TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

RONDO - STAVE LXIX

S T A V E

LXIX

29th August, 1781

Sickness raced through the camp, the heat during the day and chill at night along with men taxed beyond endurance. Foul water made it worse. Whole companies struck. Putrid Fever. Throats closing so tight, one cannot breathe. New Men mostly, yet to accommodate to the rancid climate. These died, their blood a dull vermilion. Soldiers begged for cures. The surgeons administered placebos: sugar, water and dirt.

Geordie stood morning watch along the bluffs – the best time, bugs asleep and the night cooled off. A breeze off the water that would soon end. The sun'll be up and kill it as it kills all pleasant things, he thought. Only the Virulent thrive. Damn the South with its rot and roaches. Entropic. Parasitic. Whatever elegance is punctuated by great stains of sweat. And the pitiful New Men come all this way to die of Fever. More noble from a musket ball than shitting yourself to death. It took Billy Gill, the first Casualty. How strong we were in '76 – Howe's Army. They ran at the very sight of us, the drunken bastards, throwing off their arms and clothes. Should have had them back then . . . We did, several times over. Had them in our hands – Victory. What battle honours for the Colours – it still can be if we win. If we win. Six long years. Seven or more for regiments like the 10th. in Boston. And now to have run over the breadth of the South. Invincible we were. Invincible still.

Get us a fight, Geordie prayed of Cornwallis, if only to squelch the demons. And if not, take us to New York . . . and Obedience . . .

He gazed at the York with its green and blue water meeting the sea. A clear morning like when they first spied New York – the day he noticed her, the day it started – like the Coat but so much more . . . He quieted for the first time in weeks – no visions or voices, no prickling in his limbs. Just Obedience. Somewhere, now, she is walking. Maybe doing some chore. Does she think of me? Could she be thinking of me now? Does Providence still link us? It must. It shall.

In the quiet, he turned to look on the fine brick houses. A charming little town. There could be worse places to be. They could be stuck in some swamp, or back in the wilderness of North Carolina, sleeping on the naked ground. At the mouth of the river emptying into the Chesapeake, he imagined the fleet coming to take them out.

To the southeast, specks of British ships, the frigate Guadeloupe and her escort beating out to sea on their station. They'd been at it since dawn and he'd watched them growing smaller and smaller. Little ships, tiny on the water's breast. How easily swallowed. It's a brave man whose career is at sea.

They fell out of sight.

Pop . . . Pop . . . Pop, pop. Each with an echo. Big guns, his first reaction – thirty-two pounders. Bigger than a frigate would mount. He knew the sound and had heard them aplenty the past five years. He strained his eyes.

Ships emerged from the diamond sparkles, a slow progression back up the river and then the unmistakable puffs from Guadeloupe's stern guns. On her hip, three ships of the line, third raters.

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

"French?" Cornwallis grilled his aide. "How'd you know they're French? We've received no confirmation from New York they are making for the Chesapeake. Couldn't it be Graves?"

"No, my lord," Captain Brodrick said. "They're flying Bourbon Colours."

Cornwallis rode to the highest point with General O'Hara. Thirty warships warped into the capes, among them, the three Third-Raters. "You think this is De Barres come from Newport?"