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Chapter Two: Occupied

July–August, 1776, Staten Island and Harlem

July 7th, 1776, found Thomas Hadley standing at the top of the front steps, in front of the double front door of his Staten Island estate home. He was watching the approach of the retinue, riding on horseback, of the captain of the British sixty-gun warship, HMS Yarmouth, Owen Sheffeld, along the tree-lined avenue. Timothy Grady stood a step below him on the right of the two lines of servants descending the semicircular brick stairs to the graveled forecourt. Perhaps the slight incline of his head toward Timothy was the cause, but whatever prompted it, Captain Sheffeld’s eyes went to the young man as he approached astride his horse, his eyes narrowed, and a small, perhaps a bit cruel, smile formed on his lips. Sheffeld was an under-height, spare, almost austere man in his forties, with a ramrod-straight back and an icy stare from his gray eyes that took in everything and assessed all they saw in terms of advantage that could go to the military man.

He made particular note of well-formed young men—men like Timothy Grady, who, when eyed by Sheffeld, signaled shared interest.

When he saw that he was being noticed, Timothy gave a little smile, batted his long eyelashes, and lowered his eyes in submission. Just as the invitation to a hunt, a stag dinner, and an overnight from Hadley to Sheffeld had been written in a code that two men of similar preferences fully understood what was being offered, the looks that went between Hadley and Sheffeld and then between Sheffeld and Timothy Grady, even before Sheffeld had stepped down from his horse, laid out and sealed a deal. Sheffeld had been invited to Hadley’s Staten Island estate to hunt more than deer and pheasants. He had signaled that he was satisfied with the prey.

If Hadley was trying to claim loyalty to the occupying British forces and bidding to have his holdings on Staten Island and, eventually in Manhattan itself, preserved under British occupation, he had found and was playing a valuable negotiation chip. Sheffeld wasn’t the senior British officer in the area, but he was the senior British officer with a taste for young men.

Over the past year, the augmentation of the British fleet at the mouth of New York harbor had slowly, almost imperceptibly, increased, adding to the two main warships present, the HMS Asia and HMS Yarmouth. Earlier that spring, the British had finally given up on any attempt to expand into the mainland from the besieged city of Boston, and, on March 17th, the British fleet had abandoned Boston and fled to British-held territory at Halifax, Nova Scotia. Not all of the ships went that far, though. Several, transporting large contingents of British and Hessian mercenary soldiers, had gathered off New York. On June 30th, they landed on New York’s Staten Island, with 22,000 men, and occupied the island without opposition.

Earlier that winter the Tory sympathizer, Thomas Hadley, had withdrawn from Manhattan where he had increasingly been put under pressure for his political leanings by the colonialists, to his Staten Island estate. Immediately upon the British landing on Staten Island, Hadley had sent a letter setting forth his British sympathies to the captain of the HMS Yarmouth, Owen Sheffeld, and had invited the captain to a “men’s pleasure” hunt day—and night—at his island estate. The merchant had managed to find out that Sheffeld shared his pleasure in men and had made as clear as he could within the code known by such men what sort of enjoyment Sheffeld could receive in an overnight visit to Hadley’s estate—that the night hunt could be as invigorating and satisfying as the day hunt.

Sheffeld accepted the invitation by return messenger.

Dinner in the Hadley estate dining room was rife with testosterone, an all-male affair, Hadley being long widowed and Sheffeld’s wife safely left behind in England. They were fresh from the hunt for deer and pheasants on the estate, and though the roasted carcasses they were tearing apart in their shirt sleeves with their bare hands between chugs of ale from mugs that sometimes didn’t make it to their mouths were not the same animals they had bagged that day, they were reminded enough of the hunt to make their bloodlust boil.

The hunt itself had been lustful. Sheffeld, a devotee of hunt weekends when at home in England, had been ship bound off the rebellious American colonies for over a year and was anxious to make up for lost hunting pleasure when he, Hadley, Timothy, and Sheffeld’s attendants rode into the forest lands of Hadley’s extensive Staten Island estate. While Sheffeld’s attendants flush out the abundant game, Sheffeld slaughtered enough deer and pheasants that, when they were sent back with him to the HMS Yarmouth the next day, they fed the sailors and small contingent of soldiers on the ship for several days. Although Hadley and Timothy did some shooting, their main concern was that Sheffeld was having his full enjoyment of the hunt, and they didn’t bring down much to contribute to the almost obscene carnage in the forest.

