TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ADAIGO - STAVE XXI

S T A V E

XXI

January 1778 – Philadelphia

My Dear Sir,

I Have the Satisfaction to Inform, that the City of Philadelphia is in His Majesty's Possession: Lord Cornwallis with the British & Hessian Grenadiers having in usual form Enter'd it on the 26th Inst. (Sept) and Hoisted the Royal Standard.

Lt. Will'm Keugh

44th Regiment of Foot

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Black News: Burgoyne defeated in two desperate engagements. Carlton in Montreal failed to come to his aid. Clinton had sallied out from Newport and had opened the Hudson Highlands for Burgoyne's escape only two days march away. But Burgoyne at Saratoga, unaware, surrendered – 8000 troops. And Billy on his Thump in Philadelphia.

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Dirty weather without, but within they spooned under a blanket in the new barracks, she against him and his hand on her belly. She cradled that hand, stroked it with her thumb. She could crush him. Did she know? How could she not – he dies in her and on her chest that Flush of Idolatry. God must be jealous. That it always be so. Beloved Heretics and next to her, nothing could stand – not the Coat or the Colours, Country, Brothers-in-Arms . . . She dozed safe in his arms – such security, and the Victualers finally in – salt, bread, and liquor . . . She nuzzled. A good man, Geordie . . . But ain't they all good, these someones' sons? Just gone a little Mad after so much battle. War do make you crazy. Like Dilworthtown, the good sons holding down women to take turns, then cut their throats for the fun of it . . . And Billy hung the ones he caught. "If they act like dogs, they shall be executed like dogs. Better that they should've died on the field." Is Geordie one? One what? Murderer? Rapist? War do make you crazy . . .

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Elliot strode past the Burial Ground at Christ Church heading for the Stews. Dead leaves swirled and he imagined the single ghost, said to watch over its graveyard, nickering past the tombs. Maybe a child in a rage, a little Tyrant, cut from life before it could start. Some Dead haunt their own adult souls so that a man Sixty-and-Four is harried from Youth; they nettle and act out their bloody secrets; in Elliot his own Imp like a guiding hand, taking him from here to there without thinking. Many suffer. He looks at the graves and nods – ten from Cholera, four from Consumption, wives in Childbirth, old men in their Drink. Eighty years. Fifty years. Twenty. Women and Children. The Famous and Unnoticed – how splendid their stones. The worms don't care. We hold these Truths to be self-evident, all in the Grave are Equal. Equal when we blast them, he muses – White and Black torn to bits and the different parts mixed together . . . Artillery – the King of Battle. Such a drubbing, Fort Mifflin, last of the Delaware river forts to fall; beef and bone in the slaughterhouse. Nothing left to storm . . . And they were ready to storm it, the Grenadiers of the Guards, a fearsome assault so the Victualers could sail through. Billy's Boys in rags from the hard campaigning. Elliot in rags as was his fellows, stitched together like corpses. Starving. Elliot hears his steps on the pavers, feels the cold in his nose. A smell? Always a smell in America, something rotting. In his mind, the Fort Mifflin bodies – sees them as he sees the churchyard, the peach and apple trees . . . To the Stews, his prick burns . . . And God didn't take him at Brandywine. Ain't He just? Don't He Care? Maybe He don't see. In War they all blend in, everyone an Elliot. God would have to kill 'em all and then where'd He be? No winning side to be on . . . Elliot kills, what soldiers do invariably. What he'd surely do if they'd stormed Fort Mifflin as ordered. Send the Guards! Even better, their Grenadiers! Crush it, not for Victory, but for Food. They'd watched through the night the pre-assault bombardment, ready to go from their perch on Providence Island. Fort Mifflin on a pile of Mud out in the Delaware, blocking off the City, ready to cannonade any frigate or Victualer within range, damn thing designed by the British in '71. Thank Christ the pre-bombardment pounded them. Pounded them again at dawn. It wouldn't surrender and the Grenadiers set to go. Would half survive the assault? Billy held them. Lord Howe brought his 64s up. One last battering within pistol shot. It was dead and abandoned when they finally went over. Bloody carnage. Barracks and pavers all red. Fifty dead outright. Eighty still dying, torn in two. Some quivered near their severed limbs. Creatures without faces. Heads without brains . . .