TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

A L L E G R O - S T A V E III

S T A V E

III

Supper below deck: hardtack and salted cod topped by flour gravy, desiccated peas and kraut. They ate the soft food first, letting the hardtack soak; its consumption demanded care. Lord help the man who broke a tooth, he could waste away. Thank God for the cod off Georges Bank; the salted beef was running low and was now so dry as to be unpalatable. At least they had beer, an old brown dog that filled the belly and killed any foul taste. Geordie sat at the foot of the mainmast nursing his second, the first he’d gulped without a breath – that it hit fast. Then he could ease back. How glorious to be still. The fleet lay at anchor – no more chopping waves – 

A staccato of laughter. Noise and smoke. Cramped space. Soldiers’ children running about, jumbling, tumbling. “Woman, mind these goddamn brats!” Messmates in their beer solving World Problems – what man’s not smarter in his beer? A philosopher? A king? A giant? A giant indeed – loud – these smart men with their titular wisdom knocking heads. The bane of liberty, Geordie thought – everyone’s opinion.

Now the women . . . Geordie watched as they smoked, drank and talked, passing the pipe so none lose their share, their postures in sympathetic rhythms. Voices – Sultry. Dusky. High-pitched. A music. Tingles the skin. Men’s are a crash – better when they don’t speak . . . Women talk . . . Talk the same thread even when they disagree, even when it’s ugly. Look at ‘em – finishing each other’s sentences:

“Why would she even marry a soldier . . .?”

“Misfortune, no doubt . . .”

“Maybe she got in the family way. . .”

“She’d have it out. . .”

“If she did, it was before the barracks; she was flat when she came. . .”

“And she’d stay for a week and then took a room. . .”  

“He didn’t want her ‘round the men . . .”

“She made him do it – taking that room on Old Pye above the baker’s . . .”

“And you would too if yours was a baker . . .”

“Mustn’t have been too good a one to join the Army . . .”

“Mustn’t been too good if he were on Old Pye . . .”

“Country bitch, I’m from Great Peter. Not all Poor’s bad . . .”

“He was bad . . .”

“Not like that devil . . .”

“Devil is right . . .”

“He weren’t bad . . .”

“Who joins the Army what has a good trade? . . .”

“The Coldstream panache suited him – Nulli Secundas . . .”

“A trade on Old Pye ain’t no trade . . .”

“Nulli Secundas I say . . .” 

“Nulli Se-Cunni . . .”

They laughed. Five of them, one missing – Mrs. Gill . . . And there, Elliot, across the deck, staring at Obedience, like a wolf on a rabbit, tucked in the corner with Gill’s third issue.

Geordie scowled. 

“That biscuit?” Crotty asked. “Going to finish it?” 

Elliot, on his feet, lumbered toward Obedience.

Geordie handed Tim the bowl. 

“What are you looking at,” asked Tim. 

Elliot beside her and bent to her ear, Obedience, stone-like as his lips moved, but recoiled when he touched her shoulder. He rose.

Geordie up. Not that Elliot noticed.

“Where you going?” Tim concerned.

Not that anyone noticed.

“Don’t.”

If ever a body wanted escape – Obedience working the lapel of Gill’s coat as Elliot walked away . . .

“Ma’am . . . Ma’am . . .” Geordie approached.

She startled. Who the hell is this one? Am I a Spectacle or something?

“Ye have my Sympathies . . .”

She looked him up and down.

“Though we’ve not had introductions,” he fumbled, “– however I may assist you.” 

Not a crease in her expression.

“And not to worry, ma’am . . . No obligations.”

“Thank you.” Perfunctory and Flat.

“I didnae know Mr. Gill, but heard he was a good soldier.”

Her eyebrow raised.

“I hope, in time, your heart will mend,” he said. 

“I did not hold affection for my husband.” 

A cock of his head. “A pity – for both of you.”

She blinked.

