TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE VII

S T A V E

VII

"Get up! Get up!" NCOs strode among the men. The musicians, topside, 'beating the bounds'.

They needed no prodding. Few had slept the night for all the lightning and thunder – a tremendous storm over the heart of New York. An Overture for the coming Action. Orders: draw their arms and sixty rounds – sixty, blanket rolls, tubs and straps with a gill of rum mixed with the water and rations for a three-day march.

Finally! After weeks of endless drill in the Evolutions for Light Infantry. The twice per week hike the length of Staten Island in full kit. The maneuvering in companies, battalion and brigade. And always back to the stinking ship with its heat and poor rations. And there the enemy on Long Island as comfortable as you please with all the perquisites of Country Life and Town, terrorizing loyal citizens. Not much longer, by God. Today's the Day. Invasion!

Obedience stirred. A crash of footsteps overhead. Fifes trilling. Mates shouting. The squeal of ropes through davits and the turn of the windlass. And Geordie pushing through the crowd of men dressing. She sat up.

The ship pitched.

"We're moving," she said.

He held a piece of black ribbon. "Do up my hair?"

"Turn 'round." She pleated it through the braids the way she'd done for Billy. "Got the nail?" He handed her the ornament and she swept up the queue to pin it proper, her fingertips on his neck. "Will there be battle?"

And in his mind the King's men coming off the ships to the rebels waiting. Another Breed's Hill? "We'll smash 'em on the beach."

"Like last night's storm."

He searched her face. Would it be the last good thing he'd see? Soldiers clambered topside to the sounding of "the General." She inclined her chin. His imagination? The air suddenly churned. An odd breeze for so deep in the ship. Then a tremendous rattle from cannon fire and a stink of rotten eggs. Kiss her, fool. But stood there stupid. Much to her relief. He took her fingers. "In Providence's Hands – you and me."

In the Narrows, hundreds of landing barges pulled for Long Island. The 1st Assault Division, a flotilla of red with muskets barrels like electrum. Shot whistled overhead, HMS Rainbow pounding. The beach convulsed with coughs of sand with no answer from enemy batteries. Magnificent. A singing of oars – Get them.

The Guards grenadiers assembled on deck. Colonel Osborn, his gorget in black silk and his duty sash swooped up the back of his 'private's coat', addressed the company. "General Mathew requests that general order of 11th August instant be read for the benefit of the brigade:

The Brigadier flatters himself that the Corps will never have the occasion to go right about in the presence of the enemy, but as it may happen to be necessary to change disposition and take ground to the rear, he wishes it may be clearly understood by every soldier, as not meaning retreat, and therefore this maneuver may be executed with as much steadiness and good order as any to the front.

Osborn eyed his hounds. "No retreat Grenadiers. His Majesty's soldiers will always receive fire first." And nodded as a good father should.

1st Division almost across, its first wave one hundred yards from shore. Up kicked the breeze and the water chopped. Rainbow continued pounding.