Chapter 4
The winter sun sat low on the hills between the widows' farm and the town of Trenton when Hans carried his last armload of firewood to the crib behind the house.
What had once been a mighty mountain of logs was now a ragged pile of branches and woodchips; what wood wouldn't fit in the crib, Hans stacked neatly against the barn, clear of the windblown snowdrifts.
It was surely enough to keep the widows warm until February, and perhaps even into spring.
The air had grown chillier, but Hans was still warm from the work of chopping the wood. He draped his woolen jacket over his bare shoulders and his shirt and singlet over his arm as he made his way back to the farmhouse with the last pieces of firewood.
"You made good work of this indeed!" Anna said as she stepped out the farmhouse's back door and surveyed the full crib. Then she looked at Hans and smiled, her eyes running over his bare chest; he felt his cheeks redden at the sudden attention.
"Come inside and get cleaned up," Anna said, beckoning him with her arm. "Supper will be ready soon, and we've got a special dessert for our Hessian soldier!"
Hans followed Anna into the house and felt himself suddenly enveloped in the warmth that emanated from the stove in the kitchen and the blazing fire in the room beyond. Rich smells filled his nose, too: roast meat, bright herbs, and a familiar sweet scent that made his heart sing.
"Is that Apfelmuskuchen I smell?" Hans asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Mother was famous in the village for her apple cider cake, and no Christmas Eve was complete without the warm, moist pastry served with a hearty dollop of sweet cream.
"Just like Oma's," Anna said with a wink. "But no treats until you're clean, Hessian soldier, you smell like a barnyard!"
***
Hans kept looking at the closed door of the little room behind the kitchen to reassure himself that it was secure as he stripped out of his breeches, drawers, and socks.
A porcelain tub sat in the middle of a slate floor, half filled with hot water Anna had poured from a pot she carried from the stove.
A delicate lace of soap suds floated on the steaming water, and Hans closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the clean scent.
Washing in camp was limited to what could be accomplished with a rag, a bit of caustic lye soap, and a tin dish of cold water; hot water and a tub were luxuries Hans hadn't seen since he left home.
His clothes folded neatly on a simple chair in the corner, Hans gripped the sides of the tub and stepped into the water.
He gasped as his foot touched the almost scalding water, and he eased himself gingerly into the tub, letting his skin become accustomed to the heat a bit at a time.
He gritted his teeth as the bath swallowed his more delicate parts, and he let out a sigh when he was finally seated in the simple porcelain vessel, the water and suds rising above his waist.
Hans lay back in the hot water, his head hanging back, and closed his eyes.
So far, this visit to the widows' house had been far more pleasant than he had dared to expect.
Anna was very kind, and it was nice to hear German that wasn't shouted commands and barked orders.
And Sarah, too, made him feel more than welcome, with her gentle hands and the peck on the cheek she had given him when she brought his lunch; he certainly wouldn't mind another of those!
Alas, he didn't expect to win the heart of Gretchen — and, having met his share of British soldiers since arriving in America, he didn't blame her for her animosity.
The widows were also much younger and prettier than Hans had expected.
When his commander told him he would be spending Christmas "chopping wood for a nice German widow," he had expected, at best, a kindly old white-haired Oma who would pinch his cheeks and feed him Lebkuchen.
He certainly didn't expect three pretty young widows in their prime, living without a man on the edge of the wilderness.
Someday he hoped to be lucky enough to find a wife as lovely as Anna, Sarah, or Gretchen; and he certainly hoped not to leave his wife widowed so young.
As he mused on his hostesses, Hans felt a stirring beneath the soap suds.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his arousal to subside, but that only made his imagination run even wilder.
He recalled the gentle tickle of Sarah's lips against his cheek, and he wondered how those lips — full, soft, and warm — would feel against his own.
Though he had never kissed a woman before — at least, not in that way, as a man would kiss his wife — he had imagined it from time to time, lying alone in his bed in the dark.
And though he would surely hate to confess it to the village priest, there were occasions when he had allowed his arousal to get the better of him.
