TESSA CLAIBORNE

TESSA CLAIBORNE

A
Novel
by
Smcallis

This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All character © 2007 by Smcallis.

CHAPTER 10

BIVOUAC

IN THE ARMY, a mess consists of six soldiers, a squad, two squads make a platoon, and Corporal Boggs commanded my particular squad. It is always said that the mess is the tightest most cohesive unit in the Army and I believe that to be true. Your messmates are your brothers. You have no secrets; you do everything together (except for me, I did have one secret). I for whatever reason, fate, providence, or just plain good luck had the five best messmates in the entire 24th Regiment of Foot. I was the youngest, and smallest and weakest of my five mates. To their credit, those five men never held it against me, I was relegated to the unenviable role of “boy” in the squad, but I always did my best. We were a team.

Marty and I, we slept together. With in the confines of a pup tent you get to know a person really well, that means we slept together, our flesh touched. It was inevitable, long after, even after Marty knew my secret, that I was a girl, I lay beside him; I waited with morbid trepidation, Marty, he never once made any sexual advances towards me. Marty knew I was a girl to the point that he became an active participant in my conspiracy. In the morning, within the privacy of our pup tent, he helped me bind my chest; he daubed spirit gum on my upper lip and fixed my mustache. Marty was my best mate.

I made up for it in other ways. I always made sure the boy’s had a fire, that morning tea was hot and ready. I was a scrupulous “mother-hen” when in came to the mess rations. Army rations were issued by mess, a typical day’s mess consisted of a pound of tea, a couple of quarts of peas or beans, flour, sugar, salt, ship biscuits, sometimes we were issued cornmeal. Meat consisted of slab bacon, salt pork or canned “horse” meat. Occasionally there were pickles or dried apples. That was mess. Most of the boy’s were clueless as to what to do with this confusing stack of food. I observed other messmates, forlornly eating cold horse meat out of a tin. I, fortunately, after years of cooking for eight brothers, knew a thing or two about how to cook. I earned quite a reputation in my squad, and then I ended up cooking for the entire platoon. On Friday nights, when we had collected enough bacon fat, I mixed a dough of corn meal. Each soldier took a ball of dough and wound it into a snake around his bayonet, and toasted it over an open fire. That was called “Sloosh.” It was a favorite in my mess. Corporal Boggs wrote in his report that I was the best cook in the army.

The problem was I didn’t want to be a cook. I wanted to ride horses, I wanted one of those smart blue uniforms; I wanted a Martini-Henry carbine.

In the morning, after assembly, Lieutenant Fry announced that we were to deploy on a twenty-five-mile exercise that was to include an overnight bivouac. Full packs, full combat gear. We set out and it was already raining. It rained in our faces, it rained down the back of our necks, in rained until our boots squished. Still we marched on; our destination was the Grovely Woods. A military and strategic target of monumental proportions I am sure. The worst part was, the scuttlebutt was that Colonel Carlton was to meet us there. He wanted to see how the new M-Henry preformed under “adverse” circumstances.


A Twenty-five-mile march in soggy conditions was every bit as unpleasant as anyone could have imagined. Aside from the physical ordeal of marching in full pack, in inclement weather, the prospect that Colonel Carlton wanted us upon our arrival to assume a firing line, it was almost too much to contemplate.

We marched for so long and so hard that I don’t think it was possible that I could have attributed any special wetness in my knickers to anything but rainwater. As we trudged, mile after mile, a weird feeling welled up deep inside my gut. I stuck my hand in my pants, it came out wet, and sticky, it wasn’t rainwater.

“Oh gawd, it’s started.”

I was in so much trouble, why now of all times? I signaled to Corporal Boggs for permission to fall out of line. I headed strait for the bushes, I pulled down my trousers, dug into my knickers and cried. There was no time to squat there feeling sorry for myself. I cleaned myself up best I could with water from my canteen bottle. I stuffed my cunny like Abigail showed me, hoping beyond hope to staunch the flow. I pulled up my trousers on closer inspection; it didn’t seem like I had made too big a mess of myself. I hefted my rifle, and hustled to resume my place in the march.

This was a bivouac. We pitched our tents and crawled into the sanctity inside, I blurted out my troubles.

“Marty, I got a problem . . .”

Marty, I couldn't have asked for a better mate. He started a fire; we ended up boiling my pants and knickers in lye soap. We hung them up to dry. That took care of the stain. Nobody said nothing. It seems that boiling ones britches immediately after a twenty-five-mile march in a rainstorm a was perfectly mundane activity, of which no one of any note took any particular notice. It seems my secret was still secure.

