TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE III

S T A V E

III

Supper below deck: hardtack and salted cod topped by flour gravy, desiccated peas and kraut. They ate the soft food first, letting the hardtack soak; its consumption demanded care. Lord help the man who broke a tooth, he could waste away. Thank God for the cod off Georges Bank; the salted beef was running low and was now so dry as to be unpalatable. At least they had beer, an old brown dog that filled the belly and killed any foul taste. Geordie sat at the foot of the mainmast nursing his second, the first he'd gulped without a breath – that it hit fast. Then he could ease back. How glorious to be still. The fleet lay at anchor – no more chopping waves –

A staccato of laughter. Noise and smoke. Cramped space. Soldiers' children running about, jumbling, tumbling. "Woman, mind these goddamn brats!" Messmates in their beer solving World Problems – what man's not smarter in his beer? A philosopher? A king? A giant? A giant indeed – loud – these smart men with their titular wisdom knocking heads. The bane of liberty, Geordie thought – everyone's opinion.

Now the women . . . Geordie watched as they smoked, drank and talked, passing the pipe so none lose their share, their postures in sympathetic rhythms. Voices – Sultry. Dusky. High-pitched. A music. Tingles the skin. Men's are a crash – better when they don't speak . . . Women talk . . . Talk the same thread even when they disagree, even when it's ugly. Look at 'em – finishing each other's sentences:

               "Why would she even marry a soldier . . .?"

               "Misfortune, no doubt . . ."

               "Maybe she got in the family way. . ."

               "She'd have it out. . ."

               "If she did, it was before the barracks; she was flat when she came. . ."

               "And she'd stay for a week and then took a room. . ."

               "He didn't want her 'round the men . . ."

               "She made him do it – taking that room on Old Pye above the baker's . . ."

               "And you would too if yours was a baker . . ."

               "Mustn't have been too good a one to join the Army . . ."

               "Mustn't been too good if he were on Old Pye . . ."

               "Country bitch, I'm from Great Peter. Not all Poor's bad . . ."

               "He was bad . . ."

               "Not like that devil . . ."

               "Devil is right . . ."

               "He weren't bad . . ."

               "Who joins the Army what has a good trade? . . ."

               "The Coldstream panache suited him – Nulli Secundas . . ."

               "A trade on Old Pye ain't no trade . . ."

               "Nulli Secundas I say . . ."

               "Nulli Se-Cunni . . ."