TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ALLEGRO - STAVE VIII

S T A V E

VIII

26th August –

A city of canvas as far as the eye could see, gated neighborhoods in scrupulous rows with stacked drums and regimental Colours. Company pennants designate the streets: here – the Royal Artillery, there – the Brigade of Guards – the 2nd Light Infantry, the 1st Battalion of Grenadiers. There was the 4th Regiment, the 5th, the 10th, the 15th, the 22nd ; the lower the number, the older the corps and higher its status. But the numeral did not signify élan; who could match the 33rd for discipline and duty, and the 9th for being drunk?  More family than machine with personalities. The 5th were ‘the Shiners’. The Goat Boys – the 23rd. The 57th were the Steelbacks. The 40th – the Excellors. There were the Black Knots, the Havercakes, the Yellow Bellies and Slashers; the Vein Openers, the Pompadours, Paddy’s Blackguards and the Two Fives. Tribes as much as an army.

Down the rows washing strung from tent to tent and coats draped over the cross polls. A ‘resting day’. Children and dogs chased. Women on blankets darned socks and sewed buttons on trowsers and shirts. Soldiers in small clothes waited in line for shaving. Corporals and fuglemen drilled new recruits. Squads polished their firelocks, black-balled shoes, chalked their white leather while smoking pipes. Some hid behind the tents to play cards. Others drank. One week ashore – the pickets have been exchanging fire with rebels below the Heights. Confident, but restless. Evening’s drawing nigh.

In his tent, Geordie tried to snooze; the heat wouldn’t let him. Something’s a foot – orders to remove the necessities from their packs and roll them in their blankets along with sixty extra rounds. Captain Bourne said they should rest after their supper of  boiled beef and kraut.

Geordie stared at the canvas drill, a new tent just out of its crating and smelling of pine and pitch. He studied a seam of hand stitching, hours of someone’s labour not to be taken for granted, not by Geordie, not at this time. That long stitch – a chunk of someone’s life. By whose hand, he wondered, feeling himself against the Long Island ground, so far from London, so far from Kirkcaldy.

Give heed men of Kirkcaldy, for my call is not for every man. 

Sixty rounds in his blanket roll.

Give heed men of Kirkcaldy . . .

Called and chosen.

Obedience’s voice in his head – “Here.”

He heard it every day now she was in camp; she’d pleaded with Colonel Osborn not to leave her on the ship and Grace, taking her part, convinced Osborn she could sleep in the tent with her in the back bell with the squads’ equipment. That she was with Grace set well with Geordie –  

“Inspection in fifteen,” Sergeant Crookshank announced coming down the row. “Parade in thirty. Marching order: blanket rolls, canteens and haversacks.”

Out in the street, soldiers made ready. Geordie slipped on his coat – that she’d do up his hair again. As he grabbed his cartridge box off the tent’s finial, out of the crowd she emerged like a conjured spirit.    

“Mr. MacEachran!” she called.   

He seized her wrist to pull her away. But why take her anywhere? No one noticed as they donned their gear, sparking their firelocks and knapping their flints. No one cared, except Elliot who followed in the next street over, spying between the tents. When they cleared the dining flies to the open field, he crouched behind a tree, a troubled voyeur. The dusk faded.

Geordie kissed her and Elliot a crouching tiger – Obedience in MacEachran’s grip, arms to her side. She didn’t move until a slow rise of  her fingers. To embrace or push away?    

“MacEachran!” Tim called from up the street in full kit. “Geordie!”

Elliot froze and they saw him leering. Obedience pressed against Geordie to whisper in his ear.

“Now!” Crotty beckoned, Elliot standing between them. “You too, Mrs. Gill.”  

Squads assembled for pre-parade inspection: epaulettes buttoned down, hattcap straps attached under the queue, the plink of the rammer down the barrel, the lock at half-cock and the flint firmly seated, the pulling of the box that’s been filled with rounds. Woe to the soldier who fails. Woe to corporals who allow it, and sergeants in their turn. Can’t put a man before a platoon commander ill prepared, especially this hour.

Parade sounded and there they were as neat a pageant as on St James.

Women assembled too, forming on the battalion’s left. A gangly ensign of fourteen, still fair-haired and pimply in a coat Daddy purchased from a bespoke tailor on Savile Row, inspected them with diligence as to their fitness.