There were no priests, however, at the Hessian camp in Trenton, and surely a moment of carnal reflection could be forgiven of a young soldier far from home. Hans gave another glance at the door and, certain that it held fast, reached beneath the water to find the source of swelling.
He thought about Sarah's kiss again, her soft lips grazing his cheek.
And those lips moving across his face to his lips, pressing firmly against his, tasting of ripe cherries and sugar.
He imagined his hands on her waist, lifting her onto her toes so he could deepen their kiss, her arms thrown about his neck as he pressed her against the wall of the woodshed.
His hands bunched her gray frock, twisting the fabric as he lifted it above her ankles, then above her knees.
He imagined her warm body pressing to his, the shape of her hips and belly and breasts pushing against his body, her startled and then excited gasps when she felt his manhood pressing from behind his breeches.
A young widow, surely, knows her way around a man's body, understands secrets of pleasure that no virgin bride has learned.
Far better, Hans thought, to experience his first passion with a woman practiced in the arts of lovemaking, who could guide his awkward and eager actions toward mutual pleasure.
He had heard the other men in his unit talking about the whores at the New York bordellos and their skillful hands and mouths — mouths, to imagine such a thing!
— and Hans imagined that Sarah, too, might have those talents.
But shared only with her husband, of course, and with her Hessian soldier ...
Hans groaned and lifted his hips so he could see the purple tip of his member rising above the bubbles, slick with the sweet-smelling soap.
His hand cupped his heavy balls, letting them roll between his fingers; would Sarah, too, take pleasure in testing their weight, just as he longed to lift her breasts with his hands, guide them to his lips so he could suckle gently at them while she toyed with his pulsing shaft.
A sudden knock at the door and the sound of the hinges squealing dragged Hans from his reverie. In a panic, he sat up in the tub, sloshing water onto the floor, and pressed his hands against his rising cock to hide it beneath the bathwater.
"Hans, have you fallen asleep?" Sarah asked with a laugh as she pushed the door open, then turned to close it behind her.
She wore a blue dress now, hemmed at the waist to accentuate her curves, though its neck was high and gave him no more view of her decolletage than her gray shift had.
A plain white bonnet sat on her head, though curls of her auburn-tinted hair escaped around her ears and neck.
She carried a porcelain pitcher in her hands and had a muslin bath sheet draped over one arm.
"I ... I am ..." He struggled for the words, any words, in English or German, but found that he could only stammer. The color rose in his cheeks and he felt dizzy and ashamed.
"I hope you're enjoying your bath," Sarah said as she set the towel on the chair beside his clothes, retrieving a lumpy bar of soap from its folds, then turned back to the bath with the pitcher. "You certainly earned a bit of luxury after all that work today."
Hans understood Sarah's tone more than her words, and he felt himself slowly calming from the shock of nearly being discovered in a very private moment.
Though he kept himself hunched over to hide his still aroused manhood, he allowed his shoulders to relax.
She stepped behind him, and he could sense her kneeling at the back of the tub.
"I'm just going to give your hair a wash," Sarah said, her voice a low whisper.
When he felt her hands on his neck, Hans flinched, but let her guide his head back to rest on the porcelain rim.
She tipped the pitcher, and warm water ran over Hans' face, wetting his hair.
Her hand ran gently down from his forehead to his chin, urging him to close his eyes, and he settled back, his breath coming out in a sigh.
Sarah's fingers were nimble and strong, tugging at his tangled hair and working up a rich lather that smelled of lavender and honey.
Her nails worked into his scalp, firmly and gently, prying loose the dirt and grime of his months in camp.
Hans couldn't help but moan, and he heard Sarah laugh quietly behind him, her breath warm and soft on his ear.
"We're so happy to have our Hessian soldier for Christmas," Sarah whispered.
Her fingers strayed to Hans' neck, pressing gently at the knots in his muscles and drawing out another moan.
He had to keep his hands cupped between his thighs to keep the sea serpent from poking its curious head above the water.
"So very, very happy ..."