TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XXXV

S T A V E

XXXV

“Get him up!” Jack Waddley cried as Tim hoisted Geordie piggyback; they nearly toppled from laughing.

Down the length of the warehouse’s second story, a First Guardsman hefted his mate in the same manner. The rows of tables had been cleared away and the men and women lined the cavern laughing and shouting, pipes in their mouths and cups in their fists. Halfway the length on either side were five barrels sitting on end as seats for the Honoured Guests. The room dim despite the many tallow candles and roaring fireplaces at each end. Clouds of pipe smoke descended from the ceiling, softening the stained and damaged walls. Outside, a night wind howled, battering the windows with frozen rain; cold seeped through the joints of the casements. But none felt it, warmed by a fine supper and casks of ale; General Mathew had dined tonight with the Company and paid for it out his own purse. A great Honour – he and Colonels West Hyde, Garth, Howard and Gordon. Captain Madan came too, visiting his old Company. “Captain Madan!” the men cried as if some favoured Uncle not seen in years – once a Grenadier, always a Grenadier. The officers had sat upon a dais at the room’s far end, laughing and drinking – Theatre for the men, who on their best Behavior, smiled on cue, laughed on cue. Indeed, no rouse; they were greatly honoured by the presence of their brigadier, Edward Mathew, a stern customer. If he should smile at you, you felt blessed. The officers took their turn to toast each Guards regiment. Toasted the Prince-royals, her Majesty the Queen, and in between each, a Toast to the King. Each recounted a mission he’d led with the grenadiers, making sure to identify a least one private by name and have the man stand to receive Honours. The men sang their regimental songs and stood numerous times to sing God Save the King. At 8:00, General Mathew thanked them for their Good Company, as he and the officers retired to grander pursuits. But he left to them, with his complements, four kegs of rum and ale.    

Into the center of the room marched the grenadier fifers and two drummers from Company #4. They presented their instruments as if on parade and played the ‘Country Dance’, the drummers tapping their sticks against one another among the beats with a flourish. The men cheered as if they’d never seen it before, and with that, the musicians, with another refrain, marched in slow time up and down the room, every step a perfect glide despite their advancing Inebriation.

A Third Guards piper then stood at the door and piped in a line of soldiers in Drag, clownish beauties with white painted faces and exaggerated moves. They divided into two groups and mounted the opposing row of barrels as the crowd whistled and hooted – “Brigade Wives” and “Women of the Town”. At the center of it all was the Queen of Love and Beauty who took her seat in the middle of the row of barrels – Elliot in stays, petticoats and a turban.

Private Willcock stepped into the center of the room and banged the tip of a sergeant’s stick against the wide pine floors. “Hear ye!  Hear ye!” he cried. “See before ye the most excellent assembly of Prostitutes and Wives, abounding with accomplishment and virtue . . . each particular in their way.” The room laughed. “When a Johnny’s randified and in need of a good Swiving, shall he go to the riverfront to sail on a Frigate, or shall he wait till his mates are pop-skulled and sooth his passion in the warm arms of a willing Wife? Vocation or Avocation?

The professional’s Experience or Passion of a Whore?”

“Experience!”

“Passion!”

“Let it be said both Excel. But which is better? The Public or Private sphere?  Commerce or Camaraderie? Wide and broad is the professional passage – one may go in and out as many times you please so long as ye pay the Toll. But small and tight is the private Gate, deep with gushing mystery, a passion the likes ye may never have again. But your goose is cooked air you’re caught, or worse, she might never go away, or worse still, her husband might bid ye take her!” Another laugh. “We gather now on this field of honour to settle the oldest of disputes, to determine once and for all by the clash of bloody arms, which is the Better Bed!” 

A cheer arose and Willcock banged the stick so hard it wobbled.

“Break that bloody stick . . .” Sergeant Webb shouted. “Bang your prick against the floor.” 