“Your health, Madam?” Young pimply lingered on Obedience, eyeing her head to toe with officious duty, especially her bits.    

“My health is fine, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow as if he had knowledge about his business. “Any sores?”

“Sir?”

“Have you any pains?” 

She shook her head.

“Bruises?”

“No, sir.”

“And your feet?”

She slipped them out her shoes.

“Very good. Report to your company orderly sergeant.”

“Sir?”

“Report to your company orderly sergeant,” he repeated curtly.

Grace, next to her, nodded and she fell in with the women chosen.

“What do they want with us?” Obedience asked walking beside Bess Waddley.

“A fool’s stupidity,” Bess answered. “Some bright idea . . .”

“What idea?’

“First battle. The brigadier is fearful of losing any men. We’re to follow and tend the wounded I guess.”

“Is this done?”

“It’s done this time.”

“Why?”

“Same reason officers dress like privates.”

The regiments right-faced into columns and marched to the rally points to form their brigades. And then, without fanfare or drum, moved forward, the Guards at the head of the Main under Howe and Lord Percy. Glorious. Marvelous. General Clinton a half-mile in advance with the avante garde of dragoons and light infantry. A bright night under a waxing gibbous near full, all highlight and shadow – copses of trees, the outlines of barns, the road cutting through both fallow and fat fields of rye, oats and corn – Long Island the Cultivated, and Long Island the Wilderness.

After an hour, they left the road for no more than a beaten path. Flanking parties fanned out on the column’s sides should it come under attack, eight men from each company under the command of Captain Archer, Geordie and Tim among them.

A cool night, rare for August – an Atlantic wind. The wool felt good for a change. A blister on Geordie’s right heel and a hitch. A long march, the firelock growing heavy; he switched it from hand to hand, balanced it on his shoulders. His knee bled at his ripped trowsers from tripping in concealed ruts and over stones. He’d not slept since four this morning and though the column progressed in stops and starts to rest, he was up again before he could doze. About him the cracking of charred cornstalks underfoot, that and the music of accoutrements on the march, a lolling rhythm. The moon peaked between a river of clouds floating inland – dark and light – in and out. His eyes played tricks: the outlines of towns in the distance, phantom candles in windows far away, lanterns in church spires to warn of their coming. Then faces leering from behind trees and rocks – poxy-faced Yankee bastards, Mullatto/Indian demons ready to whoop and howl and fire their trade guns on the run.   

They cleared the field and the grade rose to become uneven. For all the moonlight, you still couldn’t see your feet and the thickening clouds made it worse. Rock formations appeared and forced the flanking parties in on the column. They were climbing now toward the heights and into the trees.

Halt – Captain Archer’s hushed command. Halt – the officers in the column repeated.  

Geordie lay on the hard ground, his musket across his lap, covering the lock with a rag. A crawling mist. Darker in the woods; though Tim yards ahead and George Harrison the same behind, he couldn’t see them. He closed his eyes and with it, a sensation of floating and he felt Obedience’s lips to his ear – Come back.          

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

She marched with the wagons at the rear of the column. Never had she walked so long and never for an entire night. When they halted, she slumped to the ground, taking the cork from the large tub-and-strap she’d been issued and took a deep draft if only to lighten it. If she’d the nerve, she would’ve ditched it along with the clean dressing. What idiocy – following soldiers to battle.  

A buzzing by her ear and a sting to her cheek. She slapped it, but not before another bite. Then another and another and she beat the air. A jump to her feet and they too stung, her feet in her shoes like rising loaves of bread. She started to pull them off.

“Stop that, you fool.” Jaruesha’s voice. “You’ll never get them back on and we’ll be carrying you.” 

A hand clouted Jaruesha’s ear. “Woman,” a corporal whispered, “the order is silence.” And pat her shoulder.

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

William Howe turned in his saddle this way and that; the Enemy could be drawing down on them now, waiting for the perfect time to fire. This he believed even though Clinton’s vanguard would’ve cleared any resistance. No such fear in Lord Percy. Nor in aides Major Cuyler, Captain Balfour and Lieutenant Page – eager to come to grip.