Deer görükle escort and pheasants weren’t the only game Sheffeld was working on bringing to ground—and in this he had help from both Hadley and Timothy. At Hadley’s whispered question and Sheffeld enthusiastic response, the Tory merchant made sure that Sheffeld and Timothy were alone, astride their horses, in a stand of trees at one point.

Timothy made as if he didn’t know that Sheffeld was bearing down on him, and exclaimed in pain and expressed his surprise when Sheffeld struck his arm with his riding crop—supposedly to get his attention but just as likely to warn of Sheffeld’s preferences in sex play—and then, when Timothy turned in the saddle, struck at him on the thigh.

“Down off the horse,” Sheffeld growled.

“Nay, sir, I don’t think that’s what you want,” Timothy said, looking past the captain.

“Don’t tell me what I want—or answer back.”

“You can have what you want—whatever you want,” Timothy said, “but at the moment I don’t think you want to miss out on that.” He was gesturing behind Sheffeld, and when the captain turned in the saddle, he saw what Timothy had seen—a twelve-point buck broke out of the trees and ran for open ground. With a yell, Sheffeld made his choice and was galloping off after the buck. Having delivered the tease, Timothy rode back to the house to ensure there would be no further encounter with Sheffeld that afternoon.

At dinner that night, after several stiff drinks in Hadley’s study with the two men going over the afternoon’s hunt, each of the men had a naked young musician sitting in his lap. The young men were from a string quartet that had sedately started the evening playing music for the first course. Between the second and third courses, Hadley had said, “I don’t think this dinner is spicy enough. These young men do more than play their musical instruments. They will be happy to play your instrument as well.” He then directed the young men to strip and resume their concert, and they did so. Sheffeld and Hadley each, at Hadley’s urging, picked out one of the musicians and fucked him on the table at opposite ends between the fourth and fifth courses.

The two men were fast friends now, and Sheffeld, at least, was drunk as a skunk when he decided it was time for him to retire to his room with his young cellist.

“Just the one?” Hadley asked. “You mentioned earlier that you didn’t bring your dresser from the ship as he was ill. Your young man there plays the cello; he doesn’t dress. Let me offer to you my best dresser—and undresser—to serve you.” At that he motioned over Timothy Grady from where he had been standing at the wall, having slipped into the dining room quietly after the two men had returned to their seats following their use of the table top for sport. “Timothy, show our guest to his room and do for him as he wishes,”

“Certainly, sir,” Timothy dutifully answered.

Captain Sheffeld trained his eyes on Timothy for the first time that evening, as Timothy had been standing behind him, at the wall, unobtrusively, during the dinner service. His eyes slitted in pleasure. There was nothing about the young, sandy-haired man that Sheffeld didn’t like. He had been hot for his chance at Timothy since he’d arrived.

After helping the captain off with his soiled white shirt, Sheffeld pressed Timothy down on his knees before him to unbuckle and help pull the man’s britches and then his stockings down. Grasping Timothy’s head between his hands, he guided Timothy’s head to where he wanted it, and Timothy dutifully opened his mouth to the man’s cock and gave him suck. The young cello player lay on his back on the bed, legs bent and spread, hand stroking his cock, and watched Timothy give the British warship captain head.

Moving to the bed, Sheffeld sat beside the prone cello player and helped guide Timothy with one hand on his bare buttocks and the other hand flicking at the cello player’s thighs and belly with a riding crop. While Sheffeld dallied there, Timothy grasped the cello player’s knees, hunched between his spread legs, and fucked the young man missionary style. Getting into the play, Sheffeld rose to behind Timothy and flogged him at half strength with the riding crop on the thighs and buttocks. Timothy groaned and moaned a bit at the half-hearted beating, which raised welts but not blood. After a few minutes of this, Sheffeld saddled up close behind Timothy; mounted and penetrated his channel with a throbbing, hard cock; and fucked him from behind while Timothy fucked the cello player. The three worked their way up on the bed, and Sheffeld was so engrossed with doing pushups on Timothy’s back that he didn’t notice when the cello player rolled out from underneath them and left the British ship captain and Timothy to engage in periodic bouts of flogging and sex through the night.

Captain Sheffeld was hung over enough the next morning that he later couldn’t remember exactly who had suggested it, but he found that, when he rode away from Hadley’s estate on horseback, there was an additional bursa escort bayan man in his retinue. Somehow Timothy had been extended the invitation to spend a week on board the HMS Yarmouth, serving and servicing Sheffeld, while the captain’s regular dresser was recovering from whatever malady he was suffering.