“Tis just as long,” Willcock replied without a beat in character. “I, the Herald, come to announce that the Goodly Wives are Fair, evidenced by their gracious Queen,” he nodded to Elliot who fanned his face with an ostrich feather. “Would not any one of us lay our hearts down for Wives such as these? Would not one of us out of the window fly and risk the fall to have cuckolded their foolish husbands? Where would great bastards be if not for erring of great wives? Ten to one I would match skillful doxies to the single wandering Wife. She takes you on for the joy of it, but the Girl of the Town, her fire is stoked only by the cully’s Purse. To one it’s Work, to the other, a Pleasure. And if a wife is true and has all the skill, the husband is a happy man indeed. What need has he to wander? Accomplished wives and famous histories – Helen, Isolda, Guinevere . . . Mrs. Loring!” Hoots and shouts. “Name one doxy that inspired a sonnet?  Provoked a duel? Moved a nation to war? None, I say. Great wives and Great Doings. She is what she is by her very Nature. She is lauded and held high, and when she descends, it’s climactic to behold. The great wives have paid with their heads, while we merely fine the working girl. A prostitute is one thing, but O’ for a Great Whore. So to defend the wives and all their charms, I give to you their champions - Nos pallens ut singulus – The Knights of the Wifely Honey Pot!”

Up went a cheer as five pairs of Coldstream and Third Guardsmen cantered piggyback in circle with Geordie among them on Tim’s back.

“What Ho?” cried a First Guards private from the room’s other end. “I, Herald of the Knights of the Frigot Well Rigged . . .”

“Knights of the Farting Crackers,” shouted a Third Guard.

The herald huffed and raised his hand. “Knights of the Frigot Well Rigged proclaims the virtues of Hermes, god of Commerce. Great Zeus was never more hobbled than by his wife, Hera. A wife is a veil of troubles. Though she is beautiful to behold on the first night, indeed, the husband is blind. She is beautiful on the second night. On the third . . . but then one day she begins to speak, and low, down falls the Bride and up pops the Wife, and nothing in the world can make the Bitch Happy. No man is master who has himself a Wife. He is a Prometheus. So, I, Herald of the Frigot Well Rigged proclaim no girl is more true as the Lady of the Evening. She is there regardless of her Mood and performs a fair day’s work for a fair day’s wage and she does not bait when the man walks away. Good wives should thank her for taking off a Burden. And as to histories, I cannot believe my ears – no courtesans to move nations? Commerce is the Soul of Nations; London would totter without General Jack and his Covent Garden Ladies. Who can dispute Lavinia, Duchess of Bolton?  In literature – Fanny! The prostitute is Disciplined and Industrious, Jenny Diver ‘in command of the passions uncommon in a woman!’ If a fellow keeps his head, he is safe with such a woman and may swive day and night. He pays. He comes. He goes. No conflict of needs. Such a Contractarian is no threat to the wife, for neither she nor the cully wish her Permanence. Beware the whoring wife; she would get ye killed. So, in defense of freedom and commerce, and the hallowed halls of Holy Ground, Ladies,” he bowed to the Prostitutes, “your Champions – the Knights of the Frigot Well Rigged!” 

And galloping into the center came five pairs of First Guardsmen while the 1st platoon men broke into song, the warehouse ringing with their voices:

                        We shall lead more happy lives

                        By getting rid of brats and wives

                        That scold and bawl both night and day –

                        Over the Hills and far away . . .

                        Over the Hills and O’er the Main

                        To Flanders, Portugal and Spain

                        King George commands and we’ll obey

                        Over the Hills and far away . . .

2nd Platoon answered with their own song from their side of the room:

                        Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen

                        Now to the widow of fifty

                        Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean

                        And here’s to the house-wife that’s thrifty

                        Let the toast pass,

                        Drink to the lass

                        I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass . . .

And then both sides sang the second verse, waving their cups and swaying while the fifers and drummers picked up the tune.