Easy for them, they hadn’t the burden. Americans should plan to lose a battle every week as victory depletes us. Not as invincible as we think. Certainly not immortal . . . Where the deuce are we?

He turned in his saddle once again. A hammer click to full cock?

“Itching?” Lord Percy whispered.

“What?” Howe distracted.

“To get them.”

“What? Of course.”

“Devils aren’t they, behind their rocks and trees,” Percy said having dealt with Americans since ’74. A sympathizer at first, he knew them now for the blackguards they are. Hugh Percy, gouty, ugly and seasoned at thirty-four – honourable, talented and plainspoken. Howe’s fiercest critic. Not tonight – retribution for the bloody withdraw from Concord. Besides, Howe had placed the Guards in his division – a refreshing change from the hardscrabble troops of Boston. Percy so animated as if to gush.

Had Billy won him over? 

Not quite. He’s lethargic and incompetent, Percy thought. Here only ‘cause his Mamá  had fuck’d German George. As to his jitteriness, it’s at least some exuberance. What’s to jitter? The Enemy’s standing and we’ve a fine army, the finest Britain’s ever field.

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

Henry Clinton, a half-mile out, strained his eyes at the sound of hoof beats. The advanced guard had halted and Clinton’s troops had come up. A company of Light Bobs now deployed across the front as the flanking parties along the column’s sides faced outward to the music of katydids and crickets.

It’s nothing, Clinton assured himself. The pass is open.     

The moon, gone behind clouds. The hoof beats stopped, then a creaking of a saddle.

“Dijon,” the rider whispered.

“Rouges,” the light infantry subaltern countered.

“Where is General Clinton?” the rider queried.

“Here,” Clinton called from the dark.

“We’ve prisoners,” the dragoon officer said.

Clinton paled and another rider came up from the Main. “Sir Henry, General Howe is concerned about the delay.”

“What prisoners?” Clinton ignoring him.

The dragoons moved forward with their captives. “They say they’re officers in the Continental Army, but wear no uniforms or marks of rank.”

“Spies?”

A frightened voice squeaked from the blackness, “We’re lieutenants attached to General Sullivan, your lordship.”

“We’ve no time to hang them,” Clinton said. “DeLancy, put them to the sword.”

“Mercy, your lordship!” they cried too loud for Clinton’s liking. “We are commissioned officers! Civilian coats are a common thing among many of our regiments! See.” They touched the cording on their shoulders, but no one could see at all. “We have epaulettes and duty sashes!”

“I don’t trust them,” said Captain Oliver DeLancy, son and namesake of a famous New York Loyalist. “We found them advancing on our rear.”

“God in Heaven, pity us!” the youngest captive wailed.

“DeLancy, dispatch that one if he makes another sound.”

Dragoon horses stamped, unnerving the prisoners more.

The moon came out, and there, a silhouette of riders between the advanced line and the troop column.

“Very well, my friends.” Clinton leaning on his saddle, the braid of his coat reflecting a cold blue. “I’m going to ask you questions and your answers better be quick; your lives depend on them. What rebel general did you say you were attached to?”

“Sullivan,” a trembling voice.

“How many troops guard the pass ahead?”

“None, sir,” the youngest said.

Clinton reared back. “You take me for a Whig? Goddamn you, sir, liar that you are. They’re no spies, but idiots. Well my friends, we execute idiots as well.”

“Please, your lordship,” the boy squealed. “May God Almighty strike me if it ain’t so.”

“You expect me to believe your General Sullivan has left Jamaica Pass open and his flank exposed?”

“Oh no, sir,” the boy lieutenant said. “We are guarding it.”

“There’s a tavern at the mouth of the pass; you have a company quartered there.”

“No, sir.”

“A picket?”

“As I’ve said . . .”

“Liar! DeLancy, Evelyn, kill them!”

“In the Name of Our Lord!” The boy leapt from his horse, falling to his knees.

“Wait,” Clinton said as the soldiers handled them. “We’ll investigate. You’d better be speaking truth, if even one of my men is harmed, we’ll deal with you as if you’re French.” Clinton turned to the coronet from the main column. “Please inform General Howe he and Lord Percy should come up. Tell him we’ve secured the tavern in the pass.”