The next morning, Marty drew sentry duty. I packed him a lunch of fresh biscuits and ham, a clean handkerchief and a flask of cold tea in his Harvard sack. Colonel Carlton it seemed was still back in Wiltshire HQ. Evidently, it was too wet for the pompous Colonel to venture forth. There was to be no line fire demonstration today. The weather had cleared, except for the serious business of picket duty; the camp took on a carnival atmosphere. Which pretty much left us to our own devices.

The Grovely woods, was exactly that, a still pristine, dense packed English forest. Devoid of the coveted oak or spruce, the Grovely woods were home to a vast forest menagerie of wildlife and woodland creatures. Including wild pigs and the “King’s Deer” of Robin Hood fame. It was one of these deer thrashing in a thicket that caused the commotion. Colonel Carlton was still scheduled to come to the camp before nightfall, and Lieutenant Fry took it into his head, that he might impress the Colonel with some fresh venison roast.

“Private Claiborne! Private Gibbs!”

“Sir.” We came to attention. He called us Private, even though we had not graduated and technically were still recruits.

I was the best shot in the regiment. Gibbs, he was well huge, mean with a bushy handlebar mustache, a colossal bear of a man probably 21 stones if an ounce. I hefted my rifle and ventured into the woods, I probably weighed 94 lbs. soaking wet followed by Gibbs, we foraged into the thicket looking for deer. I don’t think Gibbs much liked the fact that he was in subordination to me. He kept trying to push ahead of me. I told him, clearly, Fry had appointed me point man, and I was the shooter. He was to follow me . . . he was the “help.” Gibbs didn’t like it; I think if he had known I was a girl, he would have exploded. It gave me great satisfaction.

There was a sudden rustle in the thicket up a head.

I drew down the lever on the Martini-Henry and inserted a shinny brass .455 cartridge into the receiver. I brought the weapon up to my shoulder and drew down on the sound. Gibbs stepped on a branch. The crack sounded like a rifle shot. I thought at first I had discharged my weapon. The deer, spooked came charging out of the thicket straight at me. I was veritably bowled over; I came crashing out of the woods, arse-over-tea-kettle. The deer leaped over me and ran into the clearing. Somehow, bandoleer, webbing, pure dumb luck or training. I held on to the Henry rifle. I brought the weapon down, squeezed the trigger and *BANG* in a thunderous roar and a swirl of white smoke . . . black powder smoke, counter intuitively is white. I brought down the deer, shot through the lung and heart. It seemed Colonel Carlton was in store a roast venison feast after all.

My gut felt woozy. I told Gibbs to get the deer, take it back to camp. Giving orders was easy. I think I liked being in charge.

I made my way towards a quiet pool. I was dirty, I needed to wash, take care of myself. It was quite a lovely pool, deep and quiet, the ferns smelled earthy and good. The water was still, black and icy cold and pure, the river mud oozed between my bare feet. I lowered myself into its inky blackness and felt for the first time in weeks a cleansing wash, such a joyous ablution I had not even a memory to enjoy. A school of minos came to join be they swirled about my body and tickled my bare toes. I had a bar of soap in my pack and I suds myself down, I washed my hair, and I doused my body in the fresh water.

I swam, I played in that pool until I lost track of time. It was in the midst of this cleansing ecstasy that four recruits from F Company came jostling out of the woods. I was in H Company, three companies made up a regiment. In this case F, G and H. For whatever reason, F and H were considered bitter rivals. It didn’t help any that I was reputed to be the best shot in H Company. To make matters worse, I had just shot a deer through the heart at seven hundred yards. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was considered quite the money shot. Recruit Burlingham, was standing at the waters edge, backed up were his three best mates. They were loud, rude and boisterous. I saw a bottle, they were drunk.

"Shit!" I was caught, naked as a jaybird; my only concealment was the black water of the pool that circled my neck. I treaded water in fearful trepidation.

“OY! Claiborne, why don’t ‘cha come up ‘err and make that shot again.” Burlingham was supposed to be the best shot in F Company, and he didn’t like me and he especially didn't like competition.

“I don’t want too.” I looked to my rifle. It was on the bank out of reach.

“You’re a bloody fairy boy. I know you.” One of the men jeered, they kicked my kit, my clothes scattered.

"What's say we 'ave some fun with this little fairy boy, this little bloke, eh?" Burlingham un-did the buttons on his fly and hefted out a substantial willy.

“You like that, Claiborne?” As if on cue, the other mate’s on his crew pulled out their willies and they began to urinate in unison.

