TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ADAGIO - STAVE XXIV

S T A V E

XXIV

Obedience with a fine stretch and Geordie against her naked hip. She watched him sleep. How beautiful in the morning light. How beautiful her thoughts had made him.  

A click of the door latch.

“You two in there!” Mrs. Edmonds on the door with her shoulder. And Geordie up to pull on his breeches as it door banged open.

“Thieves!” Mrs. Edmonds cried, her face beetling. “My wood and straw!” She pushed past and kicked the ticking. “Pay for what you stole or Colonel Hyde shall hear of this!” 

Geordie slapped a shilling in her hand. “Can’t have used more than that.”

She scowled. “So you think. I’ll lay the rest on Hyde’s bill.”

Geordie gave her five more pence, which she hefted.

“Suppose I can’t let you freeze . . . being a Christian woman, but it’d be no more than the rest of us.” She scuttled about with no good purpose and out the door.

“Highwayman!” Geordie cried. “For 1&5 we’re going to take more.” He stoked the oven.  

Obedience rearranged the bed and Geordie pressed her back. She stroked his calf with her naked toe. Down fell his breeches. Off with her chemise. They played, drunk on each other, and lounged content on their backs, fingers touching like waving grass.    

“Shall we buy each other a present?” she asked. “To remember this day?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think I shall buy you a clasp knife.”

“And what should I do with a clasp knife?”

“You’d cut nibs on quills and then write my name everyday – ‘Obedience MacEachran’. I love my name – Obedience MacEachran. Write it over and over in ‘running hand’ with great Italian loops – Obedience MacEachran.” She scrolled the air with her finger. “And write me letters proclaiming your passion, that you’ll die if I don’t come to you.”

“I shall.”

“I’ll refuse and make you plead . . . Fervently. I’ll have pity and you may come to me.”

“Will you?”

“You’ll suffer, Geordie MacEachran,” and she paused at its truth. “Deorsa,” she called him. “Love me – Always.” He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll be good for you.” He kissed her naked breast. “Now what shall you buy me?”

“What do you want?”

“You pick. It must come from you.”

“A yard of Mechlin lace? A new petticoat?” He thought. “A tortoiseshell comb for that copper hair? – A band. I’ll buy you a band. A Celtic knot to show you’re tied to me.”

“That’s what I want.” And kissed his hand. “Can you find one in Philadelphia?”

“I’ll have it made.”

“What else?”

“‘What else’ she says . . . A gift for us as man and wife.”

“What shall we get? A pound of tea?”

“A tavern supper of beef, bread and beer.”

“And then a Play. We must see a Play – Billy’s Strolling Players.”

“Cock fight! Turn a guinea into ten.”

“No, silly – a Play. We’ll be on the town – a Gentleman and his Lady.”

“What will Mrs. Tree have to say?”

“Ugh – She can pickle in the bottle. Dead drunk for tuppence. Why do you think she works so hard?”

“A hollow leg.”

“Don’t spoil it with Jaruesha Tree,” she said. “I’m away. They’re so jealous except Grace. She’s glad for me. I want to buy her something. A bar of lavender soap.” Geordie nodded. “And something for Tim.”

“Tim?”

“He’s your friend,” she admonished. “Your file partner.”

“Doesn’t mean I give him a bloody gift. He’ll think me Queer.”

“Buy him a ribbon,” she laughed.

“A ribbon for his pretty neck.”

She jumped off the mattress and grabbed her clothes. “Come on.” 

They walked from the summer kitchen as from Society Hill, arm-in-arm through the walkway and onto the avenue of America’s Great City – money in their pocket and could do what they will. What Richness! What Liberty! The heart’s Object found! A rich man must have his Luxuries – their Luxuries are Enjoyed. Just another day to him – to them, a thousand pearls. They owned the City and all commitments Ceased.

They walked, the cold snapped on their skin. “Blow a breath,” she said. As Geordie exhaled, Obedience did too. They mingled. “We copulate with our very breaths.” Again. “There – on you,” she said. He blew. “In you,” he said. “On you.” “In you.” “On you.” Passersby perturbed, and them, laughing, falling into step arm-in-arm on Holiday.  

They came upon the LONDON COFFEE HOUSE, a grand old Shoppe on Front Street with a covered porch, Men of Business trundling in and out, Tory mostly if they had any sense.

“Shall we?” Geordie’s daring Ask.   

“We shall. I’ve never been.” 

“Nor have I.” 

“I should think you had.”

