January 6th, 1776
Several fellows of our Company were today detached to be taken up the James, that they might secure provisions. We wish them luck.
Several of the women of the Dunluce were rowed to our ship this day to call for our laundry, which they propose to beat and boil in the galley of their ship, that it might be rid of the grease and smoke of battle, which contribute not a little to the oppressive fumes of our dark hold.
I record only this fact, several women come aboard, but Oh! how much might such an unassuming phrase conceal from the ignorant or convey to he who wrote it; how doth the heart, barely able to wish, sing in such constrained phrases; and how oft doth beaming hope come masked by daily round.
Miss Nsia was in the number of the washerwomen, and, with confusion of humility, came to my side and inquired whether Private Nothing wished his clothes washed; to which I assented gratefully.
Then transpired my confusion, for I wore them, and knew not how with delicacy to change my dress with the ladies present.
She awaited my clothes, and I, without a word — unable to refer with propriety to undress — stood hapless and motionless.
At length, she prompted gently, “If Sir wish his clothes washed, he must needs give them to me in my hand.”
“Prince O.,” said Bono, coming to my side, “you look like you been slugged with a maul.” He bowed to Miss Nsia. “But who wouldn’t be stupefied by such charms and excellences?”
Still involved in my perplexity, I exclaimed piteously, “I am wearing my shirt.”
They both regarded me; after which Bono, who knew not the cause of my consternation, granted cautiously, “That you are, Prince O. Yes, indeed.” He explained, “This boy is a rare genius, proclaimed by all the gentlemen of Boston. He recognize his own breeches, too.”
She smiled; this did I see. Anger flared in my breast at Bono’s jesting, for I perceived the glint of the knife-edge in it; and I said, “I am — I apologize, Mademoiselle — I am confounded — I — as to where to change my dress that will not offend.”
Bono took my arm and pointed back at some casks, where I saw dim movement. “There’s men removing the old garments behind the pork, Prince O. Why don’t you repair there and change and I’ll engage this fine lady til you return so she don’t become listless a-waiting.”
I took my leave of them, my breast a welter of shame, longing, and pique; before I was three steps away, I perceived, Bono was already well on his way to introducing a relation of his heroism during the late assault. “Our clothes,” he said, “got somewhat fusty in the rebels’ little New Year’s callithump. They’re rowdy boys, and I reckon they knocked down a candle during their celebrations.”
He talked on while I retired.
I returning in my old white shirt, with my oznabrig and breeches in my hand, I found the two of them engaged in lively converse.
“So I held my bayonet at his throat, and he submitted,” Bono said. “I tied him to the wagon.”
I bowed again to announce my return.
Miss Nsia said, “Private Williams been telling me about him and you in the fires. How you tie the bandage for that man.”
“Without expertise, I fear, which might have proved fatal.”
“I am sorry,” said Miss Nsia. “But you still brave for to try.”
“Sweet Saint Pete,” exclaimed Bono, “do I see velveteen breeches?”
“I had no other,” said I. “’Twas these which I wore when I listed.”
Bono commenced to laugh. “Velveteen,” said he. “That’s fine. That is very fine, Prince O. A city is burning outside, we’re on a ship sending over bombs, our artillery been repulsed, the whole town is one big ruin, and our friend, he’s dying on the hospital ship — and then comes you, ready for a minuet at Ranelagh.” He explained to our lovely companion, “In London. Ranelagh.”
“I wore them,” said I, “when I played the violin with a band of music in Boston.”
Bono could not conceal nor restrain his mirth. “Daintily done! Daintily done!” he said, and Miss Nsia smiled at his horse-laugh.
“I have,” said I with dignity, “my garments here, and I thank Miss Nsia for her assiduity in arranging for their washing at a time when to travel between ships is a matter of some hazard.”
“Prince O. is a very fine talker, when he talks and don’t just stare.”
“I am sure he is,” said Miss Nsia. “I come here back with the clothes on the morrow, if the boat come.”
“You can hope there ain’t a sortie tonight, Prince O. Or if there is, you can pirouette after the enemy to fright them.”
With this, we bade farewell to the damsel, and were left to each other’s company.
“You were not wrong,” said Bono. “She is a tearing fine specimen. She got excellent reserve. Not so confounded get-at-able.”
His coarseness repelled me; that she who I worshipped as a being almost celestial, whose music had so deeply touched the springs of my being, should in turn be valued by one who could not comprehend her merits, was a matter of strangulating distaste; and I could not bear to be near my friend. There was no place to go, though; no motion possible in that straitened space; and so I was suffered to sit nearby him as he mocked my breeches further and regaled our companions with tales of how I had once been preferred in the College of Lucidity, a tale told with all the trinkets of endearment —“sweet boy,” “my friend,” “this dear lad”— but conducing only to my shame as I observed Private Harrison’s smirk, the merriment of Charles and the others who did not think it cruel, their relief at diversion.
The air still smells of burning.