“Yeah, swim in piss you soggy bink!”

"GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!" I splashed water in their direction, a lot of good that did. I felt like crying, I knew that was to get me nowhere.

Now things really went tits-up. Burlingham slogged into the water after me, with the clear intent to drag me bodily out of the pond. The jig was up, eventually the four of them would over power me, drag me from the water, discover I was a girl. Then mongrel dogs would rape me. I was resigned to my fate. I was terrified.

It was then, from behind, from overhead, came a rifle shot, a cloud of white smoke, and the telltale ca-chink, of the glossy lever action of a Martini-Henry, followed by the smooth insertion of fresh brass.

It was Marty. His bayonet gleamed, then flicked.

“Clear out lads! Leave Thomas alone!”

“Aye! Easy lad!" Burlingham, the consummate bully, now found himself cowed in the face of an angry Marty and a bayonet.

"We wuz just ‘av’n a bit of fun wit the little fella. Oy, be a mate.”

"You've had your f-f-fun, now clear out. NOW!" Marty brought his rifle up to the ready; I do think he might have shot them. The boy’s from F Company obviously thought so, because they cleared out real fast.

“Bog off! Wuz just ‘av'n a bit of fun.” Burlingham flipped Marty the back-wards "V" and jerked his head, with that he and the crew from F Company sauntered back to camp.

I waited until long after I was sure that they were gone. Marty helped me out of the water, and toweled me off. As I got dressed, I was then struck with the awfulness of what he had done. Marty was assigned guard duty.

“Marty, you got to go back. Fucks sake, Marty, you got to git, right now!” My face was ashen.

“It's Okay Thomas.” Gentle unassuming Marty did not grasp the consequences, the awfulness of his selfless sacrifice. He may have just saved me, in the process, his own fate was uncertain. If caught, dereliction of duty was a capital offence.

“No, it’s not okay Marty, that Colonel Carlton; he’ll line you up and shoot you for sport. Marty, go right now, maybe it’s not too late.”

“Thomas?”

“I’m okay, you go now. RUN!” Marty took off back towards his post. It was not okay. It was never okay, it was already too late. As I made my way back to camp, fear and trepidation welled in my heart. I could already see the din of excitement, the commotion of a drum-head-court martial in full proceedings. Lieutenant Fry he was in his glory, presiding with relish. In a final act of revenge, it seems that F Company made sure, that recruit Martin Crawford was caught. Just two weeks from graduation, Marty found himself accused under Article 86 of the Military Code of Justice of Desertion of his Post, of Dereliction of Duty. Technically, I think the penalty was death by firing squad. However, because we were on maneuvers and in the field and because Marty was a recruit, the court found room for leniency. The penalty handed down was four dozen lashes. Sentence to be carried out at sundown.

The entire regiment was to witness punishment.As further punishment, it fell to his squad, his messmates, to truss him up.I was the last to leave him. The look Marty gave me sticks in my mind. This look of shock and desperation and a sort of terror, really. Lots of things in that single look. Marty he tried to be brave, he looked to me, even with a gag in his mouth, he managed the words, “Thomas, I love you."

"I know, Marty.” I whispered. "Be strong."

That was what I said. What I meant to say, what I should have said, what I didn’t have the presence of mind to say was, "I love you." I just couldn't make the words come out, that all. In our last moment together, I was so cruel as to begrudge Marty the comfort of a simple "I love you." I was torn between my feelings for Marty, and my sense of guilt and disloyalty inherit in telling two different men that I loved them. I think the truth was, I loved Marty, and I loved my Henry. How is that possible? To this day, I cannot explain my feelings. I do know my heart ached.

The entire regiment turned out to witness punishment. We stood in ranks at perfect attention. Colonel Archibald Carlton then chose to make his grand appearance. He strode out on an enormous champing white charger, his medals weighed down his chest, his helmet, a veritable crown of glory, complete with tassels and all manner of military regalia, glinted in the failing sunlight of the parade ground. The commanding officer of the 24th Regiment of Foot deliberately inspected his troops.

We stood there stock still, I didn't dare move, I hardly dared breathe. I was emotionally numb. I did steal a sidewards glance over to G Company, to the ranks where I thought my Henry must be. I couldn't pick his face out in sea of red tunics and white helmets.

"REGIMENT ASSEMBLED, READY TO WITNESS PUNISHMENT, SIR!" Lieutenant Fry said.

Carlton's mount stamped, Carlton held the reins with his impeccable white riding gloves. In a pompous gesture that summed up all that was Victorian and correct in military culture, he impassively saluted with his riding crop.

