Date: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 13:03:39 -0400
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Queering Benedict Arnold 12

Queering Benedict Arnold 12
From Newgate Prison: April 24-25, 1762
By: Jake Preston


This story includes explicit accounts of gay sex. It should not be read by
minors or by people who live in enslaved lands where the possession of such
material is illegal. Jake Preston will reply to all sincere comments and
questions at jemtling@gmail.com

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       *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *


	Benedict Arnold awoke alone in his bed in the house on Southampton
early Saturday morning. On the dresser he found a note in Caribou Brave's
hand:

      Sir:
      Let not no absence of mine alarm you. After so many months, Your
kindness at Ticonderoga will be repay'd on another. That is My task. You
must go about your business to- day, and pray at St. Paul's to-morrow. I
took £50 from your treasury as my venture requires; a vast sum of money,
Sir, I know, and I hope to return with £45 and the grace of the first
Carpenter on Monday eve at the Coffee-House whereto you wanted to bring
me. If I fail, you must consider £50 the cost of admittance to view the
Constable's newest Puritan allegory, tho' I warrant we are not yet bound
for the western parade.
      Your Servant

	Caribou was normally a plain-speaking man. Benedict realized at
once that he wrote in obscure allusions, as a defense against his letter
falling into the hands of a third party. To interpret it would require the
application of memory and imagination, but the general tenor was clear, at
least to him: Caribou had gone off to rescue Adam Bede from Newgate Prison.
"Kindness at Ticonderoga" referred to Caribou's release from prison, which
he would repay by setting another prisoner free, and there was no stopping
him from his self-appointed duty. The "grace of the Carpenter" referred too
obviously to Christ; he must mean someone else. Now as Christ was the
second Adam, who else could be the "first" but Adam Bede? The "western
parade" meant the Oxford Road to Tyburn. Therefore "we" in the last
sentence meant Caribou Brave and Adam Bede.

	As for the unnegotiated loan of £50 and the prospect of losing
£5, Benedict didn't give it a thought. The purpose of money was to build
a business; the purpose of making more money was to build a bigger
business. Money in and of itself was of no consequence; he could always
find more. Most people never understood that about Benedict; they thought
he was avaricious for money. Caribou never thought of money at all, except
when he wondered why the Puritans worshipped it as their one true God.

      "You must go about your business to-day, and pray at St. Paul's
to-morrow." Caribou's admonition meant exactly what it said, and yet, it
meant something else: Benedict was to spend the day being seen in public by
witnesses who could later swear that he had never been anywhere near
Newgate Prison, for today was a dangerous day, and perhaps tomorrow,
too. He had an appointment at 10:00 with a pharmacy-merchant, but what
should he do until then?

      He decided to call upon David Garrick, the Drury Lane actor-producer,
who, as if by a lucky chance, lived two houses down the street on
Southampton. He went to his library searched for a title that Garrick would
not already own. He selected The Life of Samuel Sewall, Chief- Justice in
Massachusetts Bay Colony, Together with His Diary, printed by a Boston
bookseller in 1755. The biography was only 29 pages. The rest of the book
was excepts taken direct from Sewall's manuscript, and included the
author's account of how he presided at the witchcraft trials in Salem in
1692 and 1693; how he sentenced nineteen women to be hanged or pressed to
death as witches; how many other women were brought before judges in
Ipswich and Andover and executed or died in prison; and how he later
repented his part in this miscarriage of justice and called for a public
day of prayer in Salem to atone for this collective sin. As this was a
"pirated" book, the printer made only fifty copies. Joshua Lathrop bought
half of them for his apothecary, and gave five copies to Benedict. No other
portions of Sewell's Diary had ever been printed.

      A servant answered Benedict's knock on the door. Benedict asked him
to convey his card and his Sewall to Mr. Garrick, together with his
compliments. Were it not for the book, Benedict would have been turned
away, for Garrick was often besieged by uninvited company. The servant did
not return. Instead the great actor himself appeared at the door and led
Benedict to his library, which was stocked with books on subjects civil and
moral. A large part of it was devoted to Shakespeare and other playwrights,
but two shelves were given over to the American Colonies. The Sewall lay on
a table between two chairs. Garrick invited Benedict to sit. Benedict
ignored the invitation, rapt as he was in reading the titles of books in
Garrick's library. Garrick approved. He took an instant liking to this
young man, who had obviously come from the Colonies, and who took greater
interest in books than in rubbing shoulders with an influential
neighbor. In deference to Benedict, Garrick remained standing, too, and
allowed his visitor to roam through his books.

      "Where are my manners?" Benedict said at last, and accepted Garrick's
invitation to sit.

      "I see from the scribbling on your card that we're neighbors,"
Garrick said.

      "My card, yes, we just settled into the house, and haven't had time
to get a proper new card printed just yet," Benedict said.

      Garrick picked up the Sewall and paged through it.

      "The witchcraft trials in Massachusetts Bay are in there," Benedict
said. "There's also an amusing tale about the introduction of wigs into New
England society. Judge Sewall was adamant in his opposition to wigs, but
Jonathan Edwards saw no reason why a Puritan gentleman might not wear
one. Imagine two intellectual giants in America quarrelling about something
so little."

      "I once heard my friend Samuel Johnson say that "there is nothing too
little for so little a creature as man," Garrick said. "In fact I can quote
him verbatim: 'It is by studying little things that we attain the great
knowledge of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible'."

      "Only a great wit like Johnson could start of a sentence like
Aristotle and end it sounding like Plato," Benedict said.

      Garrick laughed and laughed. If this was a test of his wit, Benedict
had passed it.  Benedict took stock of the man. He was about 45, and at
five-feet-eight had a robust build and a squarish handsome face. His French
Huguenot background was evident in his brown curly hair and searching brown
eyes; a man of the stage who by good looks alone could command the approval
of all the ladies and many gentlemen; but his reputation was built on
performance in the theater, and on kindness and generosity in the city. He
had powerful friends. More than a few barons and earls had portraits of
Garrick in some theatrical performance or other, hanging in places of honor

      "Are you from Boston, then, Mr. Arnold?" Garrick asked after
regaining composure.

      "I'm from Norwichtown, in Connecticut," Benedict replied. "I've
completed an apprenticeship as an apothecary with my uncles. Dr. Daniel and
Joshua Lathrop. Our apothecary- shop deals in books as well as in in
pharmacies. I've come to London to procure merchandise for an apothecary
shop of my own, to set up near Yale College in New Haven."

