A walk to clear my head was in order, so I followed Sophie’s suggestion and headed off to the river, net in hand. Unfortunately for my composure, I had not strolled far when I came upon an old tree, very gnarled and defaced with engravings. Examining it closely, my heart sank as the name Sophie cropped up with disturbing frequency. It could have been a different Sophie, of course, or several different Sophies, but Verne & Sophie Did It Against This Tree, August 15th, 1772 looked ominous, as did DD ♥SBM and Nancy 52 Sophie 38. Brow furrowing ever deeper, eventually I could take no more, and walked on in the direction of the river, in more of a mood to join the fish than to catch them. I could not help but wonder whether Dick had been right after all. Perhaps Sophie was a fireship, and had just set in motion the slow but sure conflagration that would eventually burn me up before my race was run. I felt damnably stupid and frightened. However, the walk, the weather, the scenery, and finally the sight of the sparkling water gradually dispelled my fears, or at least put them in a healthier perspective. If Sophie had had lovers before me, so what? If Sophie returned to these lovers after I was hung as a spy, so what? If Sophie had just administered the Knock of Death, so what? I was a soldier after all, a member of the same glorious fraternity as Achilles, Ajax, Marlborough and Axelrod, and soldiers did not fret about things over which they had no control. What was done was done, and all the rest was unknown. I would therefore play it by ear and see what developed. In the meantime, I would get on with my Night Thoughts and my fishing, and draw comforting analogies from the staggering amount of fish in the Hackensack River – hundreds of which even I could catch, contemplate and return at will. Whether, metaphorically speaking, I would chuck Sophie back in the water and replace her with another, remained to be seen.
25
The Liberty Belles
So began the life of a kept man, a sort of threadbare Continental version of the life I might have led in Sussex, had Burnley Axelrod not intervened. I had my wench, my pot, some food, a fishing net, and plenty of spare time in which to compose my Night Thoughts, had I felt like doing so. Admittedly, ‘twas not a life of swaggering adventure, as advocated by Burnley, but then what was adventure as commonly understood but a series of stepping stones across the river of life, terminating usually in a slip, a splash and an early grave? No, I became a devotee of domestic bliss and its surer excitements, such as the sight of Sophie approaching across the sunlit fields at evening time. What strange delicacies would she bring with her? What would she say when she arrived? What wonderful things would she make me say? How would we make each other laugh? How good would the loving be? Would it be tender, would it be rough? What soaring heights of spiritual rapture would we reach when lolling at last in post-coital bliss? The plethora of possibilities quite dazed me, and sometimes I felt physically sick with anticipation and longing, as if I had just eaten a double portion of squirrel pie.
Sometimes she would bring a newspaper with her, usually some Rebel rag such as the Hackensack Courier, and we would examine its contents to see how the war was progressing. However, I tried to dissuade her from this practice on two counts. Firstly, it took Sophie’s attention away from me, making her furious at the British for their alleged atrocities; secondly, I was afraid the newspaper would mention me in some capacity and blow my cover, with disastrous consequences for Dick and I. But, to my secret chagrin, the editors had never heard of me, preferring to report instead the escape of some poor black or indentured servant. ‘There,’ said Sophie, pointing one such report out to me, ‘I told you it was dangerous, just running away.’ ‘Yes,’ I sneered laughingly, ‘but who in these times would seriously keep a lookout for a…’ I squinted and read, ‘…an even-tempered girl, about 17 years of age, 5’4” tall, of swarthy complexion, answering to the name of Polly Woodruff. Reward $3. Matters of greater import are afoot. Anyway, the reports are just there to deter any would-be runaways. I’ll bet masters read the lists out to their servants, with prophylaxis in mind.’
‘Mmm,’ pondered Sophie, ‘Verne does, ‘tis true. But I tell you again, Harry, New Jersey is not New York. Strangers are noticed here, and it would not surprise me if back copies of the Courier are scoured every time a rabbit pokes its head above a burrow. There’s easy money to be made, after all, and money is God to most people here, despite their professions of Christian faith.’
‘So was I noticed then?’ I said cunningly. ‘And if so, by whom?’
