Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

‘Had. They’re probably all frazzled to a crisp by now.’

  He was being melodramatic, I was sure, but I did not like the idea of a Pubescent Pete you could snap in two.

  I was in two minds whether to commandeer the boat in the name of the British Army and force him to return – especially as it looked exciting back there, in contrast to the dreariness of the place we were inching towards – but as Dick was clearly weakened by seasickness and not much interested in anything at the moment, I could not muster up sufficient resolve one way or the other. Besides, what Dougal could get up to upon receipt of a practised command added a wild card element to my calculations that made further pursuance of them futile. We drifted on.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Fatty, ‘if you do go back you will get roped into all the backbreaking rebuilding work once the fire is out.’

  This was the clincher I’d been looking for. I slumped back in my seat, a great burden lifted. Relaxed, I now began to study the fire with the eyes of an artist, and I took exquisite pleasure in picking out the subtle gradations of red that might comprise the top half of a composition. The pleasure was doubled when I realized that this fire was an event of world-shattering importance, and would be talked and written about until the end of Time. My bravery, forced or otherwise, was paying dividends again. Had I not been impressed, had I not taken that fateful decision in Portsmouth to see it through, I would still be languishing in Brighthelmstone now, witnessing nothing more thought-provoking than the annual village marrow contest. But now, like a pocket Antony, I was striding the world’s stage – or rather bobbing on it – and my veins throbbed with vigour and delight. I knew I had notched up another Sublime Moment, and I felt my Soul gurgle again as the nourishment went down. A few more such Moments, preferably sexual next time, and I could die with complete satisfaction, the riches of Life having been drained to the lees. I only hoped the Hackensack Valley madmen would recognise this intensity of spirituality steaming off me, and not pop me off like some common rogue. Dying was one thing – dying before I had tasted Woman was another.

  13

  Booksellers

  As we approached the New Jersey shore, it became increasingly apparent that the colony was not as empty as it looked from a distance. The bank, on closer inspection, was lined with hundreds of shadowy spectators who were watching the fire as if it were a bonfire display. Whenever a church went crashing to the ground in flames, or a cache of ammunition blew up, they cheered and applauded as if it were the most wonderful entertainment in the world.

  ‘Somewhere amongst that lot,’ said Fatty, surveying the crowd thoughtfully, ‘will be an officer from the fort to meet you.’

  ‘Fort?’ I said. ‘What fort?’

  Fatty laughed, and muttered something derogatory about the intelligence-gathering ability of the British Army.

  ‘The one that’s been there since the spring.’

  ‘A fort, eh?’ I said to Dick, kicking the dog’s boots. ‘Fancy.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is,’ slurred groggy Dick, head slumped on his chest, ‘it could be a pigsty for all I care, as long as ‘tis somewhere to rest for the night.’

  I chortled again, this time outwardly, though I confess tiredness was starting to eat away at me too. Thankfully we were not too far from disembarkation, as Fatty confirmed ten minutes later.

  ‘Arrival of the Paulus Hook Ferry!’ he shouted with his usual sense of worth, as he threw a rope at a mooring post on the landing stage. ‘All return journeys cancelled until further notice!’

  Getting off the ferry was considerably easier than getting on it, thanks to a wider, slimefree gangplank and a multitude of hands to help haul us ashore. Once off, though, we were rushed at and bombarded with questions by the excited crowd.

  ‘What news of the fire, boys?’

  ‘Where did it start?’

  ‘Do you know who started it?’

  ‘Was it an accident or was it sabotage?’

  Retreating before the onslaught, we were on the verge of being pushed straight back into the Hudson when Cedric took it upon himself to amble up the gangplank on his back legs. This silenced the crowd for a moment, then they all went ‘Whoah!’ as he kept on advancing towards them. With the leading citizens extending their arms sideways to shield the community, the crowd backed off in a semi-circle and waited nervously for his next movement.

  ‘Cedric, what is it, fellah?’ called one of the citizens. ‘Has the fire upset you?’

