TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XXXII

S C H E R Z O

S T A V E

XXXII

August 1778 - Long Island & New York

The women gathered, secret-like at the end of the day, come one by one from the camp to a clearing Obedience had discovered. A Coven.

She’d found it one evening, past the fire pits and marquees, out the back of the camp, wandering to the Heights of Guan, her thumb stroking Grace’s Welsh hat. She held it as a child would hold her mother’s hand passing in a crowd of strangers. It was all she had; Geordie busy on Hyde’s kit, and camp, with its cliques, offered no good fit. She’d climbed the rise and looked back – a city of tents in the dusk taking on a hue of coral with a thousand yards of fire pits, and the bay beyond, all sapphire and sparkling. She lingered, Grace invisible beside her. She climbed to the summit and looked again. How pretty, she thought, if only it was so. She walked through a cathedral of trees and found this open space. Man-made, the vestige of a crude redoubt. Beyond it the woods grew thicker though a number of trees were split and dead. Then she remembered: the dying Light Bob on the ground, her face the last thing he saw and his queer smile as he passed, and there, under the muzzle of a six-pounder, the dead rebel boy with his brains bashed out. She imagined this is where they’d fallen, in her mind, their shadowy forms. And here again. Tears rolled down her cheek – two years – the decisions she’d made, moving her from this to that. Prize and Price. Never one without the other, and Price, always Price, that Wicked Friend. In the Clockwork, Good is measured in minutes, while Bad tolls the hour. Better not to think, move, or feel. What is Good will be gone – Grace is gone . . . She’d heard footsteps through the treeline – Bess Waddley. “There you are. I saw you wander off sad. Do you mind?” And they sat – and began to Talk, couldn’t help but Talk, and the old redoubt was no longer a place of Men and Violence.

When the taptoo sounded, they returned to camp, but came the next night to watch the sunset with the encampment below, and came every night after that, not knowing how long the brigade might stay; Clinton and Lord Howe with most of the army off chasing the French near Rhode Island, but leaving the Guards behind with so few officers.  

At first there were three – Obedience, Bess and Grace’s hat, Obedience its keeper, until Bess said that Grace was her friend too; they would talk as if she was there. Obedience put the hat down, but that was disrespectful, then brought a rod and mounted the hat so it made them a circle. Bess approved. It was fitting as Grace lay in a mass grave somewhere in New Jersey. Her husband, at least, would be listed on the rolls. But these few nights, Grace remained a bit longer.

One evening Jaruesha had appeared. “So this is where you two go.” And saw the hat. “What’s that?” Her voice a slur.

“Is that your business?” Bess asked.

“There’s talk about where you sneak off to every evening.”

“No sneaking,” Bess said. “Just here.”

“Sit if you want,” said Obedience to her own surprise.

“Brought anything with you?” Bess asked. Jaruesha pulled a bottle. Bess smiled. “Sit.”

So it went. Other women found their way, more women than the brigade had seen since coming to America, soldiers’ wives, courted and married over the winter months in Philadelphia. They sat in the circle passing a jug, Obedience their de-facto principal with Grace’s hat on the rod, a hole at the base of the crown stained with dried blood.

“Here we are,” Bess said gaily. “Our Salon,” she mimicked in French. “How refined. And here’s to you,” she tipped the jug to Obedience, “our Salonnière. Who shall do the reading?  Flummucks me though, I forgot me Hume or that shit, Tom Paine. A toast to Sunshine Patriots may ever they reign. Here’s to the Jersey Maid that might spirit up her country, spirit them up her cunnie.”

“You’re so crude,” Obedience scolded. “Salon indeed.” She studied the collection of British and Americans, the new women, softer, but by no means soft, and the Army Women spitting and smoking pipes. “A bunch of witches if you ask me.”

“Women in the woods at night ‘round a circle. Now what would the Puritan fathers say? They’d think us tribbing. We should dance naked and wait for Old Scratch, trade for his powers and bend our husbands to our will. We’d end this war quick. Make them our wanton slaves . . . No need for you though; MacEachran’s already your slave. Too bad, you’d be the only one Nick would have.”

