TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

RONDO - STAVE LXI

S T A V E

LXI

Where is he, Clinton wondered of Cornwallis. Somewhere in the interior chasing about, cut from his supply line. He doesn't stay in one place long enough for provisions to reach him, but he starves if he waits in any one spot. He must Chase or they'll turn and Chase him. How can the Loyalist rally when he's constantly on the move? He defeats the entire purpose . . . And losing the South – the South I'd won . . . He's worse than Billy ever was. I would never, never detach a portion of my army out of range of support. Never! Not once, not once did I let his column become isolated at Charleston. He thinks by having these little posts spread far and wide his backside's protected while he's off to God-knows-where. The Rebels could not have a better strategy. They can defeat him in detail . . . I think he's planned it just to spite me.

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14th March – Bell's Mill, North Carolina

Geordie awoke to the creak of a waterwheel. Not that he'd slept hard, he lay on the cold ground with his squad in the same head-to-foot manner as in a tent. Such the Order – they were the King's Army, and above that, the Guards, and not to drop in a field like cattle.

He shivered. Little good his blanket, with his head on his pack and his neck stiff. He chanced to roll and his bladder awaken. Nothing so exacting than a Cold Morning Piss. Up he shot and hurried between the rows of sleeping grenadiers to the headrace as a waterwheel groaned upstream. Latrines had been dug, but who cared, never enough vittles for a proper Evacuation; he hadn't shite for a week. Pissing's all they do – musty, strong and yellow . . . Careful – don't piss on the Coat, now two sizes big from the weight loss. What a fright, with their three-day beards and uniforms in patches. Crazy-Quilt Soldiers. Though Geordie luckier than some – he still had his shoes; Tim bound his feet with rags.

Two months and a thousand miles, chasing Nathaniel Greene and his Southern Army. Marching and counter-marching. Almost had him three weeks ago, but he slipped across the Dan. In Virginia, he picked up reinforcements, resupplied and came back to be chased again – his army three times the size of Cornwallis'. Lord Charles now hoped they'd come to grips.

"Beat up the American post at Reedy Fork," Cornwallis had ordered Lt. Col. Webster. Webster engaged with the Guards Light Company leading the attack. Greene ordered his detachment to protect his Continental troops at all cost until his forces could consolidate on ground of his choosing. Thirty or so Rebel dead. The British stole their shoes.

On the bank, shaking off, the outline of the mill and the forest hardly visible, Geordie felt a raindrop. Fuck. Another. Cock. Shite. Fuck – all it ever does down here. Snow ain't so bad, he now thought – Connecticut Farms up to the knees weren't so taxing. At least he could retire to a log hut with a smoky fire. So tired now of being wet – a different kind of cold that snakes into your bones and sucks the heat out of you 'til you want to scream. Up north they could be in barns, but barns here were reserved for the likes of Cornwallis. Not that the Earl didn't drive himself hard. They all drove hard, these officers, always smiling for the men as if not the least bit troubled. Geordie watched them – O'Hara, Norton, Stewart, Pennington, Capts. Christie and Dunglass . . . Howard, the Gentleman Volunteer – hard campaigners. The Elements didn't touch them, not 'round the men. Good to be in their company, as much as private men could be. Howard would nod to Geordie in a clandestine manner whenever in contact with the grenadiers. And at the heart of the nod, Obedience.

Where are you, he called to her. In your room, warm? I'm here pissing in a stream.

He looked back at the rows of sleeping soldiers, and there Bess curled up in the arms of Jack Waddley – their first night together since the camp at Hillsborough. And not just her. How the women had grown, local girls coming on in increasing numbers. Nothing the officers could do. In every little town and hamlet, Love is Instant. In fact, better more women than men deserting. Bess was lucky, having become Col. Pennington's servant. Had Obedience come, she'd be employed by O'Hara or Howard. Thank God she's not here. Seems every man has a wench, even Elliot with a big-boned Scots-Irish girl, Jenny Weir, tall as a grenadier with big flat feet use to the clay earth, and a heart-shaped face full of freckles, pretty in her horsey way . . . What she see in him? Big skinning knife in her belt. She brings him things, she and the squad Negro, Maxwell. They sneak out and come back with a hat full of eggs, a sack of meal, a yard of gingham. And Elliot, with a nod, shares it with his squad. She and Elliot fuck beyond the Bounds against a tree with her petticoats up . . .