“I’m no Politician. No Poet either.” 

“A doctor, dear husband.” 

“Doctor?” 

“Doctor of War.” 

He laughed. “Of the American College.” 

“A Degreed Man – they cannot refuse us.” 

They entered, an admission of four pence, which they had in their own coin and need not break a guinea. “What’s cash for but to spend,” Geordie said. “The Lord forgive us if we’re not broke by day’s end.”   

Coffee from a bar in great porcelain cups, absent the taste of tin to which Obedience and Geordie were accustomed. They took it with milk and sugar, sitting at a long table filled with men; in America – no unescorted Females, only Business Men in their papers, pretending not to notice a very comely woman. The lucky Regular. Upon the wall a great placard:

“Rules and Orders of the Coffee House”

1.   All men are equal in this establishment; none

need give his place up to a ‘finer’ man.

2.  The man who swears must forfeit twelve pence.

3.  The man who starts a quarrel shall give each man

a dish t’atone for his sin.

    4.  Maudlin lovers are forbidden.

    5.  Sacred Things must be excluded from Conversation.

    6.  Games of Chance are Prohibited.

    7.   Profane Scripture, saucily wrong Affairs of State and

          irreverent Tongues are Prohibited.

8.  NO Rebels or Traitors allowed here.

Next to the house rules, an extract from Pope:

For lo! the board with cups and spoon is crown'd,
The berries crackle, and the mills turn round;
On shining altars of Japan they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China's earth receives the smoaking tide:
At once they gratify their scent and taste,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
Strait hover round the Fair her airy band;
Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd,
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd,
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.
Coffee (which make the politician wise,
And see thro' all things with his half-shut eyes)
Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain,
New stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.

At table’s end, a Bible and several well-worn pipes so Tobacco may sooth as well as Scripture. One may need it, for scattered about were gazettes and broadsides heralding the Burgoyne Disaster, the French coming in, and the fashionable parties and the loose morals of Philadelphia girls; an officer’s recent suicide from numerous gambling debts – Opinion, Lies and Scandal – a vibrant Free Press in the best British tradition; a man might pay tax, but can speak his mind in Print.

Obedience grabbed the Book and opened to Deuteronomy. “‘When men strive together one with another, and the Wife of one drawth near for to deliver her Husband out of the hand of him that smiteth him and putteth for her hand to seize him by his Secrets – ’” Her wicked laugh.

“My Great Awakening.” She wheedled with her finger. “I know your Secrets, MacEachran.”

The Merchantmen agog.

Again she read: “‘When a man hath taken a new wife, he shall not go out to war, neither shall he be charge with any business: but he shall be free at home one year, and shall cheer up his wife which he hath taken.’”

Geordie smiled. “Who’s this girl? How well she knows Scripture.”

“The Devil knows Scripture,” spat an old Tory.

“Enough, Mrs. M. or we’ll be kicked out.”

“Let them do it. I’ve the jitters and must be about.” She downed her second cup. “Shall we run a race? I can beat you, my Hector. I could run for miles – ” 

Geordie hid behind a paper, which she plucked from his hands when a banner caught her eye: Woman of the Town found dead by violent hands –  She scanned it: “‘– a Consequence of Profession . . . broken neck . . . floating in the river . . . one Jenny Rose . . . wharf dock Lady . . .” 

A chill across her shoulders. ‘Consequence of Profession’, she justified. ‘We’re the agents of our lives,’ her father often said. ‘and invite Consequence to our consternation.’ She took Geordie’s hand. I’m not her. She read the clip again and thought: the ‘swive’ undid her – wrong swive, wrong time. Poor Jenny Rose – had to happen . . . That it not happen to me.

She kissed his knuckles. “Let’s go.”

On the corner, in a crook between buildings, sat an amputee, a foul crutch across his lap. He held his cup, impervious to the cold. Many passed him without looking. Some scowled – a rebel obviously, maimed in the war. Had he two good legs, he’d be plundering their property. Probably did and then laughed when a Loyalist was tarred and feathered. Where’s the constable to haul him in and pillory his one scabby leg?

“A penny for a comrade, brother?” the man’s inebriated croak.

Geordie nodded. “How’d you lose it?”

“You took it, brother, at Long Island and while I was down, you stabbed me in the groin.”

“We did, dear fellow.”

“Don’t blame ye. I’d a done it too.”

“Blame your politics, brother.”

The vet with a near toothless grin. “Not mine . . . I thought soldiering would be fun.”

“Was it?”