‘Aye, as I told you – by Captain Bartlett of the New Continental Army.’
‘Ah yes,’ I sighed, with every indication of boredom. ‘I’d forgotten. My marksmanship or something, wasn’t it?’
Sophie looked at me, and I knew my secret exultation had been detected.
‘Forgotten, my club foot!’ said Sophie, kicking me playfully but painfully with the exclaimed article. ‘Anyway, being noticed by Captain Bartlett is nothing to be proud of – he may be a Captain now but only two months ago he was a failed tallow chandler, and you can’t get much lower than that.’
‘I thought highness and lowness were Old World concepts, unrevolutionary.’
‘Don’t get clever with me, Sir,’ said Sophie, suddenly formal and on her guard. ‘I know these people; you don’t.’
The nap was still on our relationship, so I did not go a-hunting, but if I managed to escape hanging, one of these days I would go after her theories with the same relish I now went after her delightful body. I was still after it when a faint knocking was heard on the barn door.
‘Captain Mecklenburg?’ called a faint female voice. ‘Are you in there?’
Though the arrival of the Liberty Belles was expected, it still caught us off-guard, and we were damnably flustered.
‘One moment,’ gasped Sophie, disentangling herself from my hungry grasp. ‘One moment, my lovely rogues.’ Then, hissingly, to me: ‘Hide, Harry, quick. Up in the hayloft as arranged. Keep quiet until I give the signal.’
Sighing, I trudged dutifully up the rickety ladder. Even though I’d agreed to this undertaking voluntarily, I did not like the reality of taking orders again. Nor did I like the faint fluttering that now started in the pit of my stomach, which, if I was not mistaken, was the beginnings of stage fright, that abominable condition so admirably limned in the occasional newspaper pieces of Mr David Garrick, and which had so deterred me from embarking upon an otherwise easy career on the stage myself.
So, duly reduced to a pair of eyes in the hay, I watched with keen anticipation as the Belles were admitted into the barn. Expecting a motley collection of social misfits, a female equivalent of the 85th Foot, I was astonished to see enter one delicate beauty after another, each saluting Sophie with an open hand to the eyebrow, until lined up in front of me were seven stunners no King, however mad, would want to risk losing by excessive taxation. Indeed, had not my hunger for love been satisfied so comprehensively of late by Sophie, I fear the sight of them would have turned my wits once and for all. As it was, I was able to view the spectacle in a state not far short of equanimity; or at least that was the case until the girls seated themselves languidly on the bales of hay that Sophie and I had arranged earlier, and then my heart started to thump at a noticeably faster rate.
‘Fine new horse in the stable, I hear,’ said one girl who looked vaguely familiar, ‘Spoils of war?’
‘Indeed so, Nancy,’ said Sophie. ‘Would that we had more.’
The other girls bowed their heads sheepishly, conscious of failure; two even wrung their lovely hands in agony. I hoped for their sakes and mine – for I could not love a cruel woman – that Sophie was not going to lambast them for their failure to attend the Muster.
‘Could I begin by asking where everybody was on Saturday, bearing in mind the promises you gave me last Thursday?’
‘I could not get away, Captain,’ said a pale, red-haired girl breathlessly. ‘My master locked me in a cupboard just as I was about to sneak out. ‘Twas dreadful…stifling…spiders too…big ones…’
&n
bsp; ‘Scoundrel!’ fumed Sophie, taking an impulsive strike at the ground with her stick.
‘But I couldn’t help it, Captain! Honestly I couldn’t. He was too strong for me.’
‘Not you! Him!’ Sophie reached for a book she called her Crimes Diary and began to scribble furiously, reading aloud as she went. ‘11th September 1776. Obadiah Calthorpe did forcibly restrain Lucy Weatherall from attending village muster. Locked in stifling cupboard with spiders. Anything else since last Thursday?’
‘Only the usual, Captain.’
‘Verbal abuse and Tory sympathies?’
‘Aye.’
