THE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF BARBARA MOORE
(with apologies to H.W. Longfellow)
Listen my friends to a tale of yore,
of the midnight ride of Barbara Moore,
who on the twenty-sixth of December,
in the revolutionary year of Seventy-six,
rode out on a cold and wintry night,
from Washington’s encampment at Valley Forge,
a message to deliver Congress, in Philadelphia,
of a bold rebel plan to come out and fight.
Riding hard with wild abandon
across a darkened countryside,
slowing to lead her steed on foot,
through blissfully slumbering towns,
only to mount and speed away once more,
body bent forward, knees pressed tight,
nudging frothy and heaving equine sides,
thundering hooves, clumps of dirt flying behind
Another town appears round the bend,
slow, dismount, quietly approach,
but suddenly out of the shadows from either side,
two red-coated grenadiers reach out,
grab the reins of her mount,
bar her path with muskets ready,
“halt, who goes there,”
one of them shouts.
“Tis just I, a local girl,
making my way home,”
she lies,
quickly adding,
flashing her very best smile,
“t’was caring for an elderly friend,
forgot the time,
you know how it goes?”
“What’s going on here?”
demands a new and commanding voice,
“Tis a young un, out after curfew,
Colonel Wragg, m’Lord”
responds the grenadier,
as he straightens up,
and proffers a quick,
and smart salute.
The officer reaches out,
and with one swift motion,
pulls back her hood,
her long brown hair,
tumbles free,
moonlight reflects,
from a youthful,
but fiercely defiant face.
“Has a rebel look,
about her methinks,”
sneers the officer,
as he glares intently at her face,
“Best we retain,
and question her,
something suspicious here,
of that I am sure.”
But before he can make,
another move,
she deftly moves,
her hand to mouth,
stuffs a folded note within,
steps back a pace,
jaws it twice,
and swallows hard.
Enraged, the officer,
bellows to his men,
“I knew it,
she’s a rebel,
a courier it seems,
we must at once,
make her talk,
no time to lose!”
“Tie her hands,
and string her up,
by yonder branch,
of that old tree,
then fetch my whip,
won’t last long once she,
gets a taste of the lash,
sure to sing like a bird.”
The grenadiers take her in hand,
walk her to the tree,
by the side of the road,
remove her cape and hood,
and bind her wrists,
with a stout thick cord,
the end of which is thrown,
over a low-hanging branch.
While one grenadier,
tugs on the end of the rope,
raising her arms above,
her tossled, dark-haired head,
the other tugs and pulls,
at her dress and bodice ‘till,
she is stripped bare to the waist.
The moonlight shines upon,
white heaving breasts,
rising high, upturned and perky,
above a frame of protruding ribs,
and a flattened tummy,
sloping down between bared hips,
to plunge beneath folds
of torn and shredded cloth.
Dancing about
toes just touching,
the gravel on the side,
of the road,
she spins slowly,
offering front and back
to the watching officer,
standing hands on hips.
“Tell me your name!”
he commands,
brandishing a long,
leather braided-whip.
“Barbara,
Barbara Moore”
she replies, gasping as
her arms jerk higher.
“Where were you headed,
what did that message,
you swallowed say?”
queries the officer,
his voice hard and cold,
“what message?”
replies the girl,
brown eyes flashing with contempt.
He responds,
with a crack of his whip,
the braided leather,
cutting diagonally across,
her pale bare back,
causing her to jump,
and fill the air with,
a dawn-out high-pitched scream.
Sashes fly up,
all along the street,
startled and curious,
faces appear,
what on earth could be happening,
this ungodly time of night,
in this quiet Loyalist town,
garrisoned by friendly British troops?
“Again,” he shouts,
With red-faced rage,
“answer my questions,
now or else!”
she sobs, convulses,
twists around,
but offers him nothing,
only a spit on the ground.
For the next several minutes,
the lashes fly,
slicing away at tender feminine flesh,
scourging her back,
striping ribs and tummy,
tops of bare hips,
punishing her pair of
bouncing, wobbling breasts.
She faints, her head lolls forward
between her upstretched arms,
tiny rivulets of blood flow
from dozens of cuts and scrapes,
spread over her back and front,
“Revive her”,
he yells at his men,
as a crowd gathers nearby.
Snow is rubbed on her face,
her cheeks are slapped,
she starts and wakes,
“Talk!” yells the officer
his hand gripping her chin,
shaking her head,
to and fro,
then throwing it back hard.
Stepping back,
he barks a command,
“strip her the rest of the way,
my whip is hungry,
for fresh targets!”
Eager hands rush forward,
her remaining clothing,
collects around her ankles
Spinning slowly,
arms pulled higher,
feet no longer in touch,
with the ground,
she shows a tight little white ass,
while narrow hips and well-toned thighs frame,
in the shimmering moonlight,
a perfect triangle of dark curly hair.
The lashes fly once again,
she shrieks and moans,
under the unending assault,
pulls her knees up,
kicks and squirms,
as the whip slices
cuts, slaps, and ultimately
plunders her most private zone.
But then from,
far down the road,
to the south,
the sound of gunfire,
rends the cold dark night,
“It’s Trenton, m’Lord,
the rebels have come
out to fight.”
“Leave her here,
she’s of no use now,
muster the men,
get ready to move.”
shouts the officer,
glancing at the reddish glow,
on the horizon,
of burning Trenton.
Turning to her,
he silently approaches,
“Brave little bitch,
I guess you have won,
pity we didn’t meet,
in a more pleasant way.
farewell for now,
I leave you this.”
With an upward thrust,
handle up,
he forces his whip into her sex,
walks away with a shrug,
leaving the remnants
of the dispersing crowd,
gawking and gaping,
at our heroine, Barbara Moore.
BARBARIA, 2015
)
Second fiddle to Dorothy, and now left in the hands of a whip-happy ancestor of a breed largely shipped off a generation later to some god-forsaken penal colony on the other side of the world. 