Evelyn and his Light Bobs surrounded the silent Dutch-style building in the mouth of Jamaica Pass. A squad stood ready with their bayonets as two privates battered the door. A candle flickered down the staircase and a woman screamed as the latch burst open.   

“Stay where you are,” Evelyn commanded a husband and wife with the point of his sword. “Search the building,” he ordered.

Up from the cellar – a young Negro with an axhandle whom the soldiers butt-stroked.

“What in God’s name?” the owner cried as the light infantrymen threw him against a wall. They grabbed his wife, her night cap flying off, running her into a corner. Five soldiers dashed up the stairs.

“You’ll find nothing up there!” the innkeeper shouted. “It’s 2:00 a.m.!  My son is up there asleep!”

An adolescent boy ran from a bedroom with a hunting knife, which he had the good sense to drop seeing the Redcoats. “Father!”

“Stay there!” his father shouted.

Light Bobs advanced and the boy dropped with upraised hands.

“Empty,” a young sergeant reported.

Evelyn sheathed his sword. “If you’re loyal subjects, you have nothing to fear.” He turned to the sergeant. “Tell them it’s clear.”

Henry Clinton, the first through the door, trim and fit, large eyes, a delicate mouth and nose even in proportions, a pleasant face that would draw one to it, until he glared at Mr.

Howard. General Percy next and so homely that it made Clinton appear all the more cruel. They were followed by Lord Cornwallis, a man with shadowy eyes and a hint of double chin, who moved about the tavern as if he’d come in to find a game and upon seeing it absent was impatient to be off. General Howe, the last, brushed in, his uniform covered by a blue camlet cloak with a shoulder cape. The generals wore fine beaver hats and from the lamplight how their coats glittered from the braid. The very room vibrated with power.  

“I am General Howe,” Billy said without fanfare or authority.

The innkeeper startled. His wife pressed the wall. The son slumped like a martyr waiting in the arena.

“Know who I am, boy?” Howe asked with dispassion. “What’s in the pass?”

“He knows nothing,” Howard cried. “He’s a child.”

“I hear Washington’s army is made up of such boys . . . and old men and Negers, willing to plug anyone of us at a blink of an eye,” Howe said.

“Go to your mother,” Clinton said to the boy. “Madam, keep him out of trouble.”

“You know something of the rebel positions?” Howe asked Howard.

“How should I? We’ve been in bed, not out there with them.”

“So you know something.”

“No, your lordship. I mean only they’re out there.”

“You would know if any are in the pass?”

“Being this tavern is in the pass, I would, sir.”

“How many troops hold it?”

“None, sir.”

“None that you know of or none at all?”

“None as of midnight, sir – when I took myself to bed.”

“And you, boy. How many troops did you see today?”

“I saw nothing, sir.” 

“And yesterday, quick?”

“None at all . . . I . . . I saw . . .”

“What?”

“I saw some in Bedford yesterday morning, but none between here and there.”

Howe turned to see young Oliver DeLancy walking in. “It’s true,” DeLancy said. “Wide open and clear.”

Howe’s posture slackened and leaned on the bar. “Some spirits if you please, Mr. Howard.” 

The Light Bobs motioned him.  

“I’ve rum and rye whisky.”

Howe nodded. “Rye and water for me. Gentlemen?” They had the same and were for a moment friendly. “Have one yourself, Mr. Howard.”

The innkeeper declined.

“I must have you show me over the Rockaway Path around the Pass,” Howe said.

“We belong to the other side, general, and can’t serve you against our duty.” Howard with conviction.

“That’s all right. Stick to your country or stick to your principles, but Howard, you are my prisoner, and must guide my men over the hill.”

“I cannot, general. I will not. You have no alternative.”

Howe put down the glass. “The entire army is outside your door. You will do it. If you refuse, I shall have you shot through the head.”

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

The Heights of Guan, moraines of sheer granite, rose to a crown of forest. Through the canopy sunbeams broke overhead like a celestial calling, stirring the birds to song. Over the ground, an ankle-high mist wicking up moss and scents of sweet terra. How beautiful many thought. Was it a sign of blessing? No matter. Like a python on the hunt, the column slithered through the gully, sneaking up on its unsuspecting prey.

