TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE VI

S T A V E

VI

Obedience and Grace, lobster red, cut cloth into bandages on a hanging table. Such heat despite the open hatch. Their soaking fichus like a layer of dead skin about their shoulders. Obedience had removed her whalebone stays and let it fall – her bubbies through her wet chemise. Propriety be damned – that she could be naked like a savage. Not that it mattered, the men still ashore on the soft land while she worked shears with swollen fingers. And always that smell. No purgatory like a transport – just above a slaver. Would-to-God she'd be purified and go home.

But this is home Grace might say, piling up bandages. Her would-to-God be that they don't need them; she's tended wounds before – such Shattering – broken bones, gaping holes, cuts long as your arm . . . And that's on Old Pye – a miracle in bloody peacetime to make it through life whole. If you're a gentleman – maybe. But gentlemen succumb; consumption respects no gentry. Neither does grapeshot or musket balls. Pneumonia, Malignant Fever or the Bloody-Flux. They'll go down same as private men. Same as army women. Savages and Slaves. War doubles it. Would-to-God. Would-to-God. Grace ripped the cloth into strips. Would-to-God Mr. Price not need one. This labour's but a pin that Providence keep him safe –

Obedience, lolling, put down her shears.

"Dear?" Grace asked.

"The heat." Obedience pressed her stomach. "No wonder Americans are overwrought."

Grace – a smirk. "Overwrought and overfed and readily insulted."

Obedience pressed harder and Grace to the scuttlebutt with her cup. They shared.

"I should say we'll grow use to it. Could be worse, could've been shipped to the West Indies. A death sentence they say. Regiments 've mutinied."

"We'll not go?"

"Oh no. Maybe some green Highland regiment."

"We're fortunate, I guess."

"Very fortunate."

"They say Howe's planning a great battle and it'll all be over." She took a fresh strip and wiped her cheeks.

"Mrs. Gill," called the surgeon's mate with an inventory list, "if you please –"

Grace took one and swabbed her neck. "Mr. Hopskins, if you please."

The old man huffed, though lingered on Obedience's tits.

"Lord help us if we need all these," Grace said. "We will from a great battle."

"But it'll be over then."

"It's what they say."

"Not you?"

"No, it can happen . . ."

"Then we can go home," Obedience said.

"You're going, my dear," Grace said, "on the next ship. You can stay you know."

"Why should I?"

"Well, you'd be with your own. A sad thing for a woman to have to wander about.

Obedience, have you considered . . ."

"Yes," her answer clipped.

Grace leaned in. "You've a trade?"

"I sing."

"That ain't no trade 'less you're Kitty Clive. Might as well starve to death. You've no children to support you. Your father take you in?"

"No." Emphatic.

"Could be a domestic if you've references. Maybe Captain Bourne –"

"Mrs. Price."

"Sorry, my dear."

Obedience scowled at the dreary corners, the gray planks and ribs, the graffiti on the beams – Bedlam and she a mad thing on display just as she'd seen on the Saturday Penny Tour with Billy. Great fun. And there the Freaks: the Pope, the King, the man who sees the Devil; a woman pulling out her hair, another drawing circles with her thumb. She made herself stare and life on Old Pye felt rather kingly. She even dropped a farthing in an Abram-Man's cup outside the entrance. Life's cruel, she'd said. And now thought about MacEachran.

Boats bumped the hull and shortly after, the stamp of hobnails overhead. Sweaty men clambered down for their cleaning kits; the firelocks must be brushed and swabbed, the locks wiped down and the bright work polished. Obedience watched – they too had their day. A certain step caught her hearing and then a big hand on the rail as he came down. She grabbed her bodice, but Elliot saw. Just a glimpse, him all red-faced. And more would have seen if Crookshank hadn't bellowed: "Colonel Osborn orders you are to let down your hair for the remainder of the day, wash it and comb it out. Shoes and box to be blackballed and white leather chalked. Squad leaders are to see the quartermaster and draw a ration of limes for the men as they work."

"I need some air." Obedience in a flurry. But Elliot blocked the hatch. It was then Geordie and Tim came down. She snatched Geordie's arm. "Mr. MacEachran, if you please."

And pulled him up the stairs.

"Forgive me," she said once on the weatherdeck. "I needed your service."

"You have it." Him delightfully flummoxed.

She released his arm.

"MacEachran!" Crookshank called from the hatch, "why are you up on deck? Why is your hair not down? Why are you not cleaning your kit?"

"Coming, sergeant."

"Mrs. Gill," Crookshank said, "this is not the way. I must report this."

She looked to where they'd slept. How could the Watch not have known? And now the gossip – she giving him a huffle – And there's your forever truth. Did it to yourself, she fumed. And always with justification – of who she was and how she felt when she did this or that – creating her histories . . . But now she's different. Always 'different'. Past is past – five years, five days, five minutes. Same closure. Same renewal. And each time felt different. Even now – different.