TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

RONDO - STAVE LVII

S T A V E

LVII

Pornographie of Battle

15th March, Thursday – Hoskins Farm, North Carolina.

They march, the woods backlit and hoary, a vast column, six abreast. The temperature risen when they'd stepped off – in the dark – felt like rain, the air muggy. But a clear sky – the morning cobalt ever brightening. A hint of spring with emergence of buds, and with it, a great sop of Mud. The Salisbury Road with its ruts and puddles snaked through a landscape of forest and scrub. No crunch of hobnails, but a great Suck from heels slogging through muck, yet, a quality to their step, a Determination. And them so Clean – clothing patched and brushed, arms burnished to a lustre, a glint off the Steel. A rout step – a man could Carry as he pleased, but this morning, the firelocks Sloped to keep off the mud. Somewhere ahead, the Rebel Army, and not running.

At midnight Cornwallis had ordered the women and the sick back to Bell's Mill, Col. Pennington in their company. Geordie, in his restless sleep, had heard them load into the wagons. Jingling tack. Creaking wheels. And him dreaming – Obedience with her arms about him. The touch on his skin . . . Then Elliot . . . giving him a shave. "In my hands now, Kiddie." The razor to Geordie's neck. "Would've done it if I wanted to. Still love me, brother?"

They march. Good to be moving. Better than last night – the thinking, the waiting. Different men now. Men set apart. Not me – the other fellow – them – out there . . . And such a fine army – the van, some two miles in advance, led by that boy, him and his cavalry, along with the Guards Light Company and Ansbach Jaegers. First Division, at the head of the column, under the command of Webster – steady fellow, an Edinburgh minister's son. With him – two fine regiments of 600 men: Cornwallis' own 33rd and the Welch Fusiliers, both hard-fought since '76. Leslie with 2nd Division, at 50, the oldest to command. His – Frazier's Highlanders with their short coats, gaitered pants, and diced feathered bonnets. Behind them, musketeers of the Regiment Von Bose, often ill and deserted more than most, but brave and did what they were told. Among their ranks 'Neegers', as the Germans called them, trained and accoutred and on the rolls – boy drummers mostly for their Atavistic streak. A few became musketeers.

The Guards last – two battalions of two large companies: 1st Battalion under Col. Norton, 2nd Battalion under Col. Stuart. O'Hara over all. O'Hara – brave but stupid. Wine and Women. A Most Happy Fellow. He knew how to Fit and the very person "one would wish at the head of the enemy's army." Howard wished he was still Brigadier, as did all, and limited his company to his friend, Chapple Norton.

Musket fire in the distance – a long, shattering wave, then sporadic pop, pop, pop, followed by another massed report. The crack of rifles, each with its voice. Every man perks, imagining the zip of hot lead hitting its target. The step quickens. The firing continues as they move closer and hear it moving in starts and stops for the next twenty minutes. And above it all, crisp volleys – the Guards Light Company.

They come to a clearing, the Grenadier Company last on the scene. In the middle stands a Friends Meeting House backed by trees, with soldiers down, bleeding. The lead regiments take ground behind the building and sit for a breakfast of Indian corn while the wounded are taken inside. Up rides the Command – Lord Charles, Webster, O'Hara, Leslie, surrounded by their aids. The boy, Tarleton, gives his report while holding a bloody hand aloft with two fingers missing. To the right of the Quaker Meeting, under a Yellow Buckeye, the Guard officers gather around dead Captain Goodricke, the Light Company commander, hit several times – in the shoulder, through the lungs, in the face, unrecognizable. Captain Maynard of 1st Company is undone, walking away in disgust only to return and look again.