“I was a fool for a shilling.”

“You drug me halfway ‘round the world for it.”

“And a fine man you are.” Geordie put a penny in his cup. “Thank-ee.”

“Give him another,” Obedience said.

The veteran smiled, his blotchy face cracking. “A pretty lady.”

“Give him another.” She nudged Geordie’s arm. He threw in two.

“God bless thee. I’ll keep ye in my prayers and I’ll drink to you and your charitable wife. Why, let’s drink together to my lost leg and the loss of yours when it happens. A drink to you. And to good King George,” the veteran shouted.

“You’ll be in gaol. The constable will be along.”

“Then give a man a hand.”

Geordie helped him up and they stood face to face as they might in battle, the man’s grip still strong. Their eyes darkened, just for a moment.

“What’s your name, pretty lady?”

“Obedience.”

“‘Obedience’?” he guffawed and patted Geordie’s shoulder. “Lucky man. You’ll fair well when your leg is gone. Just don’t let them stab your fly.”

“Can we take you out of the cold?” Geordie asked.

The veteran looked at him with drunken eyes. “Why do you care, brother?”

Geordie glanced at Obedience. “Love.”

“I’ve got love – love for Jesus,” he slurred. “A Methodist told me so. A fellow named, Asbury – brought me to the Lord over pints of beer. Know ye the Lord?” He wobbled, eyes rolling back and he blinked to reset them.

“Where you want to go, brother?”

“Ye do. I know ye do.”

“Where?”

The veteran waved his hand. “Here – here’s good enough . . . Wait-wait-wait. Hand me the crutch. Come with me to Helltown; we’ll drink to when they saw your leg off.”

A memory of spent powder in Geordie’s nose, that, and hot gunmetal. He tasted it as he would tearing open a cartridge. His gums throbbed. Then the crack of a ball against Dan Burrow’s head.

“Geordie . . . Geordie . . . Deorsa . . .”

He turned, sweat on his forehead and the veteran hobbling away on his crutch. “Here! Here!” “Get him!” “That one! That one!” “On your right!” “Stick that bastard!  Stick him!”   

She touched his brow and he threw up a hand. Touched it again, running her fingers down his temple and leaned into him.

War cries in his head.

“Come back,” she whispered and kissed his ear.

Once more street sounds and his first move to march her down an alley and press her against a wall. He threw up her skirts. Do it. Her hand to his breeches. A desperate rutting.    

Neither climaxed and stopped from nothing left, leaning against each other like two cards.

“You all right?” she asked.

He nodded. “Did I hurt you?” 

“No. Still love me?” 

His eyes narrowed.  

She took his hand. “I’ll buy you that present.”

The avenue bustled: men of business hustling about, labourers at open bulkheads, women of Property, craftsmen, tradesmen, Free Men of Colour, Negro and indentured slaves; Lenape in trading blankets, come to town to buy and sell; dragoons with sabres drawn, patrolling; street sweepers shoveling horseshit into tumblers. Carts. Sedan chairs. Gentlemen and Ladies. Gaggles of the Unemployed. Typical Philadelphia, which turned and watched as Obedience walked by – There’s an Actress.

Indeed, on the corner of Market and High, theatre placards posted on another coffee house door. Obedience pulled Geordie over.

“No more coffee,” he said. “The next drink is beer.”

“Look silly – a play. We must go.”

“Boxes and Pit a dollar?” His Scots frugality coming out. “South Street! That’s out in the country.”

“You said you’d buy me a gift . . .”

“It doesn’t lend much more of the day.”

“Mr. MacEachran . . .”

“Never been to a play.”

“Deorsa . . .”

“And my beef and beer?”

“You can still have your beef and beer.”

“We’ll have to break another guinea.”

“Then it should break.”

Geordie read the bill. “Well, it’s for charity . . . When I leave you a widow because I lost my leg . . .”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t say that –”

“I’ll get the tickets.”

As she waited under an awning, before her – a makeshift platform with different placards.  

                  T O   b e   s o l d   b y   p u b l i c   V e n d u e

                          on Saturday the 18th Instant, at Twelve o’Clock,

    a likely Negroe Boy and Wench, Brother & Sister,

fit for Town or Country Business, can Cook, lay Cloth,

and wait on Table, and can do every Part of hard Labour.

The Boy understands the Care of Horses Perfectly.

Both have had Smallpox and Measles; they are sold for

no Fault. Put up at One Hundred Pounds, and not under.