      "I've heard tell of Joshua Lathrop," Garrick said. "Oliver Goldsmith,
the poet, made his acquaintance during one of his business adventures in
London, and accompanied him on a tour of the West Country where he was
looking for medicinal plants. Dr. Goldsmith approved of Lathrop's creative
approach to apothecary science, and spoke of him in Child's from time to
time. So you'll be purchasing medical compounds, and book as well,
Mr. Arnold?"

      "Yale College has been growing, along with the town of New
Haven. Books will be an important part of our business."

      "You have a partner, then, who has come with you in London."

      "A companion, rather," Benedict said. "His name is Caribou
Brave. He's the son of Chief Natanis of the Abenaki nation."

      "An Indian prince! I hope I will meet him soon," Garrick
exclaimed. He invited Benedict to breakfast with him in the drawing room
downstairs. There, Benedict told Garrick about his relationship with
Caribou Brave. He omitted mention of their sexual encounters, but from
details in his story, Garrick deduced that they were on intimate
terms. Garrick was especially interested in the tale of how Caribou was
rescued from captivity at Fort Ticonderoga. "My dear Mr.  Arnold, you're a
colorful man who at age twenty-one has already lived a colorful life, and
with more to come, I am sure. You must go to church with me tomorrow
morning at St. Paul's, and on Monday you must be my dinner companion at
Child's Coffee-House, you and your Caribou Brave."

      Benedict had no complaints about David Garrick's hospitality. Perhaps
it would lead to intimacy. What would it be like, he wondered, sharing love
with England's most celebrated actor? Perhaps if they built enough trust
between them, perhaps.... He took his leave, and made his way to the
Wholesale Warehouse of Benjamin Godfrey, Apothecary, on Bishopsgate Street
near Angel Alley.

      * * * * * * * * * * * *

      The constable of Newgate courtyard must now be given a name, for he
plays a part in our story. Let us call him Barnes. Neither Benedict nor
Caribou ever learned his name, but Barnes will do. His head was woozy when
he reported to his post on Saturday morning, for he had spent Friday
evening at Pye-Corner, eating the victuals and imbibing the best dark ale
of Thomas Andrews at the Fortune of War. He went there incognito. When the
waiter served him dinner, he asked the lad's name. "Samuel Johnson, Sir,"
the waiter said. "Well, Samuel Johnson, the roast- beef is most
excellent. Pray convey my compliments to the Proprietor." "That I cannot
do, Sir, for he is almost gone from this world," the waiter replied. When
the drawer served him ale, he asked the lad's name. "William Peirce, Sir."
"Well, William Peirce, the ale is most excellent.  Pray play my compliments
to the Proprietor." "That I cannot do, Sir, for the Proprietor is gone from
this place, but I shall send your compliments to his daughter." "What is
his daughter's name, then?" Barnes asked. "Sarah Andrews, Sir." "I should
like to speak with her directly, to pay my compliments," Barnes
said. "Alas, Sir, the lady is upstairs and I fear she will not descend, but
I will tell her." A half-hour later, Sarah Andrews did come down, dressed
in black in remembrance of her father. "You are most welcome to the Fortune
of War, Sir," she said to Barnes, "and I hope that all is well with you."
"The roast-beef and the ale are most excellent," Barnes replied, "but I
fear that your waiter, Mr. Johnson, told me that the Proprietor is not long
for this world." "Indeed, Sir," she said. Tears welled in her eyes, but she
maintained control of her composure. "I am sorry for it," Barnes said. "I
pray that he will overcome whatever ailment afflicts him." "I shall tell
him, Sir," she said, stifling a sob. "What is't with him then?" Barnes
asked. "Sir?" "The ailment that afflicts him; what is it?" "No ailment,
Sir, but a pain in the neck, for he hangs tomorrow at Tyburn," Sarah
replied. "Then I must to Tyburn tomorrow," Barnes said. "Excuse me, Sir, I
fear I must bring this interview to a close." She left the bar-room
quickly, with head held high. Constable Barnes's face brightened with a
satisfied smile when he heard the woman sobbing in the kitchen.

      "Excuse me, Sir, I fear I must bring this interview to a close, hee!
hee!"-Constable Barnes spoke to himself aloud in the courtyard while he
surveyed the prisoners' cells. He imagined every detail and repeated every
word spoken at his celebratory dinner at the Fortune of War. While he was
there he had gazed at the Golden Boy, a gilt statue set up at Pye-Corner to
mark the farthest extent of the Great Fire of London in 1666. Was it a
cherub, or a demon of Gluttony, this Golden Boy? How he wished he could
have seen the destruction, preceded and followed by the Black Death! How
would have wanted to oversee the hanging of French and Dutch residents in
London who were blamed for the Fire, and after that Roman Catholics, who
also were blamed! Every Sunday in the first week of September, the preacher
gave a sermon in commemoration of the Fire. In this sermon he exonerated
the Dutch, French, and Catholics, and said that the Fire was God's
punishment for the collective sin of Gluttony, proven by the fact that the
Fire had started at a bakery on Pudding Land, and spread as far as a
tavern, the Fortune of War. The Constable knew better, for in his mind, the
Fire and the Plague came together as twin- punishments and were pre-figured
in Genesis by Sodom and Gomorrah. Therefore both Plague and Fire were
divine retribution for sodomy, and for the Crown's failure to hang all the
sodomites. But the Constable's mind was capacious enough to admit all three
causes at once: foreigners, Catholics, and sodomites. It was the duty of
Newgate, Old Bailey, and Tyburn to purge these blots from the population of
London. Constable Barnes was proud to play his part in respect of the
sodomites, but it troubled him that little was done to purify the city of
Catholics, and nothing at all in respect of foreigners.

      "There's Chanticleer again," Barnes muttered, "crowing the morning
with 'When I survey the wondrous Cross' in siren-sodomite voice. It's a
crime against God and Nature that such religious words should flow from
lips that have wrapped themselves around many a yard, and a tongue that has
greeted the anus of every living Templar! I could silence him now, this
demon in the guise of a god, but no matter. He'll be tried and condemned
today, and on Monday he'll hang at Tyburn. He's on the list for morning
chapel. It'll be my last chance to give him a kick in the butt."

      The bells of St. Sepulchre resounded eight times. The once-deserted
courtyard came alive with diverse activities. A new group of prisoners were
brought in on horse-drawn carts from Poultry-Compton, and another from
Bridewell. Once they entered the maw of Newgate, their miserable lives
would be over. Two empty carts came up to the side entrance, and the guards
began conducting sixteen prisoners into the carts, one by one, for their
pilgrimage down Oxford Street to Tyburn. The hangings began at noon on
weekdays, but on Saturday the prisoners were hanged in the morning. Twenty
prisoners, a larger group than usual, were being conducted across the
courtyard to chapel. It warmed the Constable's heart to see the wheels of
justice turning with such great efficiency, although, to be sure, even he
would have admitted that security was at a low level: the prisoners were
loosely bound with ropes, and only eight guards, including himself, were
present to manage their large number.