                        Here’s the charmer whose dimples we prize

                        Now to the damsel with none, Sir,

                        Here’s to the girl with the pair of blue eyes,

                        And to the nymph with but one, Sir,

                        Let the toast pass,

                        Drink to the lass

                        I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass . . .

                        Here’s to the maid with bosom of snow

                        Now to her brown as berry

                        Here’s to the wife with a  face full of woe

                        And here to the girl that is merry . . .

The windows rattled and ears rang.

                        Let her be clumsy or let her be slim,

                        Young or ancient I care not a feather,

                        So fill the bumper, nay, to the brim

                        And let us e’en toast them together  . . .

                        Let the toast pass,

                        Drink to the lass

                        I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass . . .

The room erupted with a cheer.

Willcock raised his hands. “So well we sing the praises of Eve and it is the Knight of the Wifely Honey Pot who defends the higher honour.” He turned to the First Guards Herald. “While your nymphs retiring ‘pull out their glass eye, their false teeth and cat-pissed plumpers!’”

“‘Honey Pot’ indeed!” replied the First Guardsman. “That pot’s held no honey since the Wedding Bed!”

“Tis a clean pot . . . your man pissithith . . .”  He snickered trying to say the line. “. . . pissith iron nails!”

“FLOGGING-Cully. Down I throw the gauntlet to thee.” He tossed a worn sergeant’s glove on the floor.

Willcock picked it up. “It shall be decided in the lists by a Pas de Arms. Knights – receive your weapons.” 

Geordie took up a pillow as did the other men.

“Three passes for the tilt, then meet in the center.” The drummers played a roll.

Geordie and Tim cantered back to their end and the room shouted for the honour of the prostitutes and wives. Geordie shouted too, sounding drunk, but not so drunk as he pretended. He watched Obedience out of the corner of his eye as she and Bess leaned against a wall. Like a jester, he would try to make her laugh. He must make her laugh for they were back in the barracks; Hyde had been promoted major and the grenadiers given to Captain Garth. Geordie was dismissed back to company, a proper thing to do, bat-men and servants should never be grenadiers.   

He caught her gaze and she feigned a smile, but then she looked at Elliot with his bloody red lips and Glasgow grin. She cringed.    

The drums rolled and on the last hit, the knights charged piggy-back and struck each other as they passed in the center. Up went a cheer. At the room’s far side, Geordie remounted with a better grip. Again the lines rushed and bashed each other’s heads.  

“Come on, Honey Pot,” the gallery shouted, “down the louts!”  

“Do it, Honey Pot!” Bess cried and poked Obedience with an elbow.

“Come on, Honey Pot,” Obedience’s half-hearted call.

Geordie backhanded a Sir Frigot, knocking horse and rider down. 2nd platoon howled and Obedience too could not help but cheer, but kept tabs on Elliot. She marked the door and her distance from it; Geordie or no, she’ll not be trapped. Near the door slumped in a corner, Jaruesha, drunk.

Knights and horses fell and the two senior knights squared off – Geordie and Tim and a pair of First Guardsmen. Pillows hit fast and unravelled. The heralds jumped in on cue. The combatants huffed and puffed, Geordie’s face swollen and Tim’s nose bleeding.    

Willcock raised his hands. “We, the Heralds of the Knights of the Wifely Honey Pot and the Knights of the Frigot Well Trimmed, do avow and declare both Wives and Prostitutes are equally Fair and their honour valiantly upheld by their Champions. We do well to defend on a field of honour those virtues we most prize! So let us now partake in their charms.”

The Wives and Prostitutes descended from their dais and took their place next to their knight – Elliot beside Geordie. Geordie bowed to Elliot’s curtsey and took his raised hand. He felt it, the clamminess thick like unholy oil, blood in the cracks and flesh beneath the nails. But on Geordie’s hand something too at which Elliot bristled – Obedience.

A fiddler played a jig. They danced to clapping.