Obedience touched the cut on her cheek still healing. “I’m ugly,” she had said of it to Geordie. “You’re beautiful.” “Liar.” “No.” “Kind liar then.” “No.”  Then fool, and she kissed him. Just as it should be. He never fails . . . only when I need him. He had touched her shoulder and she had flinched. “What’s that hat?” he asked clumsily. “You know it. You’ve seen it enough.” “Sorry.” “Did you do something?” “No.” “Then don’t apologize.” He reached for her arm. She stiffened. “I don’t want to be touched right now.” “Sorry again.” She turned on him. “Don’t touch me and get away.” “Obedience, this isn’t you.” “Isn’t it? Well then, tell me who I am?” “Bit mercurial,” he said with a sly grin and put his arms around her anyway. “Do not cling to me.” “I am not.” “You think you know so much. Well here it is: when I want you, I want you. When I don’t, go away.” “You want me to go away?” “Away – away from the tent. Stop comforting me. Stop saving me. Let me hurt. I swear to God, it’s the only thing that’s mine.” He left though she might’ve called him back just to pester him. The fool, if she gave him a smooth rock in jest, he’d cherish it. She’ll not love a fool.  

But she did. Every bit of him. His frame. His face. His good mind and wit. The scent of him. The sweat on him. It seized her; “love that releases no beloved from loving” as the poet said. She flutters and burns and drinks him like pure spirit until she’s lost her head. “‘Love that led the two of us unto death’,” her father used to read to her. Would her affection turn to contempt for one who will never leave her side? She’ll not have it and keep it at distance while she’s still sane. And if that fails, better to kill it. Better to kill it than have it drag her down. I’ll not live in a tent. Stupid man can’t fathom why I push him away? And who is he? What do I really know of him? The sex, she loves the sex, loves the mystery; anxiety is assuaged. She’s had more accomplished lovers, but the tenderness . . . Oh, fuck tenderness, give me style . . .

The jug came ‘round, but she passed it to Jaruesha who swigged enough for both of them. Then one of the widows began The Parting Glass – a sad, sweet tune one sings when a little drunk and defeated. Others joined in. So did Obedience and there, that voice so velvet and true. It overcame the others and one by one the women listened. Obedience stopped. “Go on,” they said. Even Jaruesha acquiesced with silence. Obedience sang to Grace’s hat.

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I’ll gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

They clapped. “Another.” Obedience demurred.

“Go on,” Bess said.

Obedience stood to take a full breath and folded her hands as she would in the taverns on Old Pye. And with a tilt of her head as if receiving a kiss, she sang:  

I wish I was on yonder hill

     To fair, I’d sit and cry my fill

     And every tear would turn a mill . . .

     Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Siuil, siuil, siuil a ruin
Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh liom
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

(Come, come, come, o love,
Quickly come to me, softly move;
Come to the door, and away we'll flee,
And safe for aye may my darling be!)

I wish I sat on my true love’s knee

     Many fond story he told to me.

     He told me things that ne’er shall be . . .

     Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Siuil, siuil, siuil a ruin
Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh liom
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

I’ll sell my rock, I’ll sell my reel
I’ll even sell my spinning wheel
to buy my love a sword of steel
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Siuil, siuil, siuil a ruin
Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh liom
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red
and it's round the World I will beg for bread
until my parents would wish me dead.
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan . . .

Young widows gazed into the fire as if it held the souls of their husbands. Others dabbed their eyes with the hem of their aprons, mostly the new ones, “camp wives” come from Philadelphia and before that, New York, while the veteran women, bittersweet, nodded. Jaruesha held the jug.  

Come, come, come, o love,
Quickly come to me, softly move;
Come to the door, and away we'll flee,
And safe for aye may my darling be!

They sat quiet.

Bess motioned for the rum, Jaruesha reluctant to give it up, but Bess took it. She hacked from all the smoking and raised the jug to Grace’s hat. “Better this way,” she said and took a swallow. “Quick. They didn’t suffer. Neither of ‘em left alone. Lord, you suffer enough. It’s a mercy you don’t have to when you’re dying . . .”

“Shut up,” Jaruesha said low and cold.

Bess glared. “Another word from you . . .” and she pulled a knife from her belt, leaned past Obedience to wave it at Jaruesha. “I’ll cut your tongue out.” Jaruesha shrivelled. Bess nodded, eyes dull by intoxication. “Nobody crowned you bloody queen.”

“Please,” Obedience entreated.

Bess snapped the knife away. “She ain’t worth it.”

“Grace wouldn’t let you get away with that,” Obedience said to ease the tension. “She’d have you across her knee.”

Bess snorted. “Naw, she’d pin me to the ground, spit’n between them gaped teeth, scream’n in my face.”

The new women blinked.

            “She’d . . .”

            “Enough,” Jaruesha cut her off.

            “You can’t keep it buttoned,” Bess spat.

            “She’s dead,” Jaruesha said.

            Bess shoved the jug into Obedience’s hand. “Give it to the bitch.”

            “What about my man?” a new woman said. “He’s dead.”

            “Who’s that, my dear?” Bess asked.