  Cedric stopped to peer around short-sightedly. Then he continued his stately advance towards the petrified onlookers, who could retreat no more. Wriggling against each other like maggots, their faces all screwed up in terror, they began to flinch in anticipation of the killer blow. No doubt wondering why they were acting so strangely, Cedric stopped again a flea’s leap away from them. Then, probably still puzzled, he simply stretched out his paw and started shaking hands with them one by one. The relief of the reprieved was palpable, and joy spread through the crowd in an instant. The semi-circle closed in like a pincer movement as everybody cheered and clamoured to shake hands with Cedric, and this diverted attention from us nicely. We were just about to slip away when a young man on horseback emerged out of the mêlée and approached us.

  ‘Friends of Mr Woodbine, I guess?’

  Amazed, I confirmed that we were, and instantly upgraded my rating of Mr Woodbine’s ability; perhaps he wasn’t such a charlatan after all, and therefore perhaps he had actually slept with Catherine the Great. The mind boggled.

  ‘My name is Captain Roper of the 1st New Jersey Regiment of Foot. I’m here to escort you to your quarters for the night. You must be tired.’

  ‘Shattered,’ groaned Dick, head hanging down, hands on kneecaps.

  ‘In that case follow me. As you can see, the fort isn’t far.’

  Three things struck me here: One, why did Captain Roper not beat Dick to a pulp for addressing him with such casualness? Two, why was the captain speaking with a strong American twang? And three, why was his ragged coat blue? I looked up at the fort’s tall wooden fence not two hundred yards away, noted the tiny silhouettes of heads and muskets sticking out of the top, and experienced a keen sensation of ground shifting beneath me. I tried to frame a question that would confirm all without revealing our own allegiances.

  ‘So has your regiment seen any action in the war so far, Captain?’

  ‘About two months ago, genle’men,’ the captain called down from his horse, as we followed him on foot. ‘We exchanged fire with a couple of British warships as they sailed up the river. Gave as good as we got.’

  I suppressed a shriek, and nudged Dick with my elbow to warn him of our predicament, but he just grunted and swung a tired arm at me in irritation.

  ‘You genle’men mighty fortunate to escape the fire. I hope your books are as lucky.’

  Heart pounding, I quickly donned my country accent and desperately tried to remember the storyline we were peddling.

  ‘Oh, they were ruined as soon as the British arrived.’ My accent, tilting and rolling in all directions, sounded ridiculous, and I wished I’d spent my last night of freedom practising it, but it seemed to pass muster with the captain. ‘Dragoons pissed all over them.’

  ‘Lot of pee-iss,’ observed the captain.

  ‘Not many books,’ I said, ‘but they were valuable. Then Mr Woodbine kindly took us in and helped to arrange our journey to Philadelphia, where our second bookshop is located.’

  Captain Roper turned around and stared down hard into our faces. My heart raced fit to burst.

  ‘Why, you don’t look much older than me. You should stay and fight with us instead. Get your revenge and serve your country at the same time. Or are you…’ Captain Roper leaned as far as he could off his horse, and hissed a word into my face with great menace, ‘…Tories?’

  I could not get my denial out quick enough, and explained that we intended to join up with a Pennsylvania regiment as soon as we had
finished our business in Philadelphia.

  ‘Mighty pleased to hear it,’ he said, relaxing back in his saddle. ‘We have no friendly dealings with people of that persuasion.’

  I turned to Dick again and punched him with anger; I hated him for leaving me to deal with all this strain on my own. This time he responded by swearing at me and lashing out with his foot.

  ‘Seems like that partner of yours has been spending too much time with the British,’ said the captain, without turning round. ‘Sounds like them, has a nasty temper like them.’

  ‘He’s just tired and seasick and drunk,’ I defended. ‘Nothing a good sleep won’t cure.’

  I marvelled at my own powers of improvisation in the face of adversity, but I was glad to see that my punch had brought a little life back to Dick. He was now looking at me quizzically as I mouthed the word Rebels and pointed up to Captain Roper. It took a few seconds for Dick’s brain to absorb the information, but when it did the look of dismay that crossed his face would have been comical had our position not been so perilous. His eyes and mouth shot open, and an obscene exclamation silently appeared at his lips. After looking around for means of escape, he presented me with a hot little mime of running away, but I pointed up at the soldiers on the parapets, whose hats and muskets weren’t so tiny any more, and shook my head. Though their attention was on the fire and not us, it looked as if there would be nowhere to hide if we did run away; the fort, it seemed, was Paulus Hook.

