TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE VIII

S T A V E

VIII

26th August –

A city of canvas as far as the eye could see, gated neighborhoods in scrupulous rows with stacked drums and regimental Colours. Company pennants designate the streets: here – the Royal Artillery, there – the Brigade of Guards – the 2nd Light Infantry, the 1st Battalion of Grenadiers. There was the 4th Regiment, the 5th, the 10th, the 15th, the 22nd ; the lower the number, the older the corps and higher its status. But the numeral did not signify élan; who could match the 33rd for discipline and duty, and the 9th for being drunk? More family than machine with personalities. The 5th were 'the Shiners'. The Goat Boys – the 23rd. The 57th were the Steelbacks. The 40th – the Excellors. There were the Black Knots, the Havercakes, the Yellow Bellies and Slashers; the Vein Openers, the Pompadours, Paddy's Blackguards and the Two Fives. Tribes as much as an army.

Down the rows washing strung from tent to tent and coats draped over the cross polls. A 'resting day'. Children and dogs chased. Women on blankets darned socks and sewed buttons on trowsers and shirts. Soldiers in small clothes waited in line for shaving. Corporals and fuglemen drilled new recruits. Squads polished their firelocks, black-balled shoes, chalked their white leather while smoking pipes. Some hid behind the tents to play cards. Others drank. One week ashore – the pickets have been exchanging fire with rebels below the Heights. Confident, but restless. Evening's drawing nigh.

In his tent, Geordie tried to snooze; the heat wouldn't let him. Something's a foot – orders to remove the necessities from their packs and roll them in their blankets along with sixty extra rounds. Captain Bourne said they should rest after their supper of boiled beef and kraut.

Geordie stared at the canvas drill, a new tent just out of its crating and smelling of pine and pitch. He studied a seam of hand stitching, hours of someone's labour not to be taken for granted, not by Geordie, not at this time. That long stitch – a chunk of someone's life. By whose hand, he wondered, feeling himself against the Long Island ground, so far from London, so far from Kirkcaldy.

Give heed men of Kirkcaldy, for my call is not for every man.

Sixty rounds in his blanket roll.

Give heed men of Kirkcaldy . . .

Called and chosen.

Obedience's voice in his head – "Here."

He heard it every day now she was in camp; she'd pleaded with Colonel Osborn not to leave her on the ship and Grace, taking her part, convinced Osborn she could sleep in the tent with her in the back bell with the squads' equipment. That she was with Grace set well with Geordie –

"Inspection in fifteen," Sergeant Crookshank announced coming down the row. "Parade in thirty. Marching order: blanket rolls, canteens and haversacks."

Out in the street, soldiers made ready. Geordie slipped on his coat – that she'd do up his hair again. As he grabbed his cartridge box off the tent's finial, out of the crowd she emerged like a conjured spirit.

"Mr. MacEachran!" she called.

He seized her wrist to pull her away. But why take her anywhere? No one noticed as they donned their gear, sparking their firelocks and knapping their flints. No one cared, except Elliot who followed in the next street over, spying between the tents. When they cleared the dining flies to the open field, he crouched behind a tree, a troubled voyeur. The dusk faded.

Geordie kissed her and Elliot a crouching tiger – Obedience in MacEachran's grip, arms to her side. She didn't move until a slow rise of her fingers. To embrace or push away?