They are playing “British Grenadiers”

As the Grenadiers advance,

Cheering them on, to their doom,

For there are no other songs to play,

Upon this day of reckoning,

But the songs of Englishmen.

Is not that, too, the right of Englishmen,

By breath and blood and bone,

To pipe melodies of shared memories

At this fraternal funeral?

New waves of regiments roll forward

In a sunny scarlet surge,

Trained to move as a single machine

And keep their eyes to the front.

Wait for the whites of those eyes,

And maybe the colors, too—

Sky blue, or grass green, 

Earth brown, or cloud gray,

Or the starkness of midnight black,

Or the rare in-between hues

Of violet or hazel,

Or eyes that shift in shade

When fear or pain enlighten them.

They say eyes are windows to souls,

And in this melting moment, 

Before souls are torn from bodies,

They are a machine no more.

Only men.

The guns rattle,

Then go pop, pop, pop,

All at once,

Then one at a time,

Mowing down the brick-red boys,

Hands hard from double drill,

Then picking off the crimson sashes,

The pride of island heraldry.

Yes, they are taking out the leaders,

Tearing open their chests,

And painting them purple,

Along with their lips,

Moving, then not moving,

Trying for a final order,

Or a message,

Or a prayer.

Men, high born and low,

Twitch in the salt-grass

And wash it warm

With the flow of their hearts

And mouths.

The fife is shrill, the drum hollow,

Just like the empty sockets

In the faces of the slain,

Left with one eye less.

Mocking, the tune repeats:

With a tow-row-row-row-row-row-row

For the British Grenadiers!

The sun punishes the players

And those meeting the music,

Sweat falling with the blood

And blinding everyone.

Now British songs are drowned out

By British screams,

And William Howe still stands,

Alone, of all the officers, 

Crystal tears upon his cheeks,

Too shocked to escape,

With his men stretched, slain, at his feet.

He vowed they would go no farther

Than he himself would lead.

But fate is cruel, and merciful,

And he remains standing, staring

Up at the enemy.

Putnam is at the top, pistols primed,

And surely he knows the eyes

Of William Howe, 

Not so unlike those of his brother,

George Augustus Howe, the Young Lord,

Who died in Putnam’s arms

In the last war, before the wedge

Was driven between kindred.

Yes, George, beloved and revered

By Britons on both sides the sea,

A noble with a common touch,

The future of the army and his house.

And when he died, he left a gap,

Yes, an ocean’s span,

That none could bridge.

Poor William nearly starved himself,

Surrendering to his grief,

And Wolfe, Quebec’s hero,

Said he should be forced to eat.

Now, upon this harrowing hill,

The old wounds reopen,

As Putnam spares Howe,

A lone survivor in the eye of the storm.

God knows when Sir William

Will manage food again.

Now, here comes the judgemental 

 And the third charge of crimson.

Pitcairn rouses the Marines,

Shouting and swearing in his Scots burr,

Rough around the edges, and real.

Even the Bostonians warmed to him,

For all his threats of fire and sword.

There was something paternal about him,

A gruff, yet genial, presence,

Dark humor and straight talk, 

Sharing news from Betty and the children,

And biting his salty tongue on the Lord’s Day.

He is a family man and a minister’s son,

Almost too easy to know.

And yet…he must die.

Twice wounded, he will not retire,

And scorns the sun in all her might.

He is the glory of the Marines,

And the day is their own.

But now the guns blaze bright again,

Yes, even Pitcairn’s pistols,

Captured by Putnam, months before,

And Pitcairn falls, 

Four bullets in the breast.

His life’s blood sprays upon his soldier-son

Who catches and carries him

Upon his back, down to the ferry,

And, kissing him, returns to fight.

Later, 

That same son will wander the streets,

Still gore-soaked,

Murmuring,

“I have lost my father,

I have lost my father,

I have lost my father…” 

And some Marines, nearby, reply:

“We have all lost a father!”

At last,

The redcoats take the hill.

Now the bayonets are gleaming,

Impaling poor Boston boys,

And musket butts are brandished,

Bashing in their brains

There are farmers sons here,

On both sides, that should be one side,

From Old and New England,

Born in villages of the same name.

Yes, dirt is under their fingernails,

And soon, dirt will be over their heads.

Now Captain Small stands on the mound,

Screaming at General Warren,

His old friend, now foe,

To lay down his arms!

Warren just smiles.

And then he is dead,

A bullet through his brain.

And the British captain blocks 

His own aide’s bayonet

From thrusting through the corpse.

It is Britannia’s victory…

But another such victory would ruin her.

Soon,

Rain washes down the hill,

Cold and clean,

Red dye weaving rivers

To the sea.

Such drops form tears

Upon ashen cheeks,

And fill empty eyes

Looking up into the sky,

With an innocence unknown to them

Since the day of birth,

When all are equal in vulnerability

And swaddled in the mystery

That is God.

As it was in the beginning…

Is now.