panting,

"I want—" the young man murmured.

"There's more. Just hold," Bester responded. "My name is Douglas. I want to meet with you again."

"I'm Timothy," came back the answer. "You're a soldier, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"An officer at the artillery battery."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I have seen you before—in your full uniform. I wanted you to fuck me. And I think I want to be a soldier. An artilleryman like you. Maybe you could show me the cannons."

"I don't think—"

"And afterward I could lie under you again. Oh, god, oh god, you're filling me again."

Yes, he was, and he was lost in the need of fucking enough that he grunted his agreement to show the young man the battery. He'd do almost anything to come inside the sweet young man again. The next few moments of grunting and grinding were a second, slower, more completing fuck.

His need satisfied for now, in the following days Bester began to think better of agreeing to show Timothy around the artillery battery, but Timothy wasn't at the tavern over the next few weeks when Bester returned with the intent to fuck him again without a connection to a battery visit. By the third week in August, though, when Bester found Timothy at the tavern again, the soldier's need was such that he agreed to show Timothy the battery on August 24th and put in a good word with him with Captain Lamb—in exchange, of course, for a good and leisurely fucking afterward.

* * * *

24 August 1775

"I'm sorry, Timothy, it's not possible to show you around the battery now."

Douglas had met Timothy out on the street by the entrance into the redoubt. There was a flurry of activity there, including several heavy wagons waiting on the street side, each being pulled by four horses.

"What's happening in there?" Timothy asked.

"Nothing that you need know about. Look, I'll meet you at Fraunces' Tavern later tonight. For now, I can't—"

"Who's this? A friend of yours, Douglas?" Captain Lamb, the charge officer of the battery, had come out onto the street. He was stripped down to his britches and sweating. Timothy gave him an admiring look, which the captain didn't seem to notice. "He looks a strong enough lad. Maybe he can lend a hand here, if he's willing and has the time."

"He's Timothy. Works over at Fraunces' Tavern. But I don't think—" Douglas was actually scared now and in a sweat. His thoughts of this Timothy being a bit too interested in the conversations on the dispositions of the British and colonial forces among the tables at the tavern earlier came back into mind. With all of the talk of spying . . .

"I'd be happy to help," Timothy said. "What needs to be done?"

"I don't think—" Douglas tried to interject again, but the captain overrode him.

"Too many British warships are gathering out there off Long Island. We've been told to move the cannon out of the redoubt lest the British seize them. Their force will be too large for us to hold against and cannon are precious to us. We'll be moving them elsewhere to gain more coverage."

"You're abandoning Manhattan?" Timothy asked, disbelieving what seemed to be the inevitable result of pulling forces back from the tip of the island.

"Not any farther than we have to."

"Where are they being taken?" Timothy asked.

Douglas started to interject a change in subject, but that wasn't needed. Lamb avoided the question and spoke as if he hadn't heard it. "I was told to pull the cannon out under cover of darkness so the British don't notice. Told I needed sixty men and I don't have that many. You'll help make up the difference."

"Well, I'm not sure. My master might expect me to—"

"Yes, I'm sure Timothy will be glad to help us," Douglas interjected, leaving both Lamb and Timothy looking a little confused, as it showed a total turnaround in his indicated thoughts. What Bester was now thinking, though, was that if there was a danger that Timothy was a British spy, now that Timothy knew the guns were going, they had to keep him here until long after the cannons had been moved and placed in a new position. He couldn't have an opportunity to pass this information on.

This development had been forming over the previous two weeks with the appearance, first, of the HMS Asia at the mouth of the harbor and then the more recent arrival of the HMS Yarmouth. Both were three-masted, double-cannon-deck warships of the British navy, each able to transport up to seven hundred soldiers. As New Yorkers had feared, the inability of the British to push out into the mainland from Boston might be making them change the focus of their attention on New York and control of the mouth of the Hudson River. Rumors had been going around the city for several days, Douglas knew. Timothy could hardly have not been aware of them, especially considering the interest he showed. But this movement of the cannon was a signal of weakness in the city defenses and would be valuable information for the British to know.

As darkness fell, the men Captain Lamb had managed to pull together started the heavy-lifting job of moving the cannons from their positions, trained on the harbor, to the wagons for transport. The activity was unusual and attention-getting enough that Captain George Vandeput of HMS Asia sent a barge from the British warship with soldiers in it to investigate. Upon spying the barge, the men in the redoubt immediately assumed that a British invasion was already under way. They fired on the barge with their rifles, killing one of the British soldiers, and sending the barge scurrying back to the HMS Asia. The Asia thereupon trained its double bank of cannons on the battery and opened fire. The first shot of the British invasion of New York City was fired and the first military kill of that theater of war was tallied.