Verbal abuse and Tory sympathies contemptuously noted, Sophie extracted voluntary excuses from each of the absentees in turn. These ranged from Fear Of Meeting Gorgeous Jonathan Deane With Another (Vanessa Laversham), to Sheer Fright Of Large Crowds After All (the refreshingly honest Dinah Faraday). Only the handwringers and lipchewers, I noted with particular interest, failed to give coherent reasons, mumbling something about Dark Stains On The Soul Of Man, before falling silent, and chilling the barn.
‘There, there,’ said Sophie, patting each on the shoulder, ‘I understand. I’m not blaming you.’ She turned to the Brigade in general. ‘In fact, I’m not blaming anyone. I just need to gather information so that problem areas can be identified, and remedies, if possible, applied. As long as you honestly tried to do something you had not attempted before, I cannot be angry, but…’ Sophie paused with one finger held aloft for dramatic effect, hypnotizing the reassured Brigade and me. She was a lovely little performer, far better than any British officer I had encountered. I was all ears, entranced. ‘…but, I say, Time Runneth Apace, and it will not be long now before the soldiers of the most rapacious, vindictive, destructive Nation on earth arrive here in this very barn, and we are no nearer than we were four months ago to mastering the art of self-defence. Bad as it is, Lucy, to be locked in a cupboard with spiders the size of hands, ‘tis as nothing to the horrors and degradations the British will visit upon you.’
Now all wrung their hands except Nancy, who licked her lips, and one Melanie Urquhart, who piped up unexpectedly.
‘They weren’t so bad when they were here before, my Papa said.’
‘That’s because you were only a child during the French and Indian War, Melanie – not the beautiful young woman you are today.’
Melanie lowered her sooty lashes, and allowed herself a bashful smile. My loins twitched involuntarily.
‘So where are they now?’ asked Dinah tremulously. ‘The British, I mean.’
‘Still in New York,’ revealed Sophie with great confidence, ‘but my sources indicate that movement is imminent. And when they move, they move fast.’ I saw Sophie’s eyes light up at the ready-made simile to hand. ‘In fact,’ she went on, hobbling with apparent unconcern over to Lucy’s side, ‘…they move…’ Unbeknownst to the placid Lucy, she raised her wriggling fingers just over her neck, and poised for the strike, ‘…VERY MUCH LIKE SPIDERS!’ Lightly and quickly, she ran her fingers up and down the back of Lucy’s neck, in imitation of that astonishing insect. The sudden switch to levity was a clear miscalculation on Sophie’s part, however, for Lucy, though shrieking and jumping as expected, did so without noticeable pleasure. On the contrary, she appeared to tremble most profoundly for the rest of the meeting. Undaunted and unapologetic like a true leader, Sophie eventually – after a coughing and giggling fit lasting some minutes – resumed the talk in her former measured, sober tones, going on to relate to her troops the necessity for continued vigilance, perseverance, and – Sophie’s favourite phrase of late – Common Sense. Eventually, the meeting began to wind down, and so sure was I that Sophie had forgotten my aerial presence that my nerves began to wind down too. With mingled emotions of relief and regret, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be called upon to assist after all.
To end the session, Sophie wearily asked for a volunteer to step forward. This seemed to be a weekly ritual, for there were no expected flutters of apprehension at the request, and the lovelorn Vanessa stepped forward with comparative boldness.
‘Good girl,’ said Sophie, positioning her by the shoulders to a spot immediately below me, ‘Now stand there.’
This command was given with such an impressive show of lassitude that for a few moments even I was seduced into thinking that Sophie was acting without ulterior motive. Then my heart surged back into life as I realized that Sophie’s brain had been at work all the time, and that the weariness had just been show. Nervously, making a quick mental note to watch out for this same consummate deviousness in our personal affairs, I steeled myself for action.
‘Now then,’ said Sophie. ‘Suppose a British dragoon were to appear in front of you this very second, snarling and spitting and cursing – calling you a Damned Rebel and a Damned Whore. What would you do?’
‘She’d panic, Captain.’
‘I’m not asking you, Nancy, I’m asking Vanessa.’
‘I’d ask him his business,’ said Vanessa, as if remembering a well-rehearsed litany. ‘Not forgetting the Sir.’