            “Joseph Hammell,” she said and they remembered, First Guards grenadier – grape shot cut him in quarters. Bess motioned the jug go to the new girl. “I don’t want a drink! My husband’s dead! What am I to do?”

“Go back home,” Obedience said with envy. “Go back to Philadelphia and your family.”

“I’m disowned. My father said he’d have no daughter who’d ‘swive a Regular’.”

“Go back,” Obedience said, “at least you physically can. Beg your father’s forgiveness.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ll do it.” Obedience with grit. “You’ll do it to survive. What else can you do?  Be a camp follower? A ‘frigate’? You don’t look the type.”

Bess laughed. “What’s the type? Give ‘er a week and she’ll be the type. Listen deary, find another soldier.”

“No,” Obedience said. “Go home while you can. Say anything for them to take you in, but go home and stay home.”

The new girl cried. Green and stupid, the veterans thought, Obedience most of all in spite of herself.

“I know who’d take you,” piped up a veteran. “Elliot. Marry him!”

“Who’s Elliot?”

“You are green,” the veteran woman said. “Did you just come on?”

“When the army left Philadelphia.”

“Oh, my dear, you’re in for a treat,” she said. “You’d swive bloody Satan himself. Ask Mrs. MacEachran. She’ll tell you about him.”

“I’ve not fooled with him,” Obedience said.

“No one says you have,” the woman said, “but he bloody well wants to fool with you.”

“Mrs. MacEachran wishes him dead,” Bess with a slur. “Prays for it daily.”

“Bess!”  

“. . . But nothing can kill the devil – not sickness or battle. But you can kill a good man – Mr. Price, Mr. Burke. Crookshank probably dead or will be so shortly. Major Trelawny shot down . . .”

“And my husband,” the new woman said.

“Joseph Hammell,” Jaruesha said mellowed by the rum, “a decent fellow. Army life is hard. We’re wed to it, but you’re not. Do what Mrs. MacEachran says – go home before it scars you. Look what it’s done to her pretty face.” Obedience blinked. “Tell your father you were wrong and we’re all devils. Fall to his feet and take up the rebel cause. Marry a tradesman. This is a rich country. This is your home. Ours is the army. Not to worry, we’ll win the war and things will be right again.”

“Yeah, deary,” Bess said, “go back to Philadelphia or you’ll have to marry Elliot.”

“How do I go back? I’m alone.”

“Don’t you get it?” Bess said. “You ain’t safe anywhere. Your soldier is dead. Better to take the dangers of the road than stay here.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Maybe I’d be better off like your friend.”

“Don’t say that,” Obedience spat. “Don’t ever say that. You don’t know hardship.”

“I gave up my whole world. I loved my father. I loved his house and my city. But I fell in love with this soldier. I had no choice . . .”

“‘Had no choice’,” Jaruesha quipped.

“No choice,” she said with bitterness. “I’ve betrayed my father . . . I’ve betrayed God. This is my punishment. I’m better off dead.”

“Stop it,” Obedience said.

“She sold her soul for this soldier and now he’s gone,” another new woman said. “Haven’t any of you ever done that? It’s a grave thing to surrender your heart.”

“Not worth taking your own life,” Obedience said.

“I wonder,” Bess sighed. “What would I do if Tom died?” She turned to Mrs. Hammell.

“It wouldn’t be right, but I wouldn’t judge you for it.”

“How can you say that?” Obedience said.

“If she wants to kill herself, let her,” Jaruesha said. “I’ve no time for foolishness. If the slut here is saying this for attention, it’s attention she doesn’t merit. And if she’s stupid enough to mean it, there’s nothing to be said.” Jaruesha turned on Mrs. Hammell. “You want to kill yourself? Do it. You want to go back to your family? Do it. Get married. Be a whore. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. This company’s my home.” She pointed to Obedience and Bess. “The Guards are my family. I didn’t bury my babies and move on to listen to this.”

The Hammell woman ran from the circle. Obedience followed while the rest stared. Jaruesha retrieved the jug. “Let her run if she can’t take it. What am I to do about it?” After some minutes Obedience returned and marched up to Jaruesha, who took a drink and mouthed, “Get away.”

Obedience slapped her. The women gasped. Jaruesha, stunned, shook her head and started to rise. Obedience slapped her again, knocking her over. Jaruesha grabbed the log as if it was a buoy, the side of her face a red glow. Bess’s drunkenness suddenly cleared and was ready to grab Obedience before she delivered another blow, but Obedience stood with her chest heaving. Jaruesha’s eyes glistened, and turning away, she got up slowly, almost fell and staggered from the circle to the treeline.