While on board the ship, Timothy was given free rein to explore and to mingle with the ship’s sailors and the complement of bored soldiers and chatty officers. Some of the British military men were also randy and in need. There was no end to convenient and hidden nooks and crannies about the ship where Timothy could be pulled into for a quick suck or fuck and a bit of sexy talk. It wasn’t only Sheffeld’s cock that Timothy sheathed in the week, and, although Sheffeld guarded against pillow talk, other men who were inside Timothy didn’t.

It was nearly twilight when a skiff delivered Timothy across the water and back to a dock on the Staten Island shore. Sheffeld had established that he would want Timothy’s services again, and Timothy had readily agreed, saying that he was indentured to Thomas Hadley, so whenever Hadley was willing to loan him out to the captain of the HMS Yarmouth, Timothy was quite willing to come to Sheffeld wherever he was.

Timothy stood on the dock, watching the skiff from the Yarmouth return to the ship. When he could see that that had been accomplished, instead of walking back to the stable area of the small shipyard, he hopped down into another skiff bobbing in the water at the side of the dock and, using the cover of darkness, began a long, dangerous sail across the contested zone of New York harbor and then up into the mouth of the Hudson River. He hoped that it would be at least a couple of days before Captain Sheffeld requested his presence and services again.

* * * *

24 August 1776

“And what do we have here? Quite a commotion for outside of General Washington’s conference tent.” Major Brady Lathrop, one of George Washington’s aides-de-camp, accompanied by a younger, thinner man, brushed aside the flap to a large tent near the shores of the Hudson River in Harlem, inland from Manhattan, and stood, clearly blocking entrance into the tent and facing four men.

Two of the men were colonial militia sentries. The third man was Lieutenant Douglas Bester, assigned to Major Lathrop’s intelligence and reconnaissance unit. He too was standing between the entrance to the tent and the sentries, guarding the entrance. It was his voice that had been raised and had been heard from inside the tent. The fourth man, being held in check between the two sentries, was Timothy Grady, exhausted, wet, and bedraggled looking from his dangerous sail under the cover of darkness up the Hudson River from his week’s stay aboard the British warship HMS Yarmouth.

“This man. I know this man. He came ashore saying he needed to report to General Washington,” Lieutenant Bester said, turning to his superior officer. “I have no idea how he knew the general was here. But I know this man. I suspect him to be a British spy.” The anguish was almost palpable in Bester’s voice—the tear of loyalty between his hoped-for country and a young man who had lain under him and provided him with the best sport he’d yet to have with a man. He’d been torn by his conflicting thoughts of Timothy ever since he’d learned that the young man and his Tory master, Thomas Hadley, had fled from Manhattan—to who knew where? Bester had struggled with himself, especially given his assignment to Major Lathrop’s unit, on whether to make a report on Timothy after he’d first met and fucked him, but had not done so. He would have had to make a careful report to avoid acknowledging how intimately he’d known the young man. He suddenly regretted not having taken that action.

“Aye, I recognize the young man, as well. And, yes, I know him to be a spy,” Major Lathrop declared. Strangely, he was smiling rather than looking concerned that a British spy had made his way to the entrance of General George Washington’s command tent.

Bester’s mixed emotions soared. He’d been right, although he’d give anything not to have been right about Timothy. He felt both a rod of steel run up his back to bolster what he’d known all along and his internal organs collapse at the knowledge that a young man he’d become obsessed with sexually, if only briefly, was now beyond his reach. “I’ll show him to the stockade then,” he said, trying to muster up a strong voice of resolve.

“No, Lieutenant, you can show Mr. Hale here to a tent where he can rest before going where he has to go. Mr. Grady can come on into the tent to give his report. He is a spy—but for us, as is his employer, Thomas Hadley. Not that you are to tell anyone else that.”

Bester’s emotions did another flip-flop and suddenly the storm clouds around him broke open to sunshine and soaring joy. He gave Timothy a look that was an unmistakable one of relief and sexual want, a look that was returned by Timothy as Lathrop took the young man’s arm and guided him into the tent.

“Come, bursa escort Mr. Hale, I’ll show you where you can take your rest—and you two can return to your posts with our thanks for your diligence. But forget this man you have brought to us and speak not of it to anyone.” Bester was addressing the two sentries, unable to keep the elation out of his voice, as he motioned for Hale to accompany him.