“Then, your servant, ma’am.” But as he turned, “You seem a woman that deserves better. God keep ye.” 

“What did you do?” Tim scolded.

What did he do – his heart beating. He looked at her and their eyes met.

A burst of laughter – the “Wives” in their Beer. 

“Enough of this,” said Grace Price, a thick-boned Welsh woman and called, “Mrs. Gill, that won’t do. Mrs. Gill . . . Obedience, you come eat.”

Obedience to her knees, Elliot watching, and scooted to the women. Grace handed her a bowl of brown kraut, its stench sickening.

Obedience mashed it with the spoon.

“Don’t fiddle.”

“I can’t eat this.”

“You must.” Grace’s nasal Gog grew thicker. “Armies on campaign have starved.”

“Take it and be thankful,” said Jaruesha Tree, a pale, hawkish woman who in youth had been pretty.

“You must think,” Grace said. “You may ship home in a month or two, but fortune can change and not for the better. You can’t count on a Widow’s Pension. It ain’t enough, my dear.”

“What are you saying?”

“You need security,” Bess Waddley said, a skinny East-Ender come from Great Peter with a flat face and dirty blond hair.

“Don’t we all?”

“Protection,” Grace said. 

“A husband,” Bess said.

Obedience mashed the kraut harder. “I can’t eat this.”

“Lose your teeth then,” Jaruesha said.

“When do we go ashore?” Obedience asked.

“After the men. Whenever that is. Could be weeks,” Grace said.

“Weeks?”

“That’s campaign,” Mrs. Tree quipped.

“They’ll let us ashore for exercise,” Grace said. “But not with the men. They’ll be in camp. We’ll join them eventually.”

“In camp?” Obedience said alarmed. “I’ll sleep in camp?”

“Green as grass,” Mrs. Tree said.

“With your husband’s squad in the tent back with the equipment between the bell and the rear poll,” Bess Waddley said.

Obedience paled. “Colonel Osborn won’t have some family take me in?”

“As if he’s not spending enough on you already,” Jaruesha Tree said.

“Stop it,” Grace scolded. “If you can earn enough cash, you can get yourself a room. You can both wash and nurse. That might do.”

“Become a Sutler of Drink,” Bess Waddley said. “Make yourself a fortune. I’ll help. I know the distilling of Spirits. You won’t need to go back then. Make your living here.”

“What am I to do?” her voice rising.

“Marry.”

“Marry?”

Jaruesha huffed.

“Don’t you go on, Mrs. T,” Grace said.

“You know what I think.”

“Have you no care?” Grace said.

“Seeing others plight galls me with her.”

“What’ve I done to you?” Obedience bridled. “What’ve I done to her? My husband’s dead.”

“You might have paid him for the favour.”

“How dare you?”

“Actress!”

“Mrs. Tree . . .” Grace said.

“A single woman’s trouble, especially her. Why don’t you marry Elliot? He wants you as anyone can see, and he’ll have you one way or another.”

“Enough of that,” Grace said. “Marry – yes, but not that devil.”

“And why not?” Jaruesha spat. “He was Gill’s mate. No surprise for him about her.”

“Marry and open a canteen,” Bess Waddley said. “You can live away from camp and your husband and make a fortune as well. The army will fight and you’ll never see him.”

“I’m going back like Colonel Osborn said.”

“And in the meantime tempt our men.”

“I tempt no one.”

“‘Says the Whore’ – Coldstream bitch.”

Obedience sprang with the wood spoon cocked.

“Yo-ho,” Bess Waddley sounded. “Mr. Stoke’s Amphitheatre!”

Soldiers hooted.

“Enough, Mrs. Tree,” Grace cried. John Price glared at her.

“What you causing with that bloody mouth?” Tom Tree shouted at Jaruesha from across the deck.

“Give ‘er one, Lady Barrymore!” someone called.

