‘Have you not the Quakers Guide To Escape, Brother?’ I asked, handing it back to him. The attempt at gallows humour was not appreciated. Offended, the righteous Quaker stomped off, muttering something about the godlessness of the times, and death being the Great Escape anyway. Truly, I was sick of the sight of them all, and desperately hoped my prison cell would be a solitary one. It was with trepidation therefore, that I was brought at last to Hackensack Gaol, and handed over to a stocky aproned man of surprising cheeriness. After a few catcalls from prisoners whose own cells afforded them a grandstand view of all proceedings, I was led ten yards down a dark, dank, unevenly-floored passageway.
‘Death’s Waiting Room, they call this one,’ said the turnkey, opening the rusted door to a cell which, though cold and morguelike, at least had a table and chair and admitted through a grating the modicum of light necessary to compose my farewell letters. ‘Which means you must be either a murderer or a spy if they want you in here.’
‘Yes, I’m a spy,’ I said, looking down with some relief at the lone straw pallet.
‘Who for, the French?’
‘The British.’
‘The British, eh?’ The turnkey mulled this one over. ‘I thought we were British.’
‘Not any more – you’re American now.’
‘No one told me!’ he exclaimed hotly.
‘Do not worry yourself about it, you’ll probably be British again before very long. Now, Mr Meatyard said I could have pen, paper and ink to write my farewell letters. Could you get them for me? And perhaps a candle, so I can write through the night?’
‘I’ll do my best, young man. But first I have to oversee the building of your gibbet on the common. I hope the hammering will not disturb you, but we have to make sure that the construction is solid – don’t want the whole thing collapsing when you’re dangling from it, now do we? ‘Twould make us look stupid.’
Agreeing that it would, I nevertheless reminded him of the urgency of my need for writing equipment, and hoped he would see that my time was more precious than his, relatively speaking.
‘As I said, young man, I will do my best. I can do more.’
With which unsatisfactory answer, he left me and locked the cell door, so that I had nothing else to do but throw myself down on the pallet, and squirm in agony of spirit. My first thoughts were of Sophie, as I wondered for the millionth time where she was now, and whether she had played any part in my capture. I could not believe she had, after the intimacies and ecstasies we had shared, but how could I be sure, given the revelations of treachery I had heard today? No-one would tell me anything about her, but wherever she was and whatever she had done I could not wish her ill. Even if she had informed against me, tired perhaps of waiting for my rod to stiffen, she had given me the greatest pleasure ‘twas possible for a man to experience, and no Heaven or Hell could take that away from me. Knowing now for sure that I was a spy, and had been lying to her all along, would she even bother coming to my hanging, and if she did, would she look up at me with pity like Mary Magdalene, or spit and curse at me, like one of the common rabble? Either scenario was terrible to think upon, and soon I was sobbing ferociously, and trying to puzzle out what myriad weaknesses of character had led me to this colonial Golgotha. To reach an answer, a review of my entire life ab ovo seemed to be called for, so I let it all come pouring in – every pain, humiliation and embarrassment suffered, every opportunity missed and every wrong turn taken, each torment magnified a hundredfold by the darkness of the moment. I flinched and writhed under the blows of an Emotional Storm as I probed and re-examined the old wounds in search of clues to the purpose of my existence. I saw my past self as from a great height, and watched in terror as the old torments lined up eagerly to pummel me one last time. There usual vignettes administered the first blows: having my pigtailed head bashed against a wall by Sidney Wellington, the village bully; walking in the rain in tears because I could not do a simple mathematical sum; pounding impotently with my fists on the naked arse of Mr Biggins, as he furiously rogered my mother on the kitchen table; declining Amanda Philpott’s offer of marriage; accepting that damned King’s shilling. There were many more, but whatever they all meant in total, there was nothing I could do about them now; the acts were done and could not be wiped from the brain. The trouble was that the usual solace – vowing to change in future my whole nature and way of life – was no longer available because all the future consisted of was a tightening rope, a frantic kicking and a slow agonizing death by strangulation. Both life and death, I concluded, shortly before the fit burned itself out and allowed me to sleep, were burdens too hard to bear.
I must have been exhausted, for when I awoke I was mightily cold, and the turnkey was standing above me in a pool of candlelight.
‘Ah, asleep, were you? Thought you were quiet. Normally folk in here rant and rave like there’s no tomorrow – which of course for them there usually isn’t. Anyway, here’s some supper for you, and a dish of tea…’ He put the victuals down on the table, then reached into his pocket, ‘..and a pen and some paper, and a candle. Now don’t say I don’t treat a prisoner right. Don’t want ‘em coming back to haunt me, do I?’
