TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE XV

S T A V E

XV

November, 1776

"I cannot serve under him another day," Henry Clinton fumed, his nose wrinkling.

The room ponged of tar and fat and funk to heighten his irritation; Yankee households have a smell, 'specially the rich, owed, no doubt, to the American Practice. So the well-bred Englishman might think, though English manors the same to a lesser degree; a Nabob perfumes his Negers don't ye know, though they be only one or two – don't buy 'em for a Plantation, but for the Mistress and Children and are every bit of the family, may teach 'em Languages and Art, set 'em on tour. Virtuosos, not mules – he ain't a Slave but a Liverpudlian. Still, Clinton should be used to it – nappy American sweat, having grown up 'round the Markets, even as a manservant stood at the door. Invisible Man, incapable of listening in his patched trowsers, open shirt and brass collar. He come with the house, a fine Tory house, him and ten others, two hundred apiece in Yankee dollars. A stable. Ain't that wealth? Though they don't know not to mix House with Labour; Americans – they stretch 'em every inch – that Puritan Ethic . . .

"I'd rather command three companies by myself than hold my post as I've done in his army." Clinton stares at the Boy as if looking at the ceiling.

Charles, Lord Cornwallis, the most sanguine of the High Command, a strategic finger to the base of his nose, bobbed his head in apparent agreement. The room had a must. Wet dog. Them? They'd come from the Field – constant campaigning. Since the great Fire, Billy pushed Washington north. They brawl. Billy brawls actually. Washington scurries behind rocks and trees, and Billy, seemingly on the cusp of victory, lets him off.

What the Hell's he thinking? He's got a plan, say some. Got a plan? Finish it! Exasperated line officers take to direct fighting, shooting like the Private Men, while their bully boys, tougher, better, win the day – Hubris over Discipline. Cowards – the Enemy. Let the Savages have 'em – would've had 'em in '59 if not for Wolfe . . . and Billy scaling the Heights of Guan. And here Harry Clinton, devising plans, which Billy considers artificiality.

But Cornwallis knew, as did other Senior men, Billy's intentions. After all, he and Lord Richard are the Peace Commissioners. With whom may one reconcile if the Opponent's dead? "Something from the Bible, I think," Billy once said, (Scripture's always good for authority) maybe at a faro table or between bumpers of gin, "Chasten not your son too severely lest he lose heart and . . . e r. . . run away – something like that."

"I've tried," Clinton said, "really tried to assist him. He claims every prize, takes all credit – by my hand."

Cornwallis restrained a smile.

So did the manservant, his poxy skin shining. Never did a placid face bristle such affect.

"If he'd listened to me, this would long be over . . . He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you."

He hates you – the manservant's lip tensing.

"Jealous then."

"Billy?"

"Maybe not – too dull – that obtuse grin. He's over his head. If only it were my grandmamma fucked German Georgie . . . Well, he doesn't care for me, it's clear. Doesn't care for what he doesn't understand – all those fussy tactics. We're 'Germans', You and Me. Too bad a little German did not leak down in him. An incorrigible fellow. How do you keep peace with him? " Clinton tossed up his hands before he could answer. "Knight of the Bath – for my plan."