TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ADAIGO - STAVE XXIII

S T A V E

XXIII

"Feeling strong?" Tim, a pipe between his teeth, trying to rub Geordie's shoulders. Geordie shook him off. "Are you warm?" His tongue a slur. Geordie paced wrapped in blankets, snow over the tops of his ankles, his squad, like a guard, ringing him in. 

"I'm hot," he complained.

"Good-good-good. And your legs?"

"Legs are fine," he snapped.

"Can't be too warm," Tim prattled, his breath visible. "Take a little rum. Keep you greased?" Many were greased. "Hey – " he called over to the raucous 2nd Platoon that had never gone to sleep – carnival atmosphere on an early Sabbath morning; f_ck Church Parade. "Tom Tree – the Spirits."

Tom Tree, knocking back a tot. "Give him yours," he huffed. "Bugher."

"For your bloody honour, bloody Englishman," Tim scolded. "Good you ain't running, we'd be shamed." And handed Geordie a bottle from his pocket. "A swallow now . . . Here –" giving him the pipe, "to clear the lungs."

An overnight snow and the sun trying to break through. Philadelphia unspoiled in a cold ermine, and the way she should be . . . before the town bustle, like a Queen. Really her, dirty, raucous old Phillie? Yes, in this Course of Human Events, and all Bob now she's British. Makeup on a poxy whore; Willcock off in a doorway pissing in the snow Nulli Secundus, a drunken Molly with her tits out, and Geordie the only one Sober.

Watson's and Hyde's, with a legion of Camp Wives, lined Second Street, the companies chortling, singing. Loud talk the way crowds do, more boorish than clever. Burlesque? No, plain Mob-Stupid and to steer clear of if ye have any sense. What trumpery! Female bleats in great, high cracks. The block hijacked. And for what? A Race, to boost Morale and foster good Spirits. Such were common for private men; they could not share in cricket or hunting, and too cold for Rounders. A snowball fight might lead to a brawl . . . It was Sergeant Webb who approached his peer in Watson's with the challenge: no Light Bob, Guard or otherwise, could match the endurance of a Grenadier. Sergeant Billings informed him he was wrong. Not a word of William's Alley. No officers paid notice, giving permission albeit grudgingly, but permission none the less. And no ease of 'Small Clothes' like some backyard contest. Make it tough. Make it formal. They'll run in 'Full Order'. Crookshank volunteered Geordie as the company champion; he had the build and the wind, light enough to be fast and well-muscled to handle the full kit. A fleet Scot. Geordie wanted no part of it 'til Obedience, uncontained, forced him – all she'd done is smile. And now she stood like a Hostess in her Salon, gossiping, laughing, and every so often casting an eye on Geordie: "Mr. MacEachran this . . . Mr. MacEachran that . . ." and to see Jaruesha on her ear.

Sergeants Webb and Billings walked into the intersection of Second and Race to draw a line in the snow with the tips of their canes. "The contestants shall advance."

Geordie dumped the blankets and stood in spit and polish, Brown Bess' barrel cold as ice. All cleared to the curb except for his opponent, a First Guards' with a tender face and not to Geordie's liking: thin hips, long legs, a chest still awaiting maturity's expansion – like Geordie in his youth. In another ten years on beef and beer, he'd bulk into a grenadier. He'll be fast off the line and that'll undo him, Geordie thought. Stay with him to the end and he'll have no kick. But in truth, he could kick all day. It was then the young 'Coalheaver' glared – I've got you, old man.

Do ye now, ye surly bastard?

"You will run east on Race Street to Water," Sergeant Webb said, "where you'll turn south along the river, follow it down to Cedar, turn back for Second Street and then come up to Race where we stand now – a rectangle of a mile. There will be judges at each block – a man from each company. You understand?"