Inside the redoubt, the removal of the cannons had only half been completed. The men had been working hard, stripped down to their britches. The firing on the barge had not disrupted the work; it had only increased the pace of the removal and the tension within the battery's earthen walls. Douglas and Timothy were working side by side, Douglas having no intention of giving Timothy a chance to slip away or even to be able to gather any more information on the operation than possible.

"What's that?" Timothy cried out at the sound of the first cannon blast from the Asia and the flash of light and shaking of the earth.

"Oh, hell," Douglas exclaimed as he pushed Timothy to the ground and covered the young man's body with his own.

Neither man was unaware of the intimacy of the position of Douglas, both men shirtless, sprawled on top of Timothy. Both men had increasingly become steeped in heat at the loading the cannons came under control and they contemplated a "what comes later?" Both men went harder as they lay in an embrace—Timothy, completely confused on what was happening, more sinking into "the mood" than Douglas, who was fully aware that they had drawn the cannon fire of the Asia, was. But even Douglas couldn't escape the mood.

Douglas also still wasn't about to let Timothy roam free until the battery guns were reset on the Brooklyn Heights. Between the second and third impact of cannon balls on the earthen works of the battery, Douglas hauled Timothy up and dragged him toward the street entrance of the fortification. Bedlam reigned on the street beyond, where people, including a rag tag fire brigade, were rushing about. Not all of the effect of the firing from the Asia was confined to the battery area.

"I have to go to Stone Street," Timothy called out as he was being dragged along.

"No, you don't. You have to come with me. And you know why," Douglas growled. Timothy didn't know all of the "why" that Douglas did, but if Timothy was, indeed, a British spy who needed to be contained for the next several hours, there was no reason why Douglas' suspicions should be conveyed to him. It was enough that both of them were hard and needing sexual release.

Douglas took Timothy to the nearby barracks building, which was deserted because most of the men were transporting the cannons to Brooklyn. Douglas had already volunteered to stay and close up the barracks. Having made its point—but too late to put the colonial cannons out of operation—the Asia stopped its barrage almost as soon as the two men reached the barracks and Douglas closed and locked the door. After that it was just their groans, moans, and grunts that could be heard, as they quickly stripped down and fell against each other, rutting like crazed animals, Douglas swinging Timothy from one pallet to the next, putting Timothy on all fours and fucking him like a dog. Grabbing Timothy's ankles, slamming the young man on his back on the next pallet, and hooking Timothy's ankles on his shoulders, Douglas then fucked Timothy hard and deep in a missionary position, lowering his mouth to the young man's nipples and ravaging them, as Timothy cried out to the ceiling of the barracks room and grabbed at tufts of Douglas' curly chest hair. After resting, Douglas went on his back on yet another pallet and Timothy rode his cock while Douglas was stroking him off to a shared ejaculation.

As dawn crept in, both men stirred from a short sleep, Douglas holding Timothy in an embrace, his flaccid cock still inside Timothy's channel.

"I must go. I have to see if everything is all right at home," Timothy murmured as he woke.

"Home? You mentioned Stone Street. Is that where you live? I thought you might live at Fraunces' Tavern."

"No. I only work occasionally at the tavern as my master is friends with Samuel Fraunces. Stone Street is near enough to here that my master's house and business may be damaged. He's a grain merchant."

"Your master? You are indentured to someone who lives on Stone Street? Who?"

"Thomas Hadley. Yes, I'm indentured to him."

Douglas Bester's blood ran cold. The rich merchant, Thomas Hadley, was a leading Tory sympathizer—a backer of English rule in the colonies. He was one of the few Tories who hadn't left the city already. People wondered why he stayed on. Douglas thought that perhaps he knew why Hadley and his servants would stay on in a city rife with rumor and actual information on the disposition of the colonialist forces and of their intentions.

"Yes, you best get back then," he said, his voice flat, his defensive shields going up.

"When can we—?" Timothy asked as he rose from the pallet and started pulling on his clothes.

"The battery is gone now. I'll be relocated," Douglas answered, his guard up now, his mind racing to think if he or Lamb had ever answered Timothy's question of where the cannons were being repositioned. But he didn't think that he had. If he'd thought so, he realized he'd have to do more than just let Timothy go. He struggled with that predicament and also was going through his clothes, looking for the hunting knife he always carried—just in case his decision fell in that direction. But he was slow enough that the decision was taken out of his hands, as Timothy unlocked the door and opened it.

"Pity," he said. "I would have liked to lay under you again. You are the most satisfying man I've ever had inside me." And then he slipped out of the door, and when Douglas reached the door, Timothy had vanished into the still-milling crowds that were assessing and cleaning up the damage from Asia's short bombardment the previous night.