TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE X

S T A V E

X

Dirty weather. Always rain in America. The fire pits struggled. The camp kitchens hissed. That infernal ping against the taut canvas. Everything wet: the kettles, the boxes, the camp chairs, the marquees, the straw to keep the insides dry; the soldiers' blankets, their bed ticking, their shoes. Camp streets muddy with sopping shirts weighing down clotheslines strung pole to pole. Hat feathers drooped like wasted chickens ready to fall dead. White chalk bled from belts onto regimentals. They should be miserable. But a romp. To be a part of Billy's Army. They had their beer, fresh meat and fruit – watermelon and apples. They sat in circles spitting seeds at a poppet dubbed, Georgie Wash, propped with a bayonet up his arse. A merry time. The women had come up, not only the wives, but the Academicians, setting up tents close to the camps. Even some Brooklyn girls, the curious and adventurous, who stumbled back home bruised with aching hips. What did soldiers care? Beef, beer and a fancy fuck with the Enemy in retreat – God's good blessing.

Elliot listened to the rain on his tent, its flap slapping with the storm. An irritating rhythm. Ten minutes ago he'd emptied himself into a Whore, whore being a title of fact and not a denigration, for he, himself, as much a whore and them being Equals. In truth, she'd been one up on him, making him do all the work, commanding his ejaculation. And then he's done. Done. And nothing to show for it. With meat and gravy the belly's full. With rum – inebriation. But emptiness after a swive. He bit his knuckles. A little boy waiting to be caught, knowing it's coming. Innocent? Never innocent though not in the wrong. Thank God for War. For Battle. His cloak. His sanctuary. War is Corporeal. Liberal. Generous. Myopic to sins. It's the Peace-Time man with little understanding of the true course of Life and Death. The Peace-Time man with their rigid prescriptions for a World they don't fit. How they use "Elliots" as required, the glove to keep their Hands clean. No crime if sanctioned. And he's sanctioned, 'least for now.

The tent flaps opened abruptly – squad mates came in; he made them go around as they took their places, unbuttoning spatterdashes, unbuckling shoes, rolling up coats as pillows.

"Missed you after supper, Elliot," said one – John Notton.

Elliot reticent.

"Don't do you no good sitting here," said Jeffrey True.

The flap slapped harder, rain blowing in, but Elliot sat as the men got under their blankets.

"Tie it off, Tommy," said John Willcock.

He did, taking it to task, in his nose – wet wool and gamey men.

"Got you some buttered buns tonight, Tommy?" Willcock asked.

"Who didn't?" said James Moddy. "Some barely ripe. Teats like apples."

"I saw no apples, just a bend over for mine and an old crone in the anti-chamber for the cash. 'Lavinia' the mother touted her, but I didn't see her face much."

"'Cause you're a cheap bastard," Willcock said. "I had her on her back over a table. Cost me ten pennies more. Pretty little thing in her makeup and well rigged."

Elliot laid back and stared at the ceiling. The tent had more space from the death of Billy Gill; he would have laid in the back with Obedience.

"I'd know her from the shape of her rump. I could see it swinging down the camp."

"Little Lavinia knows how to bump it. I'd swive her again. I'll pay my two shillings tomorrow night if we don't break camp."

"Pay the extra ten and have the view."

Obedience in the back bell, Elliot thought, his eyes fixed on the canvas above.

"I always need a view," said Willcock. "Can't get off without it."

"Ever have a Flying Fuck?"

"Go on."

"Listen to His Nibs."

"Had it in a rocking hack."

"Right – as if you'd pay a guinea . . ."

Elliot placed his hand to his throat to feel the pulse.

"I'd pay a guinea to fuck Mrs. Gill."

"I'd fuck her for two."

"The true Lavinia."

"Ever hear her sing?"

"Bet you that Kiddie, MacEachran's heard her."

The wind kicked through the seam of the tied flaps, the tent expanding. The ties came loose.

"Get it, Tommy," Willcock said. Elliot didn't move and Willcock kicked his heel. "For Christ's sake, Tommy – "

Elliot grabbed him by the throat and hauled him over his knee. The men punched at him.

"Christ!" one screamed straining on Elliot's arm. Elliot squeezed, Willcock turning blue. Then, without provocation, Elliot let him go and they pinned him down.

"Get his legs!"

"Hold him!"

"Willcock, you all right?"

"You men in that tent," Captain Bourne cried from out in the weather. "You're brawling!"