“Don’t think no one’s going to run after you,” a new woman called.

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

Elliot listened from behind a tree. After supper he’d slipped away, hating the tents and the soldiers’ stupid talk. No one missed him. The few remaining officers off in local taverns or in marquees drinking ‘way the night. Sergeants too, when not on duty, drank and played cards when not marauding. He’d nestled behind a crop of rocks below the hill’s crest waiting for the darkness.

No man’s so far away, a voice mocked – Libby naked on the splintered floorboards, her dead eyes staring; she’d a mole above her pubis that only he would know – a beauty mark as if placed there for a lover . . . And the Town Crier the following day, but for Rachel, not Libby: “Murder! Brutal murder! Murder! Brutal murder!” 

I did it.

Should’ve died at Freehold. Should’ve been blown to pieces . . . Joe Hammell was right in front of him. Shattered him to bits and knocked Elliot down . . . Hammell – a good man with a new wife . . . And Elliot lived. Maybe God’s the Monster . . . And Elliot like a dog slapped, spitting bits from his mouth . . . Tasted them now, spitting and spitting. He gagged and smacked his head. His stomach lurched. Another hit. Blessed pain, the taste gone, and there he was back again. He stared at the camp under the evening sky and bit on his thumb. Then Rachel in his brain, innocent Rachel to whom he had no desire or feeling – someone in the way to be gotten through . . . A shudder. The girl at Head of the Elk . . . Jenny Rose . . . They coat him like dead skin.  

He cut his forearm with his clasp knife. A tear of blood rolled down to his wrist. See it. He cut again, watching the skin open, and there, the warm stickiness, itching as it trickled. He felt nothing. Thought nothing. And cut and cut ‘til clean. It was then he heard her voice, coming from the crest like an angel from heaven. His mind playing tricks?  

He climbed, crouching among the shadows, a thing he did so well, moving from tree to tree with Indian stealth until he saw them in their circle. And there, Obedience singing.

A performance – the way she plays on Old Pye. Such a show. Her voice cheats. And look at ‘em in their circle, taken in. The Parting Glass – how she spins it. All the profligates and letches on Old Pye – she loves to seduce them, loves bending them to her hand, and them so willing. They pull at her skirt and she feigns such a victim. Very, very seldom, it was said, she’d give in. It was also said she was advanced . . . And who said it? No one she’d remember. “They want to possess me,” he once heard her say; not that she knew he heard it, that she’d think he’d be listening. Such talk didn’t fool Gill and don’t fool MacEachran, I bet . . .

He felt her naked shoulders against him . . . But that voice, that foul, phony voice . . .

He stared at Jaruesha – she knows it too. The only honest one among ‘em . . .

He curled his lip when they asked for more. Shut it you bitches. You do her no good – Obedience on stage. Here it comes –    

I wish I were on yonder hill

     To fair, I’d sit and cry my fill

     And every tear would turn a mill . . .

He slumped against a tree. Then a quiver in her voice, something unfamiliar. He looked at his forearm. Does she cut herself too?

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,

“I wish I had my heart again,” his whisper . . . Her naked shoulders against him . . .     

“Elliot. She could marry Elliot!” “Who’s Elliot?” “You’re green. Just come on?”

“When the army left Philadelphia.” “Oh, my dear, you’re in for a treat. You’d swive bloody Satan himself. Ask Mrs. MacEachran. She’ll tell you about him.” “I’ve not fooled with him!” “No one says you have, but he bloody well wants to fool with you.” “Mrs. MacEachran wants him dead. Prays for it daily . . .”

He peeked from behind the tree. Mary Hammell with her weepy voice. Then the rising words and shouting. Mary Hammell running through the trees, Obedience after her. Then the slap and Jaruesha stumbling away. “Don’t think no one’s going to run after you.” 

Down in the camp, the taptoo sounded. One by one they walked away, the moon rising like Venus. Elliot moved through the woods over to the Heights’ rim. Up ahead, a figure staggering from tree to tree. Elliot lightened his step. Mary Hammell, weeping, climbed to the highest point and a sheer cliff. Elliot hid.   

She stepped onto the edge.

In the distance, the fires from the glowing camp, the tents translucent, and the goddess moon rising, her pale beams over land and sea, softening the cruel world with motherly light.

Mary slipped out of her shoes, curled her toes on the bluff’s edge and strained her eyes into the blackness below, an endless fall. Raising her head, she stared at the moon.

A twig snapped.

She turned.

Elliot darted his hands towards her.

She did not scream ‘til off the cliff and the scream cut short as she caught a limb, knocking her backward and tumbling her down through the branches.