Obedience watched. Pull away, she commanded Geordie, feeling herself at the nexus of their fingers. She took some beer and drank it down. She would take another and another, but looked at Jaruesha unconscious in the corner, a wet stain on her petticoats.

Enough of this, she thought, aching from the tobacco smoke in her nose and lungs.

She left, but it followed into the hallway. Music vibrated the walls. The floor bounced from the dancing. As she took the stairs, she turned with a premonition. Elliot? She bolted up to the barracks room. In the dark, she counted the cots with a touch of her hand; theirs was at the end. She fumbled in Geordie’s knapsack for a candle, which she lit with a flint and steel and waved it about to see if anyone was there.

No one.

On the cot, she wrapped in the armour of the blanket. Music pulsed through the floor, lulling her eyes to close.

A creak of the floorboards.

She blew out the candle. Rain, like a hum of wary voices. And when certain she was alone, she lay back.

I’m no whore.    

She marched with Grace in the dream along the hot road, the baggage train stretching for miles. Geordie and Billy Gill walked side by side before her. My Men – shaking her head. The column halted near a lake. She turned to Geordie. He kissed her. She pulled off her clothes and ran into the water. Geordie followed. They stood naked, neck deep. In the weightlessness, she curled her legs around him.   

“Out of the water,” a corporal ordered, the column leaving. If she not hurry, she’d be left.  What of it? Geordie dressed and walked to the road. On her back she floated, eyes closed, imagining the lake as an ocean. The column marched away. And with that, the lake changed, indeed – an Ocean and Obedience atop its depths. How deep the waters and in it, Creatures. She swam with all her might, her feet milling to find a bottom and Geordie gone. Then, by will, she made the bottom happen and again, by will, launched onto the bank. She grabbed her clothes, the hot sun drying her. And there – the column in the thermals; Geordie nowhere in sight, but there was Grace, solid, dependable Grace astride a wagon. Shots and Grace’s head exploded. Another volley. “Get under here,” Jaruesha shouted from beneath the wagon. They hunkered down. “You’ll have to remarry,” Jaruesha said.

Obedience saw the legs of soldiers running about. Officers shouted over the roll of volleys.

“Two like creatures,” Jaruesha said.

A pair of legs stopped and the fellow bent down . . .

Obedience awoke and turned over, Geordie next to her. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

“Is it over?” Sounds in the room below, but no fiddle music.

“They’re still at it.”

“Then why aren’t you there?”

“You’re up here.”

“You’re the chief knight”

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone’s drunk.”

“And him?”

“What of him?”

“What of him?” Her voice incredulous.

He squeezed her fingers. “He is what he is.”   

“I was dreaming. Good you’re here.”

“I’ll always be here.” 

“I want my own house.”

“On my wages?”

“I’ll find a way.” Her voice determined..

“This so bad? . . .”

A crash in the corridor. A bang on the wall. A grunt, followed by a woman’s cry. “Bloody drunk!” Tom Tree. A slap. “Bloody bitch cunt!” Jaruesha retching. “God,” Tom Tree, “Goddamn you.” Her drunken voice followed: “Don’t hit me anymore.” “Goddamn you,” he moaned. Then footsteps down the stairs.

“He’s killed her!” Obedience said. “My God! Go see!”

They found her in her vomit, passed out, bleeding from nose and mouth. Geordie held a candle to her open lips. The flame flickered. Obedience brushed back her hair. “Jaruesha . . . Jaruesha . . . can you hear me?”

“That’s my wife.” Tom Tree from the dark behind them. “Get away. You’ve no right . . .”

“If she dies, I’ll see you hanged.”

“Agh, get away. She ain’t dead.”

Geordie took her arm. “She may well be if she don’t get to Hospital.”

“Back away MacEachran. This ain’t your business . . .”

“You make it our business,” Obedience said.

Tom Tree with a practiced lift. “I’ll get her there . . . And I’ll take my stripes.” He turned to Obedience. “And you deserve yours too. She told me about you.”