“My thanks,” Hale said. “Please, though, call me Nathan.”

Ushering Timothy into the tent, Major Lathrop said, “You can give your report to me. I’m sure you can understand that General Washington is taken up with other matters. You must have found something truly worthwhile to have chanced boating on the river.”

“Yes, I’ve been aboard the British ship Yarmouth this past week and have heard much about British intentions.”

“From one of the ship’s officers? From Captain Sheffeld himself? Incidentally, our thanks for the report on what you picked up in town and Mr. Hadley sent to us on what was being said about the disposition of our forces. The civilians seemed to know too much about our movements and are too willing to talk about them.”

“Yes, that’s what I found on the Yarmouth too,” Timothy answered. “The officers told me little—and I had full access to Captain Sheffeld”—Timothy didn’t say what full access meant, but Major Lathrop knew how he was collecting intelligence; he just wasn’t going to speak of it aloud—”but the sailors and soldiers aboard were fairly forthcoming and some of the officers supported what they had to say, although they didn’t know they were doing so. What is important to pass on is that plans are afoot for the British to take Long Island and then to attack Manhattan. They are not going to be content with a foothold only on Staten Island.”

“You’re sure of this? We’ve heard and seen nothing moving toward this.”

“The British sailors and soldiers believe it, sir. And I’ve heard about a coming peace conference from the officers and that it is just a diversionary tactic—that they only await augmentation of their troops to make their invasion move.”

“You’ve heard of the planned peace conference with the British? That possibility has been closely held,” Lathrop responded sharply.

“Aye, sir. What I hear is that General Howe has no authority to agree to anything, nor intention to—that he’s just playing for time.”

“This be important information—if true,” Lathrop said. “I’d best convey this to the general straight away. You look done in. I’ll have you taken to refreshment, a cleanup, and sleep—assuming you can be away for the night. The general may have some follow-up questions for you.”

“I was returning to Mr. Hadley’s Staten Island estate from the ship when I came here,” Timothy answered. “I am, of course, at your disposal—your full disposal.” Timothy gave a little smile and batted his eyelashes. He, of course, was signaling his availability to Lathrop, who was a fine figure of a man. Timothy was available to any man who could solidify his position with the colonialist forces, although his thoughts were dwelling on Lieutenant Bester, who had sent Timothy’s heart aflutter and the staff of his loins hardening at the chance encounter with him outside the tent. There was no answering hint of interest coming back from Lathrop, though, so Timothy just sighed and thanked him for offering rest and refreshment.

At the tent entrance, Lathrop and Timothy found that Douglas Bester had returned and was waiting for the chance to see Timothy again.

“Ah, Lieutenant Bester,” Lathrop said. “You have returned from seeing to Mr. Hale’s well-being. Perhaps you could do the same for Mr. Grady here. He will be spending the night with us in case General Washington needs to interview him himself.”

“I would be delighted to see to Mr. Grady’s needs,” Bester answered, turned so the gleam in his eyes was for Timothy’s observation only.

Timothy was equally willing to have Douglas seeing to his needs. The “needs seeing” extended beyond food and ale to a sponge bath provided by Douglas’ own hands and then a lay down on a pallet in a closed tent, with Timothy on his back, his arms forced over his head with Douglas grasping and trapping his wrists, and Douglas’ knees pressed under Timothy’s buttocks, giving Douglas’ cock a deep penetration angle up into Timothy’s channel for a prolonged, vigorous plowing of Timothy’s ass. After a brief snooze with Douglas stretched behind Timothy and embracing him close, Timothy was awakened by the officer rolling him over onto his belly, mounting his ass, and holding a hand closed over Timothy’s mouth to stifle his cries of being taken completely, as Douglas rode his ass hard, just as both men wanted him to do.

At twilight of the next day, Timothy, a bit bowlegged from how often Douglas had fucked him before they were forced to leave the tent in the morning hours, with an added fuck session in the afternoon and then again after dinner, Timothy pushed his skiff off into the Hudson. He was smiling broadly and completely satiated. Never had he had the loving that Douglas had given him the previous night and that day. He returned to Hadley’s Staten Island estate only to find that Captain Sheffeld had already called for him again from on board the HMS Yarmouth. With a sigh, Timothy returned to his many-faceted duties on the British warship.

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