  So, throwing in our lot with Fate, we let ourselves be led into the encampment. Upon receipt of a password from Captain Roper, a pair of cheerful boys in rags opened the gates and before us spread a flat, open space about a third of a mile wide. A few knolls rose up here and there, and on the biggest and most central of these was a wooden barricade with several cannon pointing out to sea. Of the brick buildings dotted around the perimeter, the largest resembled a barracks, and above this flew a flag with a few stars and stripes on it.

  ‘General Mercer would like a word with you before I show you to your beds for the night, gen’lemen,’ said Captain Roper, dismounting from his horse and handing the reins to some underling. ‘Just gotta find him.’

  Dick and I exchanged another secret look of horror, and waited in trepidation amidst a milling throng of Rebel soldiers.

  ‘I’ll bloody kill Taylor Woodbine when I see him next,’ whispered Dick. ‘Why did the fool not tell us about this?’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to throw us in at the deep end, to see if we could survive.’

  ‘I’ll throw him in at the deep end when I find him, the bloody….’

  There was no time to whinge more, as a platoon of soldiers carrying firelocks and flambeaux shambled close by us in a very slovenly manner. They were dressed in brown or grey hunting frocks and had a startling variety of headwear, ranging from huge fur hats to little leather caps upturned at the front. Some had no shoes on their feet, and all looked skeletal, as though they hadn’t eaten for a week. A few gave us menacing, dead-eyed stares as they passed, but most were as excited as children about the conflagration across the river.

  ‘It’s a beaut, Nathan.’

  ‘That should smoke a few Tories out of their ratholes.’

  ‘Never seen a darn thang like it in my life.’

  Tired and scared though I was, it was fascinating listening to these colonists speak. But accents and dress apart, and contrary to what I had imagined, they did not seem a lot different to Dick and me. I was still contemplating this revelation when Captain Roper returned.

  ‘I have located him, genle’men. Please follow me.’

  We were led to one of the two-storey brick buildings with lights burning in the windows. Once past the sentry and up the stairs we were shown into a room crammed with well-fed, aristocratic-looking senior officers, all in blue coats with gold epaulettes. They seemed to be earnestly discussing the implications of the fire, judging by the way they kept bending down to peer out of the windows at it, but one by one they fell silent as they noticed us. Eventually only one man was left holding the floor, and this, we deduced, was General Mercer.

  ‘Ah, my booksellers have arrived. Excuse me, gentlemen. I will not be long.’

  Dismissing Captain Roper and leaving a gallery of puzzled faces behind him, General Mercer shook hands with us and briskly led us into another room along the corridor. Though sparsely furnished, it did have two wooden cribs in it, and these we gazed at longingly.

  ‘Do not worry, gentlemen,’ said General Mercer, following our eyes, ‘you will be in them soon. But first, please take a seat.’

  He sat down opposite us and placed his hands on his knees. He was about fifty years old, of slim build, with greying hair and wispy sideburns. Though clearly authoritative and intelligent, he also had a thoroughly decent look about him, as though he could be trusted to rebuff a vulnerable nymphomaniac. I liked him immediately, despite his obvious Scotch ancestry, and in different circumstances would have liked nothing better than to discuss the world with him over a bottle of port.

  ‘First, perhaps you would be so kind as to show me your papers so we can get the formalities out of the way.’

  At least we had expected this request and had them ready sifted from the more incriminating items in our coats.

  ‘Good,’ he said, giving them a cursory glance and handing them back, ‘I will ask no more questions of your provenance; Mr Woodbine’s recommendation is good enough for me. He sends me only the finest spies, and I have no reason to doubt his choice this time.’ He gave us a manly nod of respect, then arrowed straight into the purpose of the meeting. ‘Now, what I would like from you gentlemen, if you so please, is your opinion on the battle footing of the British army. Will it be crossing the Hudson any time soon?’

  This question caught me unawares, and I began to panic as the general leaned forward and bored his questing blue eyes into our faces. Fortunately, Dick had recovered sufficiently to take over the mantle of responsibility, and he managed to improvise a response of such epic woolliness that I watched fascinated as the general’s eyes went from eager to interested to bored to desperate. Finally, unable to stand the barrage of verbiage any more, he cut Dick short and rose abruptly.

