TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ADAIGO - STAVE XXII

S T A V E

XXII

Sir George sailed home to be promoted Brigadier; he would tour Europe before embarking on a career in Parliament, not that a particular borough should matter, a quiet one'll do. Lord North was just fine with him and no fan of Mr. Fox who would demote Billy's Feats to a series of blunders, and no greater blunderer than Lord North, the Prime Minister. Mr. Fox – a Hack for America who'd "much rather be governed by a Mob than a Standing Army." Then look to the Mob, Mr. Fox, when they come for you . . . Not that you'd sup with them, the Common Man you so trust . . . No, give Sir George a quiet conservatism, foundational like marriage vows – reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God – adverbs, aren't they wonderful, like his strength and easy manner, the most popular man in Billy's Army. What would the grenadiers do? There from the Beginning. He and Them. Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York. How could ties not be formed? Captains come and go, but always Sir George and the Grenadier Company – that was a fine pack of hounds. Who could replace him?

Lt-Colonel West Hyde, First Guards. 'Westy', having also come in '76 and commanded a grenadier company in London. Fine fellow, knew the Drill. None deserved it more, especially in his estimation, which he need not state. It was Fact. It was Fit. Stalwart and Composed, even when hard drinking (cursed be the fellow with Talent and not Fit). Honi soit qui mal y pense. To the Men, he's good enough, as long as he takes care of them. They needed care. The City was cold and firewood as precious as vittles.

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Four in the AM, working off a drunk, Hyde burst into the sergeants' quarters. "Crookshank, Boddington, Webb, get them up. Ropes and axes. I've found one."

What he found, after a wrong turn, heading for the Man Full Of Trouble, was an abandoned clapboard building tucked between brick houses in a corner called Williams Alley. A hidden treasure to keep the grenadiers warm. He had mentioned it to Captain Peebles of the 2nd Battalion of Grenadiers. Though firewood's a premium, he tended to talk, especially after bottles of claret. Should he have, he now wondered? Not to worry – Peebles' men are far from here . . . Did he even mention it? . . . Fey, he did, and that prat, John Watson Tadwell Watson, there. Never mind, Hyde thought, he's off the boat and green, and knows Billy's prohibition for tearing down of buildings.

A miserable dawn, rain and icy snow, the street slick. They routed past the Commons with its string of gallows. Martial Law, all types dangled – men for rape, women for murder, children for thieving; it was not uncommon to see little girls strung. Cut-purses. War breeds them. Could they not be burned as fuel, the grenadiers thought; so few warm fires and the Regulars no better than the Enemy at Valley Forge.

As the grenadiers turned off of Third into Williams Alley, there another company about to lay claim to the very prize – the Guards Light Company.

"You! Hold there!" Colonel Hyde shouted as a light bob began to hammer the door. "Hold, damn you!" He rushed up on a private who turned white seeing this officer of grenadiers. "What are you doing?"

"Procuring this house, sir."

"By whose authority? Where's your sergeant?"

"Here, sir," said a pie-faced Yorkshire man in his early twenties.

Hyde called over his shoulder. "Captain Fitzpatrick, surround the house with your platoon and relieve these men."

Then Watson, J. W. T., came out of the walk-through at the side of the house. "Sergeant Billings, what's this? Oh . . . Hyde, . . . Fitzpatrick," he said like a schoolboy caught. "Trouble?"

Hyde, his pudgy face red; he had lost to Watson gambling that prior evening. "I made it perfectly clear at the 'Man' that I marked this house for the grenadiers." You toad.

"Did you? I don't recall."

"You commented on it and then gave Miss Leigh a kiss."

"Did I?"

"You did. Peebles was there."

"Well, Miss Leigh is a distraction." And feigned a vacuous grin; Miss Leigh had originally come in with Hyde.

"Right." Hyde cocked his head. "No harm."

"Yes, no harm," Watson said.

"I'm sure there is another building that can suit you. I shall keep an eye out for one."

"Quite sorry, but that won't due. You, sir, will have to find another."

"I told you, I claimed it last evening. You learned of it from me."

"And thank you. We're here first."

Hyde with a beat, but then nodded. "Well . . . plenty for both . . ."

"There is not."

"There is."

The men watched.

"You may not have it."

"It is my house."

"Consider it part of your debt for what you lost to me last night," Watson announced.

"Withdraw, I order it."

"You order it?" Watson pearled about. "Shall you order me to cancel your debt?"

Hyde's neck pulsed. "Hound."

"Puppy."

West Hyde shook. "I demand satisfaction. I shall call on you."

"Have it now, sir."

"The men."

"They see it. What better time? It is first morning's light. Now, sir, or be off and leave the house to me." Watson placed a hand on his sword hilt.

Hyde felt the stare of his grenadiers, Watson a better swordsman. "Easton ape," he spat and stripped off his great coat and regimental. "Fitzpatrick – " he called, "my second. Sergeant Crookshank, look to the men." He pulled his sword in such agitation it whistled.

Wind funneled down the alley and the damp pavers froze. The aristocrats crossed blades and stared each other down. The alley grew strangely warm. Hyde suddenly beat and lunged for Watson's shoulder – an Attack au Fer. Watson, surprised by the speed, jerked back, his boots sliding and fell flat on his rump just as Hyde's sword would have touched. The grenadiers hooted. Hyde made no show of triumph, Watson in embarrassment and rage. Hyde tried the same move; his repertoire exhausted. And Watson countered with a Risposte, stabbing Hyde in his forearm. Hyde's sword dropped. The fathers and sons dumbstruck. Should they now brawl?