TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XXXVII

S T A V E

XXXII

Sir Henry Clinton to the American Secretary, Lord George Germaine:

. . .I must beg to leave to express how happy I am made by the return of Lord Cornwallis to this Country. His lordship's indefatigable Zeal, his knowledge of the Country, his professional Ability, and the high estimation in which he is by the Army, must naturally give me the warmest confidence of efficacious support of him in every understanding which opportunity may prompt and our circumstances allow . . .

Cornwallis' wife dead, died in his arms on Valentine's Day – Jemima, his Bright, Handsome Girl – good family, but in want of money. They'd married for love and it was said she died because of his absence. "The separation proved too much for her weak nerves to bear; she literally fell prey to love, sunk beneath the weight of her grief, and died; thus affording a most singular instance of conjugal affection." In truth, she was "as yellow as an orange" with a pain in her breast and swelling of her liver. Lord Charles blamed himself and could not bear looking at his children. Her voice seemed to echo through the mansion, and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of her in shadows. How to deflect the madness? What else but the opiate of Action. "I have to go," he told his brother William. "I have many friends in the American army. I love that army and I think they love me."

"It is good to have you again," Sir Henry greeted him, knowing the grief of a wife lost – his, a year before the war. "No one here understands this conflict like you. You know how they've tied my hands. But at last you've come with the reinforcements they promised and together we'll set things right. Who did the Admiralty send to replace this dolt, Gambier, they left me?"

"Marriot Arbuthnot," Lord Charles said.

"Arbuthnot?" Clinton mused. "I know nothing of him. Why not Rodney or Hood?"

"The Ministry thinks their talents are best served in the defense of the homeland and more strategic objectives."

"And the fleet with the reinforcements?"

"A new French fleet under comte d'Estaing might try for Gibraltar. Arbuthnot has been detoured in its defense. Who knows where they might appear. Most likely they're making for here."

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A blithe summer evening and officers and loyalists gathered in the Palladian mansion on the Harlem Heights. A wistful setting – lightening bugs flashing over the lawns, a scent of lavender on the air and Henry Clinton on the veranda recounting childhood pleasures when his father was Governor. Little did the guests imagine him an American boy at heart – his first commission at 14 with an independent New York company, somewhat late for a boy in a military family; he'd not stepped foot in England until 19. But once there, flourished – a Captaincy in the Coldstream Guards, then aide to Lord Ligonier, then Lieutenant-Colonel in the First Guards with gallant actions in the Seven Years War, then a full colonel of the 12th of Foot and promoted Major-General in '72. So right and true until his good wife died in childbirth and his unbalanced mother died in Madness. Then money problems. Land disputes. Now this American War and he, like Prometheus, with endless Suffering.

"Coming in, Sir Henry?" called Rebecca Franks, coquettish at 19. "We've found you out. You intend to bore Mr. Washington into surrender."

Clinton smiled without offense. "Join your officer friends, Miss Franks, and use your wit where it can do some good."

She took his arm with a laugh. "Meet him on a field of Honour and you'll be the Man."

They came down the great stairs to the main parlour, the hall draped with silk in a series of shears like a sultan's chamber. Negro boys in turbans and pantaloons, naked to the waist save for a short gold open waistcoat served while in the corner a band played Handel.