TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE II

S T A V E

II

Wind up, the ship rolling, and the grenadiers on the spar deck as easy as you please. Three months ago they'd be vomiting. Sergeants and corporals, up before dawn and in place even before the fifers sounded the assembly. Captain Bourne, a doe-faced Coldstream officer, perked himself up before the men as would any good father. Soldiers yawned. Few had slept including Captain Bourne; Gill had screeched most the night and then the wife sobbing off and on. Bourne conferred with the physician and the grenadier company commanding officer, Sir George Osborn.

"Not contagious?" Sir George had exclaimed as they had gathered in his cabin: Sir George, Captain Madan, Captain Bourne, Dr. Smithies and Sergeant Crookshank. "Well contagious or no, wash them down. Women and children too. We'll not come all this way to be ruined by Fever. Clean, Sergeant Crookshank. Good lye soap 'til their skin's blushing."

On deck the sergeants called roll. All present and correct save one. Sergeant Crookshank, bolt upright on the rolling deck, held the orderly book before his sunburned face as if he was going to quote Scripture:

"'Company Head Quarters Royal George 12th Augt 1776, CaptainBourne, Officer of the Day. Dress of the Day," his parade ground roll. "Trousers, checked shirts, waistcoat, ammunition shirt. Upon dismissal, the Men shall retrieve their Blankets and air them on deck. Corporals are to make Certain the blankets are properly secured with line so none blow into the Sea. The Men shall take Baths. Company Women and Children are to bathe later in the Day. The Company Commander orders an Exercise for the Well Being and Health of the Men. The Company, by Platoons, will dance for 60 minutes upon the open deck.'"

Within an hour the ship resembled Wash Day on the East End. Gray blankets, spliced on like stud sails, fluttered from ratlines and gunwales. Soldiers bathed naked as the women and children spied through the hatchways, the men's pale torsos lathered with frothy soap and dowsed with sea water.

Geordie wiped soap from his eyes to see a blanket tear loose and tumble like a leaf down to the waves. That it not be mine, he prayed.

"Damn," he heard a First Guard grenadier cry and rush to the transom.

"See to it you don't go over yourself, Coalheaver," Coldstreamers hooted.

It'll be stoppages for that poor fellow – the cost of a blanket, even more the shame because they're Household Troops. Worse for the corporals, worse for the sergeants – snooty officers and snooty men, 'blaggards' and 'puppies' the common foot call them, strutt'n 'round like they own the world . . .

And with that, they dressed and assembled again, dried sea salt 'round their cheeks and ears. Forever in line. Always in rank.

Geordie stood behind Tim Crotty, a good place in his estimation. Both proud of the Third, they'd become fast friends since the lottery. You make your family as you can, even if it's an Irish labourer up from the London docks – that he'd joined the Third – and a Papist too who lied to take the shilling. Not that it matters. The King needs men and common folk ain't rushing onto the Establishment. Better him than a Jamie Richie. But the time will come when they'll take the likes of him too.

"The platoon will commence the exercise," ordered Captain Bourne.

Fifers struck the tune. Geordie with Tim's calloused hand promenaded the length of the deck, skipping to the music like little boys who stroll arm-in-arm. Safety in that hand, no danger or potency, not like a girl's. 'Course, there's thems that's Mollified, but not as many as they'd like you to think, but maybe more than ye know . . . A wifie kin destroy ye, his father always said. A man's soul's cheap 'n' easily won. You're a fish, laddie 'n' a wifie owns th' pond. Prick costs naught. Cunny wants cash. Bit they're ne'er satisfied wi' that. If you're smart, gie thaim th' dosh. Kin prick nor purse ne'er fail thee . . .