As they emerged onto the wooded highlands, a thunder beat over the tops of the trees – British cannon; five thousand Redcoats to the southwest engaging the enemy’s right. To the direct south opposite the rebel center, battalions of Germans waited for the signal to attack once Howe’s flanking corps had taken its position.   

Billy, ever skittish, rode beside Clinton, trying to catch his bearings, fearing at any moment Yankee regiments would attack the column’s rear. Were those Hessian guns or those of Washington’s turning on his flank? Clinton, like Percy, showed no care – a child in his playroom. They’re in dodge, thought Howe and if anything goes wrong, it shall be my fault.  

“Harry,” Howe said as they advanced on a collection of sleepy houses, “shouldn’t you form now? Rebels may be waiting when we reach Bedford.”

Clinton smiled. “My dear general, this is Bedford.”

“This?”

“Be at ease, sir: the battle is over. You’ve won. I assure you the enemy has no knowledge of our presence. All that’s left is mopping up. Shall I have the signal gun fired?”

The Royal Artillery advanced two guns double powdered for the loudest report. The gunner, as fine a soldier as could be seen, twirled the linstock and touched the piece. A tremendous crash, the gun leaping. Houses rattled, windows shattering. Villagers threw open their doors just in time to see a blue smoke ring hurtled through the crossroads and an army in their midst. The second piece fired and they fell down screaming.

“Hazza!  Hazza!” the cheer. Officers with raised fists: young rakes, stolid gentlemen, pampered Momma’s boys at the head of their brave lads. Thespians of Battle. None but them to do it – not Civilians or Doctors in their robes, not the wigged Officials or Clergymen, the Scientists or Philosophers, only these rich sons, buying their commissions, rising in the corps, so if they live, they’ll be men of Distinction, and if not – recompense for Privilege.

Billy scanned the road as his troops completed their dispositions, certain hostilities would swing out of control.

In the tree line ahead, armed men in dyed hunting frocks emerged, stumbled out, if Howe cared to notice.

“What is that?” he asked Clinton, pointing at the trees.

Clinton, after an irksome beat, turned to DeLancy. “Get them.” 

Troopers howled, but before crossing fifty yards, the rebels skirted into the trees. Clinton smiled at Howe. “As I said: the battle is over.” And with a sweep of his hat, he bowed. “I wish you the joy of future victory, General.”

Howe nodded. Fart-catcher. “Proceed with the avant-garde and engage as planned . . . And Harry, remember –  we’re now closer to the rebel’s second line of fortifications than the line we’re engaging. Please – caution.”

Clinton spurred his mount. “Leslie,” he shouted to the light infantry commander, “Fox away!”

Sir George Osborn paced like a zoo tiger for meat, every so often striding forward to examine the road and then about to be ready while the men stood at ease. None were at ease. Beyond the tree line, the acoustics of battle. Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop. A crash. The air like breaking glass. Men shouting in a cauldron.

A dragoon coronet cantered up to Lieutenant-Colonel Trelawny the Guards 1st Battalion Major. The dragoon pointed down the road. Trelawny nodded.  

“Battalion,” Trelawny ordered. “Handle yer firelocks. Fix yer . . . bayonets.”

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

They trotted up the narrow road a company at a time, the Guards Lights, the Grenadiers and two center line companies, firelocks at the trail as practiced on Staten Island. A stench of sulfur drifting through the trees. The shooting grew louder. So too, the shouts.

In a clearing, a slapdash redoubt – felled trees across the road filled in with earth. Two iron cannon fired from the embankment; one at the Hessians advancing to their front and the other turned ‘round to meet the attack from Bedford. On the ground, a number of light infantrymen.

The Guards Light Company displayed as cool-as-you-please even as the Rebels drew down. His Majesty’s troops shall always receive the first Fire. A ragged volley. Not a man touched. The Light Bobs fired by squads after which, they dropped, some to their knees, some to their bellies, and shot as fast as they could.

Up came the grenadiers none too soon for the Rebels were loading grapeshot in a six-pounder and the light company’s gray flints began failing. With a shout, the lights and grenadiers charged. Fiends through the smoke, up and over the wall, thrusting their bayonets as they came and met with skinning knives, long handle spades and hatchets.