      Prisoners were always sent to chapel for morning prayers on the day
of their trial. That's why there were twenty, just now, at the chapel
doors, loosely bound together with ropes and conducted by two
guards. Everyone was kept so busy that no one noticed the approach of
twenty-two figures dressed in magistrates' robes and wigs. They shouted
cat-calls and jeers at the prisoners near the chapel doors, and threw
stones that they had carried in sacks for this purpose. The prisoners broke
loose from their ropes. Most of them appeared to tussle with the
mock-magistrates, but soon ran through the courtyard and down Newgate
Street, and from there to parts unknown. The Constable noticed a Priest at
the chapel door, who appeared to be tussling with three of the
prisoners. He grabbed one of them by the hand-the one he called
Chanticleer-and pulled him into the chapel. "Well, at least Chanticleer
won't be going anywhere," Constable Barnes said to himself. "No matter if
the others get away." Shots were fired by the guards, who ran after the
fleeing prisoners. All but two of them escaped. The mock- magistrates ran
off, too. None of them were ever identified, nor were their costumes ever
found.

      Constable Barnes supervised a search of the chapel, but the only
person they found there was the chaplain. The disappearance of Chanticleer,
and the Priest, was a mystery. Naturally the Warden of Newgate Prison had
to write a report. It said that order was restored within ten minutes, and
it recommended the addition of six additional guards at Newgate on
Saturdays. It was unnecessary to mention that eighteen prisoners escaped,
but on the Constable's advice, the Warden commended an unknown Man of the
Cloth who subdued three of the prisoners and then exited the scene, so as
not to have his name associated with unclerical acts of violence. As a
result of the prison-break, Newgate was rewarded with an increase in its
annual budget, which pleased the Warden. All in all, a satisfactory result
for everyone concerned.

      Adam Bede did not go to trial that day. Witnesses had been summoned
to Old Bailey for his trial, but were told that the prisoner had been
discharged for want of sufficient evidence against him. "Where is he,
then?" some of his Methodist friends wondered. "Probably on a ship bound
for the American colonies," they were told. "That's what we recommend as
the best course for discharged prisoners."

      "A proleptic truth," Benedict said satirically when gossip about the
episode seeped out of Newgate.

      * * * * * * * * * * * *

      Dr. Benjamin Godfrey, MD, was the wealthiest apothecary in
London. Benedict had a letter of introduction for him from Joshua Lathrop,
so Godfrey's Wholesale Warehouse on Bishopsgate Street was his 'port of
call' for the morning. The man turned out to be more a salesman than an
apothecary. He tried to persuade Benedict to purchase a large quantity of
"Dr.  Godrefy's General Cordial," which he proclaimed as a remedy for
cholic, bowel disorders, fluxes, fevers, small-pox, measles, rheumatism,
coughs, colds, venereal disease, and "all manner of restlessness" in
sexually dysfunctional men, pregnant women, and "young children in breeding
their teeth." He had agents selling this compound in Bristol, Newcastle,
Norwich, and Dublin, and saw no reason why it should not be a success in
New England. His General Cordial was so popular that counterfeit bottles
appeared in several shops in London. Dr. Godrey had published notices in
the City Register, warning the public against these counterfeits, and
giving a list of the shop where the genuine article could be found, at
sixpence a bottle.

      "Universal elixirs are sold in New England, and some are quite
reputable, like Seneca Serum, a cetaceum spiked with asclepias-extract and
oils drawn from canebrake and cottonmouth," Benedict said, as politely as
he could manage. "This miraculous serum can be taken internally, or applied
externally to rashes and bruises. At one shilling a bottle it is quite
expensive, because the extraction of oil from pit vipers is a dangerous
business and these creatures must be imported from Charleston. For sixpence
you can purchase a counterfeit substitute that omits the benefit of
pit-venom. For customers who demand it, Dr. Lathrop sells a three-penny
counterfeit because, in his estimation, asclepias is the active ingredient,
and many species of milkweed grow wild in the Colonies. But my clientele in
New Haven is most particular. They expect individual remedies that can be
applied to very specific ailments. It is in that direction that we must
conduct our business." He would have been more abrupt, but he was mindful
that he might need Dr. Godfrey as a friendly witness, should it fall out
that Caribou Brave's adventure at Newgate reached a tragic conclusion.

      "To be sure, I have more costly compounds for clients who can afford
them," Dr.  Godfrey said. "Here is Dr. R. Nelson's Strengthening Elixir a
bottle, a remedy for impotence in men and infertility in women, and breaks
up internal obstructions in men who have difficulty passing urine. It sells
for five shillings at Isted's Bookshop, and at the Golden Ball, between St.
Dunstan's Church and Chancery-Lane End in Fleet Street." Benedict
maintained a polite silence, but reflected that a man suffering from
impotence might take Dr. Nelson's Elixir for months, to no good effect, and
never declare publically that the medication was useless.

      "And here is a Healing Water prepared by A. Downing, Chemist, that
cures the itching- humour 'in a few days without the necessity of purging
or the dangerous use of mercury'"-Dr.  Godfrey read from a label on the
bottle. "It sells for one shilling-sixpence at the Crown and Ball in
George-Court, in St. John's Lane by Hicks's Hall, near West Smithfield."

      "A miraculous easy cure for pox," Benedict nodded with
mock-gravity. He wondered how many people in London contracted gonorrhea
from patients who had taken Downing's Healing Water for a cure.

      "Here is Spirits of Scurvy-Grass, at eight-pence a bottle, wholesale
or retail," Dr.  Godfrey said. "It's a most effectual remedy for violent
pain in the teeth, and can be applied daily to preserve healthy teeth, and
to clear them from scurvy."

      For the first time in his interview with Dr. Godfrey, Benedict took
an interest. A remedy for toothache was something he could use. He said he
would purchase a crate of these Spirits, plus an assortment of garden and
flower seeds, and clover-seeds. "Have you anything to relieve the pain of a
surgery?" he asked Godfrey.

      "Oh, yes Sir," Dr. Godfrey said. "Here is Laminaria Digitatis, an
extract of brown seaweed. It settles the patient who must go under the
surgeon's knife. There was a similar extract prepared from red
seaweed. Some years ago, a chemist named Fraser applied it to his wife to
relieve the pain of childbirth, but Parliament outlawed its use because, as
they said, 'it is the duty of women to bear pain in childbirth'. Red
seaweed must be avoided as a legal matter, but brown seaweed works just as
well."