I thanked him profusely, filtering out his less sensitive remarks with the forgiveness of a saint, and tucked in to the bread and cheese with relish. Afterwards I felt ready and able to set about my farewell letters. First, though, ‘twas necessary to make a list, and allocate my time accordingly. The lucky recipients, I decided, were to be the following: My mother and father, Amanda Philpott, Burnley Axelrod, Pubescent Pete, Dick Lickley, Vickie Tremblett, Nutmeg Nell, Eloise De Witt, and last but not least, Sophie B. Mecklenburg. To some I would be brave, to others I would be distraught, to others I would be perplexed, with yet others I would be frankly furious – a wide range of attitudes would be called for, each one appealing to a different side of my character. I realized that in essence I was writing for myself, soothing myself with words that in all probability no-one would ever read, but at least that was better than waiting for the dreadful minutes to pass unoccupied. So, starting with what I imagined to be the easiest, I spread out my paper, dipped my pen in the inkpot, and set to work on Nutmeg’s Nell’s letter.
As is often the case in writing – as I knew from my Night Thoughts – my original aims were soon discarded in favour of a more natural approach. I wrote as I felt like writing at the time, and this resulted, I noticed with some surprise, in the emergence of two distinct voices. To Nutmeg Nell, Burnley Axelrod, Pubescent Pete, Dick and Vickie I wrote very masculine letters, all exclamation marks and the damning of life as a wonderful lark. To my parents, Amanda, Eloise and Sophie I wrote feminine letters, all exposition and concern for people’s feeling. But whereas the masculine ones invigorated me, the feminine ones – with their need to weigh up the effect of every word – drained me. The trouble was, the masculine ones, though easier to write, were a pack of lies for the most part, and sickening to read once the effervescent effect had subsided.
Eventually, though, I was finished, and the letters lay sealed and stacked on the table. Throwing myself back on the pallet, I felt in desperate need of vast amounts of beer or wine to take me out of myself. None being available, as my cries ascertained, I rolled up into a ball, drew my blanket tightly around me, and sincerely wished that I had not refused The Quaker’s Guide To Death.
28
Deliverance
One consolation of a death sentence is that nothing worse can happen until the sentence is executed, or so I thought until I opened my eyes to find a masked figure standing over me in the darkness. It seemed to be leering down at me, and I wondered at first if it was Verne Placquet come to exact the ultimate retribution, in contradiction of all the sporting rules of warfare. Just in case it was, I began to shuffle backwards into the corner of my cell, but immediately the rogue came after me, got his hand inside my shirt, and started to rub my chest vigorously. I could not believe it – surely I was not go
ing to be buggered at the eleventh hour! Cruel Providence if I was, but without further ado a hand was thrust into my breeches, and my plums were roughly fondled. Then the face eclipsed the moonlight from the cell window, and I was being tongued lasciviously. Spluttering as though an oyster were being forced down my throat, ‘twas several moments before I dared admit that the experience was not unpleasant. Realizing I had nothing to lose, I therefore clasped the body to me, and found myself pleasantly surprised at its softness. Perhaps ‘twas a Quaker not yet sure of his vocation, or the turnkey’s effeminate son, wanting to slip his key into my lock. Whoever it was, let him, thought I – what difference did it make? Just when I had accepted my fate the rogue took his lips from mine and positioned them over my ear. Mentally bracing myself for some foul Colonial language, the sludge from the filthy underbelly of Puritan repression, I heard instead the sweetest words anyone had ever said to me.
‘Oh, my treacherous Lobby! I thought I’d never see you again!’
The words were whispered sobbingly, with great emotion. A smell of blackcurrants suddenly assailed me, and from nowhere a sort of Holy Spirit surged up in my heart, and threatened to overwhelm me.
‘S-s-sweetie?’
‘Correct!’ said Sophie, pulling off her mask in triumph, ‘Tis I! Come to rescue you!’
‘Oh!’
We hugged and cried, before I had to lever her off me and sit upright. I had heard about the dangers of sudden reprieves to doomed men, and now I knew why: my heart was pounding fit to burst, and my breath was fearfully short.
‘Leave me be for a moment, sweetie. I fear your appearance has overheated my vitals.’
She laid her hand on my shoulder, while I crouched on my haunches and dribbled spittle to the floor.
‘Come, come, Harry – surely I do not look that outrageous dressed as a highwayman? I think it rather suits me. Dashing.’
‘No – your appearance,’ I wheezed. ‘Here, in my condemned cell. What has happened? What is happening?’
