TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ADAIGO - STAVE XXVIII

S T A V E

XXVIII

8th May, 1778

A fine spring day and the generals in an open carriage. Tulips in gardens of the well-to-do, Johnny-Jump-Ups in window boxes violet, yellow and blue; crabapples, cherries and peach in full bloom, a pastel sky, cotton clouds – a perfect day of the Late and the New. One of beginnings. So thought Billy, Mrs. Loring at his side, sitting opposite Henry Clinton who'd just arrived.

Howe chatty, as if the history with Clinton had been undone; they were out for the morning air, Billy as tour guide as they drove down Water Street, pointing out Philly's eccentricities and charms as if a Native and the Descendent of Pitt himself: there – Cornwallis marched the grenadiers and how the city turned out to cheer, there – Washington slept before hightailing it to Valley Forge, the theatre district – you should see the marvelous plays, Andre, Cathcart, Rawdon and Watson – talented fellows; the Grand Masonic Lodge and Billy its Right Worshipful Grand Master for the year; the docks, oh, my claret's been brought ashore; there – my favourite coffee bar; how ghastly the city before the river'd been opened, but it's a wonderful place – perfectly modern, American in every way.

Along the riverfront, Billy spied the frigate to take him away. He was ready; the relationship with Lord Germaine had, over the winter, deteriorated – the American Secretary demanded he act. And he did . . . with little effect: forever trying to lure the Enemy into a trap, an Enemy hard to bait. And the few times they did, the Regulars knew no bounds; just days ago, they cut off the limbs of Rebel captives and set them alight when they could not move. The Rebels did no less to British prisoners. The Face of War and only a Fool thought different. But Billy had other concerns – his resignation and the official word. His Majesty had but two choices: act on it or fire Lord Germaine.

It came in the person of Henry Clinton, the newly appointed Commander-in-Chief. Billy would retain the command until his departure, as it should be, at least to his way of thinking. Why confuse things? Besides, he hoped for one more chance at Washington – a final blow. Otherwise, nothing more, the best had been accomplished in spite of dictates from the Home Office. How little the Government understood, especially Germaine – no concept of terrain, the land's expansiveness, the American temperament. Would Germaine think fifty thousand could subdue all of Europe? One hundred fifty thousand would not do. And supplying an army on the Continent was difficult enough much less one over a fickle ocean – London to Warsaw the same as Savannah to Boston. And Billy's done his part: New York, Philadelphia and Newport back in British hands. And this business of Burgoyne, he would not take that on. There's a rumour Philadelphia is to be abandoned. A crime if true; this army did so much to take it, and the loyal Americans . . .

He smiled at Betsy, her diminutive form against the Spring day – a picture Mr. Gainsborough might paint, all diaphanous and dreamy, a whiff of an image as the carriage moved by, and himself a Gainsborough character – easy going and overdue. He's going home the Great Man to face the knobbos, those clever, specious men who don't know what they don't know, with ill-informed opinions, or worse, informed just enough. He'll battle them down through the Ages, defending his command and always one question: What was Billy thinking? No matter, Captain Hale penned it best writing to his parents:

"Whether you can send a better Gen. than Sir William Howe, I know not, one more beloved will be found with difficulty."

Billy's men – no army better served, but their story too will be lost – the Grand Army of '76-77, the Army on American Service, quick at the heel, hard on the bit, punch and thrust at its zenith. Will Britannia see their like again? They earned Celebration. And would receive none returning home.