      Benedict announced his intention to purchase Laminaria. He hoped to
find a way to manufacture it himself in Connecticut, on whose shores
seaweed grew in green, brown, and red variations. In exchange, Dr. Godfrey
expressed an interest in Benedict's New England herbs and his Indian
remedies, a promising business venture, he knew, because of the origins of
these medicines were exotic. He did not ask what ailments they cured, or
whether they were effective.

      * * * * * * * * * *

	An hour before the prison-escape at Newgate, a priest discovered
the entrance to a tunnel that joined the chapel to another church, possibly
Ludlow Church, but more likely St. Paul's. It started at a trapdoor under a
carpet behind the baptismal font, where it once had doubled as a drain for
the font. The chaplain had assumed it was just an oversized drain. It was
no longer functional, since there had been no baptism at Newgate Chapel in
recent memory. When he found the entrance, he tossed a rucksack down to the
tunnel. During the attack of mock- magistrates in the courtyard, a priest
pulled Adam into the chapel. They descended a rickety ladder to the tunnel,
and the priest replaced the floor-tile, balancing the carpet over it as
best he could. He pulled the ladder away and hid it in the tunnel.

	The priest used a flint-scrape to light a candle. During their
momentary rest in candlelight, Adam recognized the priest as the man who
had visited him on Friday morning. He said he was Caribou Brave. He gave
the candle to Adam, and strapped the rucksack at his back.  "You lead the
way," he told Adam. Most of the time they walked upright, but occasionally
they crawled over mounds of earth that had caved in during one or another
of London's frequent rainstorms. The grime of the tunnel clung to their
clothes, but as Caribou said, "These obstructions work to our
advantage. They will conceal the light of our candle."

	By turns they stumbled at times in the dimly-lit tunnel, but when
one man stumbled, he was steadied by his companion. On these occasions,
Adam held Caribou's hand or his arm in a grasp that signified
affection. Caribou returned the gesture with a suggestive squeeze of his
hand, or wrapped an arm around Adam's waist. "We must keep moving forward,"
Caribou said. "Let us hope that our opponents lack curiosity as to what
might lie below the baptismal font, but we must allow for the possibility
that they might discover our path. We must prepare for a quick exit from
this tunnel, if there be any."

	They reached a fork in the tunnel. "So there are two tunnels!"
Caribou exclaimed.

	"Which way should we go, right or left?" Adam asked.

	"Two the right, I think," Caribou said. "It should be 200 yards to
St. Paul's." Adam heaved his weight at it to no avail. "Save your strength,
Adam," Caribou said, "for we must go back."

	"I'll die here first, before going back to Newgate," Adam
exclaimed.

	"Not to Newgate. To the secondary tunnel."

	They followed the second tunnel for a considerable distance. It
narrowed, so they crawled most of the way. At one point the tunnel made a
sharp turn to the left. "I think we've turned south," Caribou said. "If I'm
right, we're following the course of the Thames, which spirals into the
west side of London like an S." From his pocket, Caribou produced a new
candle. Two hours later, the tunnel turned to the right. After more than
four hours on their hands and knees, they came to a large underground
chamber where high-pitched chirping could be heard. Adam raised his candle
and they saw a dozen or more winged creatures flying overhead. On closer
inspection they saw hundreds of these creatures clinging to the cavernous
ceiling.

	"Demons from hell!" Adam exclaimed.

	"Bats," Caribou said.

	"Of course they're bats," Adam said. "I know that. But what does it
mean?"

	"It means there's a way out of here. All we need to do is follow
the bats."

	Adam walked the perimeter of the cavern, holding the candle close
to the wall. "Here," he said, pointing to a narrow tunnel from which a warm
current of air could be felt. They crawled through it and saw daylight. The
entrance was hidden behind a growth of reeds and grasses.  Three feet below
was the waterline of the Thames River. They saw boats, and across the river
some trees. "We must be at the western end of London," Adam said.

	"We must stay in the cave until dark," Caribou said. "The bats will
let us know when it's safe for us to leave."  He doffed his clerical cloak,
wrapped it in a heavy stone, and tossed it into the Thames. He flung his
clerical hat like a saucer and watched as it skipped and sank in the
water. "Help me with this collar, would you?" he said. Adam helped Caribou
out of his stiff white shirt and his collar. These, too, were tied around a
stone and tossed to the Thames. Next came the trousers. Caribou unbuttoned
the fly. He needed Adam's help to pull the pant-legs over his boots. Adam
relished the contact that his hands made with Caribou's legs while he
watched his spots of sunlight brighten his muscular torso and the lower
part of his body. Caribou gazed out on the Thames, aware that Adam was
gazing on him. Adam swallowed hard to relieve the tight lump in his throat.

	Caribou turned over and lay on his back. "The linen must go, too,"
he said. He waited for Adam to process his words as an invitation for him
to relieve him of his last stitch of clothing.  Adam crawled close and
knelt at his left. He put his fingers around the top of the linen on each
side. A musky hint of man-scent mingled with a breeze of fresh air. Adam
pulled at the linen.  Caribou raised his hips to assist. Adam pulled the
linen downward and watched as Caribou's cock flipped outward. Just then,
Caribou pivoted to his right, away from Adam, such that his cock brushed
against Adam's forearm. Adam paused. Caribou arched in such a way that a
trail of pre-cum formed along the forearm of Adam.

	Adam pulled Caribou's linen downward below the knees. Caribou
frog-legged his way out, giving Adam a bird's eye view of his balls and his
dark hairy mystery of his arse. For several minutes, Caribou lay with his
left knee up and out, basking in the breezy fresh air while Adam gazed on
his warrior's-body in silence.

	"We should go back to the cave," Caribou said. "The bats will get
anxious if they find their passageway blocked by the likes of us." He
crawled ahead in the tunnel. Adam crawled behind him, holding the
candle. Caribou moved slowly, and at times stopped to arch with his knees
far apart, knowing that Adam's attention was riveted to his backside.

	In the Cave of the Pits, Caribou lay on his back in a patch of soft
sand. "From these deposits of sand, you can see that the water-level in the
Thames sometimes rises higher and flows into the cavern," he said. Adam
positioned the candle between two rocks. He lay beside Adam in the sand.

	"What will you wear, now you've been defrocked?" Adam asked
merrily.

	"Deerskin and feathers," Caribou replied. "You'll be wearing the
same."

	"Me disguised as an Indian? I wouldn't be very convincing. You'd
have to give man an Indian name which I'd probably forget. I'm willing to
lie about my name, but people can tell when I'm lying. I have no talent for
it."

