TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

RONDO - STAVE LXVIII

S T A V E

LXVIII

'Guilford Men', the replacements called them, noted for their silence. They had a look. Like a bomb going off. Could kill you at a glance. They dreamed. Invisible enemies all about. One dashed through camp sounding the alarm – Rebel cavalry, though no troop cantered up the York. Four took their lives: a bayonet through the heart, or head to a firelock and trigger pressed with a rammer; a hanging. One night, a Coldstreamer bolted from his tent to run off the bluff. A hundred foot plunge. Four deaths – never to be spoken of before the men. Cannon Fever – Cerebro-Spinal Shock. It's Vapours, voiced some officers. Insufficient character – those four. Good discipline should stop it. We shall again be whole; the replacements are well seasoned, having put down the Gordon Riots and been ready to sell their lives to repel a French invasion. Keep them at work and rest just enough to recover. It shall work itself out in this pleasant town.

In the fields surrounding Yorktown, Regulars and Negroes moved the earth like an army of ants, construction bitter in murderous heat. Cornwallis conscripted every Black Man to be had with the Crown's promise of Cash, constructing the massive works, a tremendous outer and inner defense of redoubts and batteries.

Geordie caked with dirt and eyes thick with sweat in the trench before the Hornwork. Thank god for the old straw hat less he faint away like others. Good to hit. Strike that earth that had taken so much – dirty, stinking America, silted up to the waistband of his trousers. Fucking mosquitoes. Fucking flies. His sunburnt torso covered with bites. Red all over, his scarred back appeared raised with his darkening colour, and yet ghastly white next to the Negroes, who paced themselves in the heat they knew well, coming and going as they please while the white soldiers slaved for their officer masters.

He hacked the earth. Harder. Harder. Keep it in front of him so it can't overcome him. Kill it. Kill it. Tim out of the corner of his eye. Jack Waddley going down. A body with its spine ripped out. Come along, Tim whispered.

He avoided New Men, preferring Negroes as they talked little around the Regulars. Not many Guards left from '76 and none of his original squad having been reorganized and reorganized over the years. After Guilford, there was little left, and only one with whom he'd keep company. Elliot.

Some Joke – like tomcats on a fence. And when they spoke, if they spoke, she was never mentioned.

Construction day and night, teams in shifts. 2nd Platoon exhausted around the camp kitchen in an in-town backlot, staring aimlessly at the earthen ovens with their plates, many still shirtless. Houses dark, the residents fled and abandoning Yorktown to Cornwallis' Red Devils and Negro Horde.

Geordie drank a mash he'd lobbed from a fine brick house – big swallows to stop thinking. His messmates chattered with feet dangling in the pit dug around. He closed his eyes, their voices in his ears and he was back on the ship in '76, the way the women prattled, and he first spoke to Obedience. To his left, a scrape of dirt and someone sat next to him. He opened his eyes – Elliot. Geordie shared the liquor.

When the stew was ready, they filled their plates, shoveling it into their mouths the way they shoveled the thousandth spade.

"And what do we have the honour, Sergeant Elliot?" asked a First Guards replacement.

Elliot glowered. "MacEachran and me have shared matters that are not your concern, New Man."

Geordie shook the bottle. "The shared matters are out."

"Come on," Elliot said.

They sat behind the sergeants' canvas Indian-style, a bottle between them. Two Tom Cats. Two Monsters. Not that they wanted each other's company, they'd no choice. One kept the other's it at bay; Geordie rocked and Elliot pestered his skin, scraping with his nails to evoke feeling. That Elliot burned himself, Geordie didn't care. Silence deemed consent. That Geordie could burn himself too, but didn't. Better to be drunk. Better to burn all else. His whole life – what he'd give to do it again . . . What he'd give to make this life end . . .

"I hate sleep." The liquor loosening Geordie's tongue. "I can't breathe. I close my eyes and the night sits on me."

Elliot shifted uncomfortably.

Geordie tilted his cup and a glint of firelight on the tin – a flash of Tim's face. He took a gulp. A shout in his ears. He held the cup in front of him, wanting an answer. "That man in 1st Company that run off the cliff . . ."

Elliot shifted again, the bluffs thirty yards away. In the quiet, the lap of the river.

". . . Found him face down in the sand." Geordie so drunk he could barely raise his head. "You think about ending it?"

Elliot curled his lip. "I think about ending you."

Geordie passed out. Elliot nudged him and Geordie flopped like a poppet. With a nod, Elliot hefted him over his shoulder. He walked toward the river and the cliff. A voice in his head. Do it. There the river dappled from moonlight. Do it. Then a softer voice. He stopped.

******************

In New York, Clinton languished despite his fear of siege. Admiral Graves, who had replaced Arbuthnot, made attempts against the French supply convoy, but little else. Both knew Admiral De Grasse was coming with a sizable fleet from his station in the West Indies – that, and Washington on the move. It could mean only one thing: they're coming for New York.

"They're marching south," observed the doddering General Robertson. "To Virginia."

"A ruse," Clinton said. "He wants to draw me out and then burn New York. They cannot be heading to Virginia – too hot this time of year."

So Clinton sat. Graves sat. Dinners and Balls with gambling and music as evening staples. Not a hint of danger. But New York's the Prize. De Grasse knows it and Sir Henry, in more confident moments, will hit him when he comes.

Admiral Hood, who had been chasing De Grasse up from the Caribbean, sailed into New York in a near panic, desperate to link with Graves and crush the French with their combined fleets. He found Clinton and Graves conferring in the admiral's headquarters at Denyse's Ferry. "Do the commanders know De Grasse has sailed north?" Yes, they responded without surprise and were at the moment considering a course of action. They also said Washington and Rochambeau were marching south. Hood aghast. "And what is your course of action?"

"A strong defense," Clinton said. "We're considering possibilities. Reports tell us De Grasse is heading for the Chesapeake, but this could be a trick and he could link up with De Barres in Narragansett Bay."

"Why aren't you out at sea, sir?" Hood said to Graves.

"We need confirmation," Graves replied.

"Confirmation? With our combined squadrons, we outnumber the French ships in

Newport. Attack them now before De Grasse can come to their aid. And if he is heading for the

Chesapeake, he will have to break off and relieve De Barres."

"We have it De Barres' put to sea," Graves said.

"My God, sirs!" Hood could not contain himself. "Whether you attend the army to Rhode Island or seek the enemy at sea, you have no time to lose. Every moment is precious!"