"Commence!"

"SARGENT-OF-ARMS, DO YOUR DUTY!"

The drums rolled like thunder.

I closed my eyes. The burly Sargent brought down the cruel whip hard against Marty's bare back. He did not cry out.

"ONE!"

I flinched, my whole body quaked, I wanted to vomit. The drum cadence continued on incessantly throughout the punishment. I thought I was going to go crazy with pain, grief and guilt.Eternity is a long time, I expect. It must be equal to the number forty-eight. When punishment was over, when they finally cut him down, Marty collapsed in a heap. He was lashed to ribbons. We carried him back to our bivouac on a stretcher. I laid him on his bedroll and washed his face with cool water.

I whispered next to his ear, "Marty, I love you." It was too late, he was beaten unconscious and couldn't hear me.

One other lads summoned the help of the Surgeon Reynolds. The Surgeon came later that night and did what he could. He arranged for an ambulance to take Marty back to Wiltshire HQ in the morning. I laid next to Marty all night and prayed. Marty died sometime before sunup. It was the second time in my life I had lain next to a person who died. I wept. There was only a simple funeral.

* * *

Graduation day felt hollow and empty without Marty.

We received our PFC stripes, our first military pay, and a pass for three days leave. Most importantly, I was reunited with my Henry. Henry and I had not seen each other in eight weeks. It seemed like forever.

I wanted to kiss him, hug him, smother him. Of course I couldn't, I didn't. We could only shake hands. We were just two fellow blokes greeting each other. We walked off the train station platform in a stiff awkward silence. I finally broke the ice.

“Henry, they killed Marty . . . beat ‘im to death.” I hissed.

Henry I think was right jealous, 'cuz he didn't say much, “I was there, I heard he left his post . . ."

"Henry, he saved my ass. At least be greatful to Marty for that! I'll be shipped out when I get back. Major Dupont signed the papers, I am assigned to a Light-horse detachment. I’m going to learn to ride, Henry, I get one of those smart blue uniforms. I get a carbine!”

“That's great news, Tessa, the 24th is going to Africa, Cape Town, Natal some god cursed country. There's some kind of trouble down there between the Dutch and the niggers. Its left to us Redcoats to straighten things out. I expect there'll be shooting, the blacks are on the march.”

“We're comming too, the Light-horse is still part of the 24th, we're comming too. We just need a little more training, that's all. Henry? What's the matter? I'm going to join the Light-horse!"

"I heard things, I heard you and Marty were close like, more than mates."

I felt my stomach go hollow. I never knew until the actual moment that I left Marty, trussed up against that tree, that I loved him. Was I really so wrong? Now confronted with the facts, denial was my only alternative.

"That's not true! Marty and me, we wuz just mates, I had feel'n for him, sure. Marty, he done good by me. But Marty, we wuz just regular mates. Henry I love you!"

"Shhh, Tes . . . Thomas." Henry was still mad. Marty was dead, but the mere thought that Marty and I had lain next to each other in a pup tent and what might have transpired, what could have transpired, made him crazy with jealousy.

I Finally I tried a different approach. "Henry, there was never noth'n between me 'n Marty. We wuz just mates. That's all. Henry, I love you. You were my first love, you're my only love. Please stop think'n these crazy thoughts. You'n me we gotta look out for one another. We got to look to our future. Listen, Henry, you ain’t got no one―me, I sure as bloody hell ain’t got no one. Henry, you and me, we is all we got. We ain't just best mates, we're like family."

Henry looked at me, "Yeah, Tess, we're family."

“Henry, why can’t we be a family together?" I squeezed his hand.

“What does that mean?”

I think Henry was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't waste any time. I dropped a clodhopper . . . “Henry, why can't we get married? Will you marry me? I want to get married."

* * *

I SHOULD THINK A GIRL'S wedding night is the thing that dreams are made of. Every girl, woman, dreams of the day she gives herself wholly over to her husband, the day they become one. A man and a woman, they are partners in life, joined for better or for worse, for richer, or in our case, we we’re poorer. My wedding, my wedding night was nothing like I ever imagined. The first Vicar we approached refused to marry us because Henry did not have my father’s permission, even after I explained that papa was dead, and I was abandoned. The Vicar still refused to marry us; he said I was, “I was too young.”

“I’m old enough to know my own mind.”

We finally found a Vicar with a fondness for the bottle; I think he’d already uncorked a few that mornings. For a shilling, and a couple of parishioners for witnesses that I didn’t even know, the ceremony was certainly bare bones.