Elliot smashed a boy under a cannon taking cover. Three jolts with the butt ‘til his face was no more. Then a figure out of the corner of his eye, a rapid turn and his bayonet through the liver, in and out quick. And there – another escaping through the trees, a solid man the size of MacEachran. Elliot vaulted the logs. The rebel faltered and Elliot shanked his back dead center, the point thrusting out his front. He killed without gravity, like slaughtering pigs – they scream and squeal and he cuts them.   

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

The pincer joined, British and Hessians driving along the heights, crushing pockets that try to resist. They stab them repeatedly. Such this American war.

A Rout even as Billy and Lord Percy advanced with battalions yet to be engaged. The crack of volleys from all directions. The cacophony of drums. Regiments thrusting here and there. Shouts all across the ridge. One word above all – “Quickly!” “Quickly!” And Billy in a twist. Where’re the regiments? Their state? Their loss? Can Washington see them from his second line?

In his mind – Breed’s Hill. When I look to the consequence of it, in the loss of so many brave OFFICERS, I do it with horror – the SUCCESS is too dearly bought.

Lord Percy beside him in consternation – get them with a final blow.

Up rode a dragoon with his coattails flying and reigned in hard.

“General,” he huffed and caught his breath. “The Enemy’s right has collapsed. General Grant has pushed two Rebel regiments onto the bayonets of the Germans. Lord Cornwallis is pressing them from the north. The Rebels are attempting to flee across the Gowanus Swamp.”

Howe nodded with relief more than pleasure. “And General Grant?”

“Now in pursuit,” the coronet said.

“Now?”

“A strange occurrence, sir: the American general, Stirling, in order to cover their withdrawal, detached four hundred of his men, the only ones uniformed, and charged Grant and Cornwallis with the bayonet.”

“Did he?” Howe puzzled.

“An entire division with four hundred?” Percy too astounded. “With what result?”

“Grant brought every musket to bear. Cut them to pieces. But they came on again – five times no less. General Stirling’s been captured, his regiment too, what’s left.”                                                  

“And our loss?”

The coronet stammered at the question from the Commander in Chief. “I don’t know, sir, though . . . Grant’s been shot dead by a rifleman in a treetop.”

“What?”

“Colonel James Grant, sir.”

Billy, eyes wide, about to speak, when another courier galloped up, and with a harried salute, held out a folded paper. “From General Von Heister, sir.”

Howe read – another American general captured – John Sullivan, an irascible, self-serving New Hampshire man, and with him, a dispatch: Washington has brought over from New York some 6000 fresh troops that are somewhere behind their lines yet to be engaged.

Up yet another rider with a communiqué:

S I R,

ENEMY in flight. The Grenadiers and 33rd pressing the walls of their Second Line. Ammunition near Exhausted. Please re-supply at ONCE.     

                                                   C O R N W A L L I S

“No.” Howe beetling. “Call him back,” he snapped at the coronet.

“General Howe?” Lord Percy cried. Howe handed him the note.

“Call him back,” Howe repeated. “Cuyler, take this down . . .”

“But the Enemy’s in panic,” Percy exclaimed.

“And we’ve no fascines to fill the ditches. No axes to cut the abatis. No scaling ladders.”

“But the enemy is running,” Lord Percy declared. “The men are for it. Re-supply and loose them.”

“I’ll not risk the loss.” Billy emphatic. “This is what Washington wants. He hopes for nothing better than to make a stand and prevail. We charge now, we do so exposed from the front. The Army’s been up night and day and is exhausted.”

“Exhausted if they stop . . .”

“Yes, Lord Percy, but the lines will be ours at a very cheap rate by ‘regular approaches’.” 

Percy considered.

“The Rebels can’t escape,” Billy said. “Rest the men and re-supply.” He turned to Major Cuyler. “My order to all commanders: August 27th instant – the Enemy has been routed and pressed to their Second Line. Hold Your Positions.”

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

Obedience, her hand on the lip of a wagon’s bed, pulled along like a captive. She dare not let go less she sink and the column swallow her. Jaruesha, next to her with eyes fixed, her face blotchy under an American sun that beat her skin red. Nothing like it they ever felt – Brooklyn in August.