	Caribou guided Adam's hand to his chest. Adam stroked it and began
pinching his nips, gently. "You won't be an Indian. You'll be an
Abenaki. If you insist on that, people will believe you. And your Abenaki
name is Adam."

	"Adam is an Abenaki name?"

	"It is now, and it's proof that the American Indians are
descendants of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel," Caribou said.

	"People will believe that?"

	"Many people believe that already. The English are capable of
believing anything about the Indians, if it's fantastical."

      Caribou guided Adam's hand down to his abdomen. Adam lay on his side
with his face close to Caribou's. "If we're Abenaki companions, how are
related? Are we brothers?"

      "That won't do. People would ask you questions about Natanis that you
wouldn't be able to answer," Caribou said. "Besides, we can't make love if
we're brothers. Let's say I'm married to your sister."

      "That would make us brothers-in-law," Adam said.

      "Brothers-in-law, then," Caribou agreed, "and sworn brothers; the
English seem to like stories about sword brotherhood. The theme comes up
often enough in their Gothic romances."  Their lips seemed to gravitate to
each other in a kiss that was tentative at first, but soon grew passionate.

      "I want us to be lovers," Caribou said.

      "You don't know me well enough for that," Adam said. "You don't know
my character. I fear that you might be disappointed."

      "I know you've got a great soul," Caribou said. "I've known other men
with great souls, Abenaki warriors, Mohegan hunter-farmers, English
colonials, Dutch farmers.... Well, one Dutch farmer, in Poughkeepsie. It's
a law of Nature that men of great souls share one universal character; they
differ in this respect from men of small minds, who differ from one another
in endless petty details. Through your greatness of soul I've known you all
my life."

      "That's an original pick-up line; fantastical but effective," Adam
said, and laughed while Caribou helped him out of his clothes. He
introduced comedy into their discourse while they roamed each other's
bodies like navigators exploring newfound islands, not forgetting to light
a fresh candle. Adam dug his fingers into every inch of Caribou's body in
what Caribou called "the practical application of Methodism." In a more
serious moment, Caribou warned Adam: "You can never go back to your
life. You're not the sort of fellow who gets lost in a crowd.  You're
handsome and you cut a manly figure. People remember you. The most
well-meaning Methodist might see you and send you to Tyburn by blabbing to
another."

      "Do you want to bugger me?" Adam asked, abruptly. It was an offer,
not a question.

      "Yes, Sir, I do, but not now. Not here in this hole in the
ground. You deserve better, my dear Adam. You deserve the dignity of a
clean bed, or a grassy meadow by a clear flowing stream."

      "Thank you for that, but the connection between us is not yet
complete," Adam said.

      Caribou knelt between Adam's legs. He leaned forward and kissed
him. A playful sword- fight ensued. When they embraced, Adam realized that
Caribou's body was smaller and lither than his. Which one was stronger?
They would never know, for neither of them would ever be able to engage in
a serious contention with the other. Adam tried to roll over, intending to
offer his backside, but Caribou held him in place and kissed him with
passion. Adam resigned to compliance. Caribou moved forward and straddled
his torso. He squeezed Adam's throbbing wet cock between the mounds of his
arse and frotted it with his cleavage. The rocking rhythms of Caribou
brought Adam to a high pitch of desire; he thrust his cock upward into the
warm cleavage of Caribou. During one of those thrusts, Adam's cockhead
penetrated Caribou's arse- hole. Caribou relaxed his arse. Adam gained
ground with his cock, half way up the shaft.  Caribou leaned forward and
kissed him while he drove the shaft further in. When he sat upward, he
engulfed Adam's cock completely. Adam gasped. Caribou groaned.

      "I fear I might be giving you pain," Adam said.

       "Of course you are, Adam, you've got a big yard. And now it's your
duty to let Nature take its course. I'm tough. I can take anything you give
me, so do your duty and fuck!" Adam arched upward and thrust his yard into
Caribou. His companion was willing, but groaned with each thrust.

      Caribou turned over to offer his arse from behind. From his rucksack
he retrieved a leather pouch and handed it to Adam. "It's bear-grease. I
call it bugger-bear," he said. Adam spread grease on his yard and inserted
a lubricating finger into Caribou's arse. Looking down at him, he admired
the man's beauty. This time his cock went in easy and Caribou seemed to
enjoy it as much as him.

      Caribou rolled over on his back and frog-legged for Adam, who knelt
between his legs.  Adam drove his cock deep inside. "You're like a dream
come true," Adam said.

      "Do you want to breed me?" Caribou asked.

      "More than anything. I want to make you mine."

      "Then I want you to breed me; I'll be your second Adam with your seed
in my body. But before you breed me, I want you to get me off while you
fuck me."

      Caribou taught Adam how to alternate between furious humping and
gentle massages of his anal canal. Adam's pleasure increased, knowing that
he could please his partner. During those anal massages, Caribou frigged
his cock and Adam frotted him, too. Caribou came in warm surges. Adam's
lust increased when the fragrance of spunk reached his nostrils.
      Adam orgazzed in Caribou's body and lay at his side in a mutual
embrace. "We're like Aeneas and Dido in the cave," Adam said in the deep
lilting voice of après-sexe. "Me Dido, you Aeneas," Caribou replied. The
bats overhead chirped an epithalamium, so the lovers imagined, but in truth
their epic climax on the cavern floor went unnoticed by black-winged
creatures on the ceiling.

      * * * * * * * * * *

      Adam and Caribou dozed but awoke to a whirl of winged activity above
them. A raised candle disclosed the bats swarming and exiting the cavern in
a long black cloud. A human presence in the cavern affected them not at
all; it was as if they and the humans lived in parallel universes that were
aware of each other but chose not to interact. The bats were gone in five
minutes, leaving Adam and Caribou alone in the cavern.

      "This means it's dark outside," Caribou said. "We can go for a swim
in the river and cleanse ourselves from the grime and rigor of the day."

      "Grime and rigor, is that what it was?" Adam asked, playfully.

      "More like vim and vigor," Caribou replied.

      The current was gentle and the waves refreshing. They sported in the
Thames, wrestling and dunking each other, so far as this was possible in
water whose depth went over their heads.  Although the Thames is not the
cleanest of rivers further east, it runs fairly clean west of
London. Refreshed and bathed, Adam and Caribou resumed love-making with new
a new level of intimacy that included oral sex. They remained in the cavern
until Monday evening, and emerged only at night for swimming in the
Thames. Caribou spent much of his time teaching Adam about Abenaki customs
and language, and the story of his family, to prepare Adam for his disguise
as an Indian in London society. With regard to Adam's virginity, Caribou
kept his word and let Adam play Aeneas to his Dido. Caribou became Adam's
schoolmaster, and Adam became Caribou's lover.