 Fifty pounds apiece, she thought. Am I worth so much? What might I fetch? What would Geordie pay for me? . . . Everything.

“We’re in the Galley,” he cried, coming out and waving the tickets. “You should’ve seen the clerk’s face at a Private Man like some Gentleman . . . For you, my dear.”   

“And now for you.”  

They walked to 4th Street and then several blocks until she stopped before a boxy red brick church.

“What’s this?” he asked incredulously.

“Old St. Mary’s.”

“And?”

“We go inside.”

“You’re Papist?”

She opened the door without an answer and therein, a scent of spermaceti and the chamber parsed into colours from stained glass. Pews creaked as they passed by and air stirred with marble saints watching. She pulled him down a side colonnade and at the end on a pedestal, a statue of Our Lady of Grace.  

“Give me a shilling,” she said as Mary stared down with open hands.

“A shilling?”

“The King bought you for a shilling. Give one to me.” She dropped it in the box at Mary’s feet and lit a candle with a taper. “I buy your soul and commend it to her keeping. I’m bound to you as long as the candle burns. And we will be for a time what we should be.”

He looked at her. “Haven’t I had you?”

Her brow creased. “Only the part I can control – my conscious intention.”

“Don’t I have you now?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “More than anyone. You have the part I cannot fathom.”

“That’s good.”

“So very good, but I’ll become frightened and take it back . . . and I don’t want to take it back.”

The candle sputtered.

“A day,” he said at the size of  the lit pedestal.

“How long’s a day?” she asked. “A mortal day? God’s day? We’ll leave it to burn and who knows how long it’ll last.”

“More than marriage?”

“‘Marriage’,” she scoffed. “What is marriage? The candle binds me.” She looked at Mary and then over to Christ on the Cross.

“Can’t you bind yourself?”

“Who can bind themselves? Vows? Intentions? We’re feathers on the air.”

“And ‘death do us part’?”

“There’s all kinds of death – death of the body, death of the heart. But today I love thee, and will always want to love thee.” 

“A sweet kind of blasphemy.”

“When’s truth ever blasphemy?” 

Geordie considered the Cross.

“You’re my chance,” she said. “That you found me – ” She kissed him with a blasphemous kiss.

“Then I’m in danger.”

“‘Cause you’re weak . . . The one who cares least has control. Today, I release control.”

“As long as the candle burns.”

“I hope for long. Understand, Deorsa, we’re a house of cards and this, a gift.”

He dropped  another shilling in the box. “For you,” he said and lit the candle next to hers.

They left in silence and walked the streets: she bought herself a petticoat; he bought himself a reed stem pipe. Then off to Roast Beef and Bitters. Daylight faded and it warmed, bringing up a mist, recalling to them their first night on deck.  

The Southwark Theatre drew a modest crowd: shop-keeps and town-folk in the gallery with a few subalterns whose regiments were of lower status, a better caste in the Pit while in the boxes – Ladies with majors and colonels, maybe a general or two.

In the Governor’s box, Sir Billy and Mrs. Loring. If not for his gold braid and powdered hair, he might pass for a common labourer with his slouch, while on the other hand, young Loring, her dark hair coiffed in the extreme French manner and in a low-cut damask with her Cluster ‘bout to Pop, sat tall like a beacon.

“That’s her!” Obedience whispered.

“The Boston Whore,” Geordie whispered back. “Prettier than they’ve said. What must Billy be paying for her? How much does a Husband require to make himself a cuckold?”

Obedience pinched him. “Maybe she loves him.”

“No doubt.”

She pinched him again. 

Candles down and the curtain opened. From the wings Capts. Andre and Watson, costumed, advanced the stage.

                        Andre/Vizard: “Angelica sends it back unopened! Say you?”

                        Watson/Serv:  “As you see, sir?”

                        Andre/Vizard: “The pride of these virtuous women is more insufferable than the immodesty of prostitutes– After all my encouragement, to slight me thus!”

Watson/Serv:  “She said, sir, that imagining your morals sincere, she gave you access to her conversation; but that your late behaviour in her company has convinced her that your love and religion are both hypocrisy, and that she believes your letter, like yourself, fair on the outside, and foul within; so sent it back unopened.”

Andre/Vizard:  “May obstinacy guard her beauty till wrinkles bury it.–I’ll be revenged the very first opportunity . . .”

She leaned into Geordie. Hypocrisy – fair on the outside and foul within. Body memories – course fingers inside her, teeth on her nipple, the fat thing in her mouth. Body memories. They belong to someone else.