At Bedford Village the houses stood silent with open doors and shattered glass. Bullet holes in planks and posts. And Bedford Road mottled by a thousand footprints. So too in the orchards, apples crushed and grass mashed flat. A fruity bouquet with a bite of sulfur. A pretty village still, with its gambrel roofs and porches. Summer kitchens with fruit trees within steps. Clean water from your own well with a Negro servant to fetch it for you. More Liberties than back home . . . And they don’t want to pay taxes. Wouldn’t she like to pay the tax and have Negro servants by the score – rich Americans. They should stop and loot. By God, she’d do it . . . She plucked a New World pippin. Good God, how sweet. Took three more and put them in her pocket, for later and for . . . MacEachran.

“No straggling, woman,” a corporal said, man of the 49th with a too small hat of poor quality. His coat like a sack. Not the cut of Crookshank or Webb.

Where’re they now, she wondered of the brigade. Somewhere miles ahead in a great battleline with fanfare and music, the enemy fleeing. Maybe it’s over. Maybe it’s done.

Past Bedford, a soldier face down on the side of the road, hands sprawled above his head – a light infantryman from his short redcoat. Obedience stared. Yards away, another.

“Woman,” ordered a boy ensign, “see to those men.”

A constriction in her chest. “But they’re dead.”

“You a Physician?” A gentry sneer.

The first one dead to be sure – stiff with a shoulder hunched to his ear all unnatural. The other curled up with his back to her. Could be sleeping. That one she poked. He’s soft. “Soldier,” she said and walked around to face him. A reek of blood and bile. The waistcoat sopped with hands to his belly and his knees tucked. Lips cobalt and frozen in a sigh. He stared with large black eyes that the lids barely covered. She turned away, holding her nose, but peeked again. A little man, maybe thirty, with an expression of surprise by a thing that shouldn’t happen, least not to him. A soldier. A killer. A name on a roster. Someone’s son void of any anger and transformed back to the innocent he once was . . . Such was Billy Gill and felt the weight of him. She closed the Light Bob’s eyes with a cloth.

“What’s this one?” a voice above her. Two soldiers with their muskets slung. “Alive or dead?” asked one.  

“Dead,” she said, not wanting it to be so.

They chucked him into a wagon.

“Come on,” Jaruesha called. “More up ahead.”

They picked their way through the wounded, all light infantrymen. Moaning. Weeping. Jesus on their lips. Arm wounds. Leg wounds. Groins. Gave them a drink. Cleaned and bandaged them, while the 49th picked them up and put them in with the dead.

In the redoubt the loaded 6-pounder pointed down on them, a rebel slumped over its breach. Obedience climbed up. Blood pooled in the center – that iron stench, but with something else – an ooze of spirits. The dead-drunk dead. Flies covered the faces not buried in the mud. A boy lay under the cannon carriage with his face caved in. Obedience sat on the log and wept.

“Stop it.” Jaruesha tossed her a rag. “Wipe your face. You got blood on it.” She reached into her pocket for a bottle the size of her fist, took a swig, then pushed it into Obedience’s hand. “Stupid girl, what’d you think? Better them.”

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

They broke through the trees, following a trail of discarded accoutrements: muskets and powder horns, hats and coat, water tubs and cartridge boxes – tossed away on the run. Little enemy left to be seen, but they could hear the panic. No need to rush. Just as well, they could not sustain a run. But the Blood was up and they could not stop. It’s what they came for; officers discharged their fusils as if hunting quail. A fete and them immortal.

Indeed, Geordie, godlike, dispensed terrible Judgment. Someone’s blood on his bayonet, the blood of many someones, ghastly faces he saw but once and gone. That they lived and loved did not matter. They opposed him. He crushed them as a boy crushes beetles to hear them crack.   

In the distance, through the drifting smoke, the Rebels’ second line: trenches, abatis, redoubts, star-shaped forts.

Up and over, Geordie thought. Invisible Hands protected him.

A dragoon sergeant galloped up from behind and rode along their front, waving at the commanders. The companies halted. The officers conferred. Some shook their heads and pointed at the redoubts.

All down the lines drums sounded to halt.

The company commanders returned to the ranks. The rest of the brigade came up from out of the woods. Trelawny ordered they reform, and General Mathew, before the whole, ordered ‘wipe your bayonets’.

The brigades stood down, except the light infantry who skirmished with the Rebel pickets before their second line.