      Early Monday evening, they watched the whirling departure of the bats
for the last time.  Caribou opened his rucksack and showed Adam their
Abenaki costumes: deerskin trousers and vests, woad-blue cotton shirts,
strings of ceremonial beads, and eagle-feathered headdresses.  "The
deerskins are genuine, but the feathers are just for show," Caribou
said. "No self-respecting Abenaki would strut around in an elaborate
headdress. It would be like a soldier going to war with a book balanced on
his head." Caribou's smart leather boots weren't Abenaki either; a gift
from Pieter van Hueveln, their Dutch manufacture was betrayed by their
stylish fold-over tops.

      Caribou painted Adam's face with lozenges, zigzags, and rows of
wigwams in yellow, red, blue, and white. He applied similar designs on his
own face. On the ledge outside the cavern they got dressed. They climbed
the cliff and walked north and then east back to London. Caribou left the
rucksack behind in the cavern, taking with him only his purse full of money
and Dodsley's Plan of London. "We'll need the map to find Child's
Coffee-House, next to St.  Paul's," he told Adam. "Benedict won't mind if
we return without his money," he added, "but if we return without his
Dodsley, he'll be quite annoyed."

      * * * * * * * * * *

      While all this was going on, Benedict Arnold attended a performance
of David Garrick's King Lear at Drury Lane Theatre (an eight-block walk
north from home), and gave his compliments over brandy in his chamber
backstage. Afterward, Garrick drove him home in his carriage. "Drury Lane
and the Strand are safe enough in the day, but I prefer the company of my
coachman after dark," he said. On Sunday morning, Benedict accompanied
Garrick to church at St. Paul's. There they joined company with David's
brother George, who was four years junior and worked as his private
secretary. After the service, he met some of Garrick's friends. Among these
were Alexander Donaldson, a bookseller who sold bargain books in a shop on
the corner of Arundel Street in the Strand; Garrick's most constant critic,
Thomas Sheridan; and Samuel Johnson, who to Benedict's surprise was
introduced as Garrick's lifelong friend, although he was nine years his
senior. Benedict took a particular interest in a fourth new acquaintance, a
Scots lawyer named George Dempster, a moderate Whig who at age 29 had just
been elected as a Member of Parliament for the burghs of Forfar and
Fife. Dempster was a bachelor whose house was kept by his sister Jeanie. He
was a self-proclaimed skeptic, but attended St. Paul's for the
company. During their discourse, Dempster raised the topic of the recent
uprising of prisoners at Newgate, and hinted that there was more to the
story than had appeared in London gossip.

      When David Garrick saw that their conversation was animated, and also
because he wanted to know more about the public disturbance at Newgate, he
invited George Dempster and Benedict, as well as his brother George, to
Sunday dinner at his home. He sent his coachmen ahead to alert his cook of
their company, and the four men walked westward down Fleet Street until
passed the end of Drury Lane and turned into the Strand. The Garrick
brothers led the way, whilst Benedict and George Dempster followed and the
new MP talked about points of interest he had visited weeks earlier:
"There's Ludlow Church to our right, and north beyond that, Old Bailey and
Newgate Prison, although you can't see them from here," and after they
crossed the Fleet Ditch bridge, "there's St. Bride's Church to our left,"
and three blocks later, Mitre Tavern, and Temple Church. After they crossed
Chancery Lane, the sites of historical interest came one after another:
"St. Dunstan's, and Lincoln's Inn three blocks north, to our right; the
Temple Bar just before us. Here's Clifton's Chop-House, a great place for
beefsteak dinner; Dr. Samuel Johnson has his lodgings in the house to our
left; here's St. Clement's Church," then New Church, to their right." "You
already know Somerset Coffee-House on our left, and next to it Somerset
House, and Turk's-Head Coffee-House just beyond, but we're almost home, so
you must know these places already."

      David Garrick was a gracious host at dinner. He welcomed Benedict as
the day's guest of honor, and recited his history, citing every detail from
the conversation that they had on the previous day. Garrick had an almost
photographic memory for detail; it was part of his talent as an actor. At
the end, as a sort of climax, he told the story of Benedict and Caribou
Brave at Fort Ticonderoga, and embellished it with dramatic details, and a
dialogue of his own invention, as if it were one of his plays. The two
Georges and Benedict applauded his impromptu performance.  After this
applause, Garrick asked, "Mr. Arnold, When will we have the pleasure of
meeting your Indian Prince?"

      "Ah, Caribou Brave," Benedict said. "He's a free agent and I don't
keep track of him, but he's promised for tomorrow eve at Child's. He's the
son of Natanis, the Chief of the Abenaki nation, and it was he, more than
any other, who was responsible for persuading the Abenaki to change their
allegiance from the French to the English in the War for Canada. His
diplomatic abilities are considerable, and I think that in the future he
will prove a great support to the interests of King George in the
Colonies. He's in London with an Abenaki companion, who he says he'll bring
with him to Child's."

      "How will we know them, to give them a proper welcome?" George
Garrick asked.

      "There will be no mistaking them," Benedict replied. "Beyond that,
gentlemen, I am bound by a confidence to say no more at present."

      "Then we must respect your discretion, Sir," Garrick said. "You are
not a man for gossip."

      "Can you at least tell us the name of Mr. Caribou's companion,"
George Garrick asked.

      It was an innocent question, but it put Benedict in a dilemma. He
tried to imagine how Caribou Brave would style his companion. He was on the
verge of saying that the companion's Christian name was Adam, when George
Dempster asked David Garrick what his next role would be in Drury Lane
Theater.

      "We're planning a revival of The Beggar's Opera, so I'll be Macheath
again, for the third time," David Garrick said. He rehearsed the
stage-history of this popular work, and spoke at length about some
innovations in set-design that he had planned for this production. The
longer he spoke, the greater relief came to Benedict, as the attention of
his interlocutors drifted away from Caribou Brave and his mysterious
companion. "Which role to you prefer," he asked Garrick, "the youthful
highwayman?"

      "Finding myself midway in age between these two characters, I have
fun with Macheath, whose reputation precedes him on stage, but the greater
challenge is a proper performance of Lear, which leaves me thoroughly worn
out at the end of the play," Garrick said. "Young actors come to the
theater ambitions to play Hamlet, but experienced actors know that Lear is
Shakespeare's most difficult character, and the most rewarding for this
reason. The Beggar's Opera is more lucrative, and I admit that I like
making money, but I prefer Shakespeare. Since I can have both, I don't have
to choose."