  ‘Thank you for that, er, information, gentlemen. Most useful. Now, I will leave you to your rest. We will have horses ready for your morning departure. You are visiting Mr De Witt in Hoboken first, I understand. Give him our regards, and report back to us often. We need all the news you can gather of active Tories, and – before very much longer I am sure – all the news you can gather on the British army in New Jersey. Good luck, and remember that though the work you are doing is dangerous, it is all in the glorious cause of Liberty. Future generations of Americans will be forever in your debt.’

  He shook our hands and hurried away, closing the door behind him. Dick and I sighed deeply with relief, then collapsed on the beds with exhaustion.

  ‘Good work, Dick,’ I whispered. ‘Blather of the highest order.’

  ‘I’m completely lost now, though,’ Dick whispered back. ‘Whose side is Taylor Woodbine on? Whose side is De Witt on? Whose side are we on?’

  ‘Absolutely no idea. But we have to decide now whether to go on with our mission or return to New York and denounce Taylor Woodbine as a double spy.’

  With oblivion fast approaching we did not have time to ponder long.

  ‘I think we should continue with our mission,’ said Dick, dreams of desertion no doubt egging him on. ‘This might be the toughest ordeal we will ever face. If we come through it in one piece, think how easy and enjoyable the rest of our tour will be.’

  It sounded plausible, but I was too tired to think about it any more.

  ‘We’ll try and work it out tomorrow,’ I yawned. ‘Let us just be thankful that we managed to talk ourselves out of a terrible mess tonight. Goodnight.’

  I pulled the rough cloth blanket up to my chin, watched the reflected light of the flames flickering on the
opposite wall of the room for a few moments, and pegged out. No more than five minutes seemed to have gone by before there was a loud prolonged knocking on the door.

  ‘Horses are ready, gentlemen! Time to be up and away!’

  ‘Horses?’ I whispered, after several seconds of incomprehension. ‘What horses?’

  ‘The bloody ones that General Mercer told us about last night,’ croaked Dick, groaning with misery at being disturbed.

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘Then you weren’t listening.’

  ‘But I cannot ride!’

  Dick groaned again.

  ‘According to my map,’ I babbled, panic rising within me, ‘the whole valley is only fifteen miles from end to end. Why can’t we just walk it?’

  ‘Suppose we get into trouble? Suppose the Rebels sniff us out? Do you think we’ll be able to outpace their spurred horses with a leisurely stroll? They’re all Paul Reveres out here, you know; speed is in their blood.’

  Accepting the premise of Dick’s argument, I rose stiffly and squinted out of the window. It seemed sometime around mid-morning, and the night-time drama of New York in flames had become the more sober salon topic of New York in smoke. Grey columns of it billowed slowly into the clear blue sky, so that Manhattan Island reminded me of a picture I had once seen of the ancient town of Pompeii, after the volcano there had erupted. Food for thought though this image was, it was nothing compared to the sight that awaited me when I looked down into the parade ground. Two of the biggest horses I had ever seen were being held by a cross-eyed soldier right under our window.

  ‘They’re bloody huge, Dick!’ I exclaimed with fright.

  ‘What are?’

  ‘Our horses!’

  ‘Good. More power to escape.’

  I groaned, and remembered with disadvantages the summer of 1769 when, in an attempt to gentrify me, my mother and father had bought me a piebald nag of twelve hands which I was allowed to christen Swift, after my favourite author at the time. Thinking I had my very own Houyhnhnm to frisk with, I was keen to learn to ride him and enter into that much vaunted union with the noblest member of the animal kingdom. I visualized day trips as far afield as Hampshire, Surrey and Kent, full of poetic reverie and contemplation, with Swift as my constant companion and confidant. I also envisaged, once my daily poetic burden had been lifted, exciting romps with lonely young human fillies on the way home, while Swift stood by ready for dramatic escapes from outraged fathers. But alas for me, Poetry and the ladies, none of this came to pass. Swift proved to be mean, vicious and stupid, whose main pleasures in life were biting me and depositing steaming piles of dung on our front doorstep. I barely managed a mile out of him before I gave the whole thing up as a bad job, citing the beast’s interference with my artistic temperament. My parents howled, I howled, and Swift was sold off to gypsies. I had hated horses, and by association the author of Gulliver’s Travels, ever since.