‘Good – and then?’
‘Then she’d panic,’ called the ever-saucy Nancy.
‘Ignore her, Vanessa. And then?’
‘Then I’d ask him the reason for his profanity. And I would follow that question up by asking him if he was a man of God.’
‘Good. ‘Tis unlikely he will be, of course, but ‘tis worth a try. So let’s assume he isn’t. What then?’
Vanessa struggled to remember. While murmuring some catechism to the roofbeams, she slowly tapped each of the fingertips of her right hand with her right thumb. Eventually, all points ticked off, a brain cell fired.
‘Oh yes – I’d ask him how he’d feel if his wife or daughter were being spoken to in such an aggressive manner by a strange man.’
Sophie turned to address her audience, some of whom were discreetly yawning behind their sleeves.
‘Aye, this might give him pause for thought. An appeal to any tender part of his nature may pay more dividends than the God gambit. But knowing what I do about these dogs, the chances are still high that he has no wife or daughter; a result either of bestial bachelorhood, or of murdering them in a drunken rage. So that leaves, Vanessa…?’
‘Just the poor, lonely virgin card, Captain.’
‘Aye,’ said Sophie, casting an ironical glance at Nancy, ‘a card easier for some to play than others, no doubt. But there’s a danger here that your very innocence and perfection of behaviour will inflame him even more. So, assuming the very worst, he now grabs you by the shoulders and starts getting violent. His foul breath is all over you, his language is hideous, his eyes are like two balls of flaming pitch. The only course of action open to you as a Liberty Belle is…what?’
‘Furious counterattack by any means to hand,’ chanted the girls listlessly, having heard it all before. ‘Stab, gouge, kick, shoot. Above all, keep screaming. Minutemen are not deaf.’
‘Might this not inflame the attacker even more?’
‘Not if you stab, gouge, kick and shoot correctly,’ they droned.
‘Good,’ said Sophie. ‘You never know what is going to inflame the rogue; acquiescence is as likely to result in disaster as resistance, so you may as well resist.’
Lucy for one looked doubtful, but bowed to Sophie’s greater understanding of the subject, if greater understanding she had.
‘So, Vanessa, you think you could do all that if the real-life situation arose?’
‘Oh I’ll be all right, Captain, don’t you worry.’
There was a faint air of boredom about Vanessa’s voice, as if she was keen to get back to her dreams of Jonathan Deane.
‘What about the rest of you girls. Could you cope?’
Heads nodded wearily.
‘THEN TRY THIS FOR SIZE!!,’ suddenly shouted Sophie, taking a step backwards. There was a strange silence, while all looked at her in puzzlement
. ‘THEN LET THE SHOW BEGIN!!’ Sophie shouted even louder, tilting her head up in my direction. This, I remembered with a start, was my cue. Grabbing my pistol, I manoeuvred stealthily into a crouching position, then launched myself off the parapet to land flat-footed not an inch away from the unsuspecting Vanessa. As gently as I could given the nature of the exercise, I pointed my unloaded pistol straight between Vanessa’s glorious widening eyes, and came out with the lines Sophie had given me: ‘YOUR BODY OR YOUR LIFE, YE DAMNED REBEL WHORE!’ Though smiling reassuringly as I loudly declaimed these words, the effect on the Brigade was anything but reassuring. ‘Twas as though a mortar had dropped in their midst, and cut their nerves to shreds. Vanessa passed out first – eyes rolling up, body spiralling languidly to the ground – to be quickly followed by everyone else in the Brigade except Nancy, who clapped and screamed with delight, and Sophie, who sighed with deep despair.
‘Inevitable, I suppose,’ said Sophie, as we surveyed the forest of legs sticking up in the air. ‘Hence these.’ A pot of smelling salts was produced, and the three of us went round administering to the fallen.
‘Stop looking up their skirts, Harry, there’s a good man,’ called Sophie, as she cradled Vanessa’s lolling head in her arms.
‘I am not, Madam,’ I disputed hotly, furious to be accused of voyeurism in front of a stranger. Indeed. I was doubly furious because I had been looking, slyly.
Infernal Revolutions Page 34