      While David Garrick spoke, he ushered his three guests into the
drawing-room for after- dinner port. There, on a table, lay the book that
Benedict had given him. David handed it to his brother George, who read the
title aloud: "The Life of Samuel Sewall, Chief-Justice in Massachusetts Bay
Colony, Together with His Diary, printed by a Boston bookseller in 1755."
"A gift from our new friend Benedict," David Garrick said, "and
well-thumbed already." He retold the tale of witch-trials in Salem, and an
absurd dispute between Judge Sewall and Jonathan Edwards about whether
Puritans should be allowed to wear wigs, which gave everyone a good laugh.

      As always happens between men on such occasions, the conversation
came round to warfare; in this case the War against France which was now in
its fifth year and, as George Dempster said, was beginning to bankrupt the
Government. "Soon enough, I fear, Parliament will be picking our pockets
with a three-penny tax here and sixpence there, on paper, or textiles, or
tea, or any commodity that can be controlled in large quantity," he said; a
prophecy that was to come true, as it happens, and would propel the
Colonies into revolt.

      George Garrick chimed in: "On Friday the City Register printed an
essay in which the author made the argument that the Colonies ought to bear
the cost of this war, because it was the British Army who saved them from
the French and the Indians." Benedict shuddered. The dialogue was turning
back to North America, and soon enough, his interlocutors would be asking
him questions about Caribou Brave.

      "Yesterday's City Register had an amusing report about a disturbance
at Newgate," George Dempster said, deftly changing the subject. Intuitively
he sensed, as the Garrick brothers did not, that although Benedict was the
only man in the room who knew anything about Indians, he wanted to avoid
the topic, for some reason that was unknown to him, but must be important.
"If the Register is to be believed, the guards in the courtyard were
attacked by an army of street- urchins dressed in the costume of
magistrates."

      David Garrick laughed and laughed. His companions joined in, and
encouraged Dempster to say more. "The man in charge of the guards was a
constable named Barnes, whose story hyperbolized with each telling. In the
earliest version, eight guards were assaulted by twenty magistrates dressed
in judicial robes and wigs. Then it was thirty magistrates attacking six
guards. After that, a party of four guards fought off a forty-man army of
magistrates. To make an end, Constable Barnes single-handedly fended off an
attack by forty-five magistrates."

      The laughter among them was infectious, for Dempster's comic tale was
assisted by an exaggerated Scots dialect, and by the spirit of Garrick's
best port. Benedict wanted to ask whether any prisoners escaped, but he
thought it prudent to conceal his interest. In any event he could count on
George Garrick to raise the matter. "The Register reported that the guards
never lost control of the situation and there were no escapes," Dempster
replied to his question, "but between us, some of the prisoners were on
their way to chapel and they did ran through the crowed of mock-magistrates
to make their escape, but their number is unknown. There may have been ten
or twelve that got away." There was more laughter, for neither the Garricks
nor Dempster were overconfident in Old Bailey justice.

      "I suppose there'll be a city-wide search for the convicts, then,"
George Garrick said.

      "Not convicts, as I understand it," Dempster said. "The ones who
escaped had not yet come to trial, but were to take the stand yesterday in
Old Bailey. The Constabulary would have us believe that no one escaped, so
instead of a dragnet, they'll mark the occasion by awarding Constable
Barnes with a promotion." More laughter echoed in the drawing-room. "No
doubt the public interest would be too much provoked if they learned that
one of the fugitives was a...."

      Benedict cringed at the words, fearing that Dempster was about to
name 'a Methodist sodomite'; but Dempster continued: "a woman of the
streets who was seized after stealing a purse from one of the Lords of the
Realm. What good would it do for the public good to see a great Lord and
the Constabulary of Newbury outfoxed by a woman?" Another release of
laughter, and relief to Benedict, who worried that his interlocutors would
press him for more information about Caribou Brave and his new
companion. George Gerrick pounded his fists on the table and in a fit of
giggles said, "No doubt she's back to business in White-Chapel!"

      * * * * * * * * * *

      "One of the British virtues, I've learned in my brief stay in London,
is their ability to laugh at themselves," Benedict said to Dempster as they
strolled north up Drury Lane and took a shortcut through an alley to reach
the British Museum. It was one of the few public places open on Sunday
afternoon, and Benedict had accepted an invitation from Dempster to
accompany him there. They inspected a display of crown jewels from the time
of Richard III, but Benedict took more interest in a scientific exhibit of
rocks and minerals from far-flung parts of England's "first" empire, and a
collection of fossils that had given rise to rival theories of
Creation. Their final stop was an American Indian exhibit. Dempster asked
Benedict for his appraisal.

      "It's rather eclectic, I would say. It represents the Indians as one
nation, when in fact they are many. The Mohegans are as different from the
Mohawks as the English are from Russians.  As for that Huron manikin
wearing a Cherokee headdress, it's no less absurd than a London magistrate
crowned with an Ottoman turban. The English ought to keep better track of
their many possessions, or else they might lose them," Benedict said.

      "Speaking of diverse customs, is it true that the Indians are
somewhat more tolerant of behavior that British Law condemns as a crime
against Nature?" Dempster inquired.

      "Among the Indian nations, there's as much diversity as in other
nations," Benedict said.  "Among the Carolina Cherokees, an old chief might
beat youths who seem over-familiar with each other, but the Mohegans are
more tolerant, and the Abenaki approve close bonds between warriors. Some
of these tribes have medicine-men who live with male partners. I know of no
Indian nation in which sodomy is a capital crime, not even the
Narragansetts or Wampanoegs or Mohegans, who live alongside Colonials in
New England. One thing the Indian nations have in common: they have no
written law, and they make no distinction between morality and legality.
Their legal customs are moral customs."

      "Would that be an improvement for England?" Dempster wondered.

      "I'm no legal scholar, Sir. All I can say is that the Buggery Act
became law in 1533, under a king who had six wives, divorced two of them,
had two of them beheaded, and had one of them poisoned in prison. Surely
you've heard the old tune:

      King Henry the Eighth, to six wives he was wedded.
      One died, one survived, two divorced, two beheaded.

"You're speaking of a private relation between men that was lawful in 1532,
and the next year, quite suddenly, a capital crime."

	"Indeed the law seems rather rugged," Dempster remarked,
cautiously.

	"No one dares oppose it in public, for fear of being suspected a
sodomite," Benedict said.  It was always his manner to speak boldly. "When
Cain slew his brother, that was a crime from unremembered time, but how a
thing be innocent one year and criminal the next? A moral prohibition with
a history cannot be a universal truth."