“Do you or don’t you, will you or won’t you, I now pronounce you man and wife.” With that, Henry and I were married. I was now for better or worse, Mrs. Henry Hawkins.

I don’t want to make it sound like the whole affair was bereft of any exiguous trappings. Henry wore his full Private’s dress uniform, white gloves and I think he polished his boots black until he wore a hole. He was so nervous. I wore a white dress I found and a second-hand-shop. I cost me a whole bob but I wanted it, it was so beautiful. The woman who owned the shop was very kind when she found out I planned to be married in the dress, she insisted I take a lovely hat for no additional charge. She made a veil for me in the shop. I found out later, she had a daughter exactly my age that had died of cholera. I was glad to have the hat; I was so ashamed Henry had to marry me with my boyish haircut.

I held a modest bouquet of Lilly-of-the-valley; we bought on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral from the many flower vendors there. I always loved the way they smelled, and they were my Mama’s favorite flower. I had made peace with my mother at this point in my life, and my only wish was that she could have been there. I wrote her later, and told her what I had done, and gave her my Army P.O. Mama never wrote me back.

Our wedding cake amounted to some tea and biscuits at a small shop. Henry wanted to celebrate with a couple of pints of beer. I told him beer was two pennies a pint, what was I saying? I was already starting to sound like a nagging wife. We sat in the park, and drank our beer. We joked around and talked about how much fun we used to have. It was one of those uncomfortable situations where you talk about everything but the obvious. Our conversation lapsed into an awkward silence; we sat there not saying much. I missed Domino, and I knew Henry was thinking about his brother.

I reached over and took Henry’s hand.

“Henry, how much money do we have left?”

“Fifteen pence.”

“Is that enough?”

“We need a place to sleep. Our pass runs out tomorrow . . . We have to report to our units in the morning. Henry, it’s our wedding night.”

Henry was reticent.

“Henry?”

“It’s enough, Tessa, it’s enough, alright!”

We found ourselves a flophouse, a room for ten pence, that left just exactly enough money for tea in the morning. The man who ran the flophouse, wore one of those green visors; I never knew for sure exactly what they were for, he was smoking a Turkish cigarette. I found myself nauseated, overcome with revulsion. I was filled with irrational inexplicable hate for this man and the dangling ash of his cigarette. I could not shake the horror caused in my life by the sight, the smell, the thought of a single cigarette smoldering in a dustbin. We could not have gotten our room soon enough; Henry, I will say for his part, did sign the registrar Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hawkins.

The room was small and not very nice; there was a bed, a washstand, a lamp and not much else. Henry checked the bed first to make sure it wasn’t “ticky.” It was private, and we were alone and I was no longer a girl, I was his wife. I will tell you up front my wedding night was a whole lot less satisfying than what I imagined and much less than what I expected. It was in short a disappointment. By the next morning―I was still very much a girl. I was Mrs. Henry Hawkins in name only; my marriage to my Henry remained unconsummated.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I took off my clothes; I dutifully crawled into bed, I lay next to my Henry, naked. My flesh next to my Henry . . . While I lay there, I couldn't help myself. My body, my mind filled with urnings, my mind flashed back to the hundred of thousands of hours I had spent crawling under thunderous power looms, smeared in grease, my lungs choked with cotton dust, naked. I crawled under these monstrous hecatonshires of machine-works that sought to grab my body and tear my flesh. I remembered poor Lilly; her body caught, crushed, mangled by a soulless clockwork mechanism that cared neither whether it chewed flesh or wove cotton fabric. Now, I lay naked, warm, cuddled next to the man I loved, my Henry, my husband. Naked for the first time in my life with the purpose for which nakedness was intended. I offered myself freely. Henry didn't even try.

"Tessa, I love you, I really do love you.” He kissed my cheek, he kissed my lips, and then he turned away, he shrugged, he pushed my hand away, as if to say it was time to go to sleep.

“I love you too Henry.” I said quietly, I was crying inside.

We went to sleep. The next morning, we both got up, got dressed as if we were bunkmates. Henry shaved, I dutifully bound my chest, my boobs, for all the good they had done me. I daubed my fake mustache, I put on my uniform, Henry checked to see that I was smart. This was an important day for me, I was to be acepted into the Light-horse brigade. Henry he put on his uniform.

I laid out my wedding dress on the bed for the last time and wept.

“You know you can’t take that with you.”

“I know.” I smoothed the dress one more time. “I just wanted to remember how beautiful it was . . .”