Geordie a coil – if Jaruesha swings, he’ll knock her down . . . and he’ll have to take on Tom Tree – that’d be a match . . . Then a court-martial and flogging. A goddamn flogging, but he’ll act, knock that bitch’s teeth out, that’s what he’ll do, and his own knocked out for it. Such chivalry. And for what? . . . Mrs. Gill. See, they’re fighting over her already.

Jaruesha, red as a beet, ran to the hatch.

“Christ almighty,” groaned Tom Tree and got up to follow.

“What did I do?” Obedience reeling.

“Noth’n,” Bess Waddley said. “She don’t need much to be a temper. Mr. Waddley says cause Tom Tree don’t swive her no more. Why he’d ever want to?”

Grace squinted at Bess. “You know better.” She patted Obedience’s arm. “New folk unsettle Mrs. Tree.”

“Don’t they now – a real ‘C’,” Bess Waddley said. “And Tom Tree’s prick is no grenadier.”

“Talk like that gets you drummed out of camp. Don’t be surprised when it happens,” Grace said. “Just a step from a camp-follower now.”

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

Topside and a gothic fog Black and Thick to lose one’s bearings, swallowing the deck, the fleet and the harbour. Excellent for concealment. And Obedience groping for a corner when before her nose a lamp appeared. Below it, the gunwale and the bay slapping against the hull, both invisible. She eased against the rail. For all she knew the ship could be floating up to heaven as it rolled. Did she feel it lifting? No sight. Only sound – voices through the open hatch, a creak of a hawser. More voices from the ships abeam. And Obedience sat, she too invisible. 

A click of hobnails. Deliberate. Searching.

“Go away,” she said huskily – that, or scream – scream and scream until all turned out. 

The footsteps halted.

“Go away.”

“It’s me.”

“Who’s ‘me’?”

And into the lamplight – MacEachran.

A suck of breath. Hand to her mouth, shaking her head. She stared. “What’s your name, grenadier?”

“George MacEachran . . . ‘Geordie’, though I was told my mother called me Deorsa.”

“‘Deorsa’?”

“George in the Gaelic.”

The Gaelic! Who gives a fuck about the Gaelic? She regarded this . . . puppy. “Obedience,” she said.

“I know.”

Her sardonic nod.  

“Unusual,” he said without propriety. “Your name –”

“The GREAT Awakening,” her sarcastic remark.  

“I see.”

Do you now? “Come closer to the light.” She’d not noticed him before – one face out of a hundred, all the same and wanting the same . . . “Well MacCheeshRan . . . What for it?”

Before he could answer, another click of hobnails, soft-like and secret.

“Who’s there?” Geordie called.  

Silence.

And walked off.

Obedience shuddered. 

“Ma’am?”

The fog grew thicker. The black, blacker.

“Mrs. Gill?”

Like she disappeared. 

“Obedience –

“Here.” Her voice in the dark.   

He eased next to her and touched the hem of her petticoat.

“I’ll not weep,” she said.

“You have already. Such grief – it shook the ship.”

“That was fear.”

“No fear now?”

A pause – “I’d crumble.”

Geordie mused. “My mother,” he said, “died when I was three. They said I wept for days,

I don’t remember. I feel no loss. Though I think I remember her face when I hear a boy crying and I wonder – what I’d done to make her go ‘way? I think I hear her voice sometimes. The taptoo sounded. “. . . We should go.”

“Not down there.” Emphatic. 

“Not to worry,” he said.

“I can’t.”

He touched her arm.

“I can’t.”

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

An opening of the eyes and the first sight the other’s stare. Had they been that way all night, their faces inches apart? The bell tolled Five and the fifers would come up to wake the company. The Officer of the Watch would spot them. Would’ve spotted them already tucked against the gunwale if not for the mystical fog, now thinning. A tired and grim-faced guard on the hatched stared at them – Tim Crotty.

“Get below,” he said, “before the watch changes.”

Stupid, he hissed as they darted by.