 	Retracing their steps through the alley and southward on Drury
Lane, Dempster glanced at Arnold, and Arnold at Dempster, in silent
calculation of desire. Each seemed a lusty demon to the other, and as
neither dared speak his mind, each man laid down a plan of attack that
would conclude in the planting of seed in the arse of the other. During
their time together, Benedict had noticed how Dempster admired his manly
figure; in his mind, he was already counting the diverse positions in which
this sprightly Member of Parliament would be skewered by colonial cock. But
Dempster had the devious mind of a giant-killer, and figured on conquering
Benedict's arse with a wee bit of flattery and a generous supply of oral
endearments, not without the unexpected surprise of a nine-inch yard. Once
during a village festival in Firth, Dempster made friends with a
prize-winning wrestler from Edinburgh, who intended to tup him, slight
creature that he was, but changed his mind when Dempster's yard grew to
nine inches, and yielded his virginity to the sandy-red-haired youth with
dimpled cheeks. The wrestler was tough, and had no complaints about the
bruising he took up the arse in four nights of lust on the Dempster family
estate. Compared to the Edinburgh wrestler, the conquest of Benedict Arnold
would be easy.

	"It occurs to me that London is a very small town," Benedict Arnold
said when they had walked most of Drury Lane and approached David Garrick's
theater.

	"Not too small, but tightly knit," Dempster said laughed,
appraising Benedict's butt. "The theater is closed on Sundays. What are the
odds that the stage is still set for King Lear's deathbed scene?" he
asked. He led Benedict to a side-entrance, picked the lock, fastened it
again, and led him down a narrow corridor to the stage. They sat on the bed
that had lately been occupied by David Garrick in the closing scene of
Lear's tragedy. "That scene isn't in Shakespeare," Dempster said. It was
one of Garrick's improvisations. After comes on stage with Cordelia's body,
he takes to his bed and denounces his enemies for killing his Fool. He
introduced a new scene without changing the words, so Lear cries out,
'Never, never, never, never!' from the bed.  Ever since the Puritans, the
English have loved their deathbed scenes." Benedict made no objection when
Dempster helped him out of his clothes.

	While Benedict lay in the bed of King Lear, Dempster stood at his
side and doffed his clothes. "Whoo-oh!" Benedict interjected,
involuntarily, when Dempster's nine-inch yard sprung from his linen and
bobbed; a white whale it was, mobled with a reddish-streaked retracted
foreskin veined purple.

	"Never, never, never, never!" Benedict declaimed while Dempster
approached and caught him in an embrace.

	"Methinks the lady prostesteth overmuch," Dempster laughed.

	Benedict accepted Dempster's embrace. "Methinks we're in the wrong
play," he said. He imagined the pit and the theater seats peopled with
Londoners, standing and sitting, egging Dempster as he edged into the
cockpit.

	"The question is not if we're in the right play, but whether we've
found the right hole," Dempster quipped.

	The element of suspense is always an advantage that gay lovers have
over their straight counterparts. When Man seduces Woman, or Woman Man,
from the moment that they agree to have sex there is no variation in the
anatomical details of their congress. But in sex between men, the moment of
consent marks the beginning of their negotiation, not the end, and their
love- dialogue continues, for in each encounter it is rarely a foregone
conclusion what they will do and who will do what. Benedict had hoped to
conquer Dempster's arse in the privacy of his bed- chamber, where he would
have the home advantage, but here he was in Drury Lane Theater, being
skewered by Britain's youngest MP, a slight almost-redhead from Scotland,
in the sight of an imagined crowd of cheering Londoners, and had not a
moment's notice nor chance to put into action his own plan of attack on his
companion's comely butt.

	The element of difficulty is a second advantage. To conquer a
woman's heart is difficult and long, but the rest is easy. To conquer
another man's arse is always difficult. "This will cost you a groaning,"
Dempster said when he drove his yard toward its intended target, but he
missed the mark and it thrust downside into his partner's cleft. He failed
on the second try, too. On the third, his attempt at penetration would have
ended in absurd comedy, but for Benedict's guiding hand. "We'll get there
if it takes an Act of Parliament," Benedict quipped.

	"Not the whole Parliament, just one of its Members," Dempster
replied while his cock throbbed inside. The penetration was painful for
Benedict to bear. He groaned and cried out to the imagined crowd of
Londoners who observed his agony in prurient silence. Dempster was grateful
and cruel. He catapulted "Mr. M.P."-for that became the lover's nickname
for his nine- inch rod-into the snugly narrow House where it shook the
walls and raised the roof of the chamber.

	Benedict squirmed like a gutted sturgeon under the probing grasp of
George Dempster.  Benedict was the stronger man by far, and could have
flipped Dempster over and away, but for his nine-inch hook that seemed to
grow larger inside him. There was no stopping Dempster's drive into
Benedict, for between men, anal intercourse is the highest possible form of
cooperation. His agony complemented Dempster's ecstasy.

	Not that Dempster was indifferent to Benedict's suffering, we
notice while we watch the Scotsman's lean hips churn and dimple with each
thrust. Every groan and yelp from Benedict fired his lust. Now and then he
paused to give Benedict's arse a rest, and to whisper endearments in
Benedict's ear: What a wonderful snug pussy he had; how he intended to
fertilize Benedict's arse with an army of homunculi that presently were
lodged in his testicles, awaiting marching- orders from the Master.

	Benedict's agony dissipated and gave way to pleasure, as it always
does. On stage, before the imagined crowd of Londoners, he performed merry
tricks for the man who now owned his arse. He straddled Dempster
front-wise, and rotated his arse on the better man's cock. He knelt
doggy-style while Dempster fucked from behind. He straddled with his
backside to Dempster and sat on his cock. He bowed at the side of King
Lear's bed while Dempster stood behind him and fucked. When he resumed his
initial position with Dempster between his legs and inside him, he orgazzed
gobs of fragrant jizz.

	With fists clenched and teeth gritted, Benedict braced himself
while Dempster fucked fiercely. His cock exploded inside Benedict. He
soaked it in primordial ozze for a few minutes, then flipped Benedict over
and fucked him again, from behind, and bred him a second time.

	In Benedict Arnold's day, people believed that each one of a man's
spermatozoa was a homunculus: a miniature liquid statue of himself.
Dempster's erotic satisfaction was enriched by the science of the time, for
he had dispatched hundreds of homunculi into Benedict's inner sanctum,
whence they would travel in his veins until they reached his brain, and
there they would implant themselves as Dempster-images in Benedict's
mind. The mirror-images of Dempster would cause Benedict to be more
compliant with each visitation. Benedict believed this, too, and because he
did, Dempster became a regular visitor in his home on Southampton. They
spoke of their love as "homuncular." "How many homunculi of mine are now in
your body?" Dempster would ask after administering a new dose of liquid
images.

      "An army, I'm sure, but there's room for more," Benedict would reply.