‘I’m here to take you away, is what is happening. And as speed is of the essence, that is all I can tell you at the moment. I will explain everything else later. Come, one more kiss, and we will be gone.’
A stage cough from just outside the cell door curtailed our osculation. Sophie put her mask back on, adjusted her hair, and led me away. As we went I noticed with relief that my letters were still on the table, lurking in the dark. At least there would be no need to explain everything to Sophie just yet. Once outside I saw the turnkey sitting bound and gagged in a chair, guarded by four other masked figures, all menacing in the lamplight. With a swaggering flourish, completely gratuitous, Sophie went straight up to him, pointed her pistol at his head and squeezed the trigger. The hammer clacked down on the dry flint and frightened the turnkey almost to death, for in quick succession his eyes rolled, his head lolled, and he slumped in his chair as low as his binds would allow him. I was shocked at this.
‘Sophie! Unnecessary! That man was good to me in his way.’
Sophie’s eyes flashed at me, and a finger shot up to her lips to demand silence. She motioned the others outside and we followed, to the accompaniment of prisoners’ laughter at the turnkey’s plight.
‘Hear that, boys? Sophie. Bloody girl dressed up!’
‘Eh, what about releasing us, Sophie?’
‘Yes, come on Sophie, the keys are right there on the table.’
To the prisoners’ fury, Sophie did not even deign to answer, and hurried us out onto the street, where I gulped down the sweet air straight into my lungs. At first I could not find my bearings, but Sophie knew where she was going, and led me with limping stealth to her waiting horse, pausing only to shield my eyes with her hand when we turned a corner and spied the mortifying outline of the virgin gibbet.
‘Now hold on for dear life, Harry. Literally!’
We mounted a horse new to me, and went at top speed down a road whose picket fences soon gave way to open fields, with their intoxicating fragrance of dried hay and baked earth; earth of which, it seemed, I was not yet to be a part.
‘Where have the others gone?’ I shouted into Sophie’s ear, once we were clear of the sleeping town.
‘They will be waiting for us in that wood over there!’
A hand shot out to indicate a dark smear against the eastern horizon, towards which we galloped hard. Fifteen minutes later a rendezvous was made in a clearing thick with the steam of hot horseflesh. Dismounting, I was not greatly surprised to see the dim outlines of the Liberty Belles bending their heads to one side and combing out their long hair. I was, however, surprised to see several of them light up clay pipes and spit dragoonlike on the ground.
‘Harry,’ confirmed Sophie, a discernable note of pride in her voice, ‘meet again my lovely bullies – Lucy, Vanessa, Dinah and Melanie. You owe them your life.’
I peered at their faces closely as I shook hands with each in turn. It was the girls in the barn all right – Melanie Urquhart looking even more desirable when wet with perspiration – but their innocence had gone completely. They returned my gaze with assurance to spare, perhaps weighing me up afresh now that they knew, presumably, that I was a British spy.
‘No Nancy?’ I queried.
A volley of phlegm thudded into the ground. Sensing intrigue, I began to sniff out the hidden story. As there was a silence that needed breaking anyway, I turned to Sophie with an exploratory starter question.
‘So, I take it you know everything about me now.’
‘Yes, and had I been aware of your identity at any stage of our courtship, I can assure you that I would have shot you through the head without compunction.’
There was a fresh outbreak of spitting; this, I sensed, was the sort of remark the Belles had been waiting for. They had risked their collective lives on my behalf, so the least I could do was look contrite.
‘As it is, your lying and political error must be set against the fact that you were born in England, and hence know no better. Also, any crime you have committed pales into insignificance against the heinous behaviour of Verne Placquet, who has sullied the whole revolutionary movement with his cynical ill-treatment of women. Far from upholding the principles expounded in Mr Paine’s extraordinary work, Common Sense, he has…’
A long spirit-sapping diatribe on Revolutionary Philosophy seemed to have begun, but unexpectedly Vanessa Laversham spoke up on behalf of the others.
‘Captain, if it is acceptable to you, we must be away now. We must return to our beds before our fathers find we are missing.’
Sophie gave her a stern look of incomprehension, then softened as sanity flooded back in.
‘Yes, of course, my lovely girls. I understand. Off you go, with the full blessing of your Captain. You have performed a difficult task with great professionalism. I – We – salute you.’
I had expected a rousing Retaliate Like Hammers! war cry, but then I supposed they had not done any retaliating tonight. Instead, we wished each other good luck, and then Sophie and I watched them mount their horses and gallop away.
‘They are upset because they have not been allowed to hang you,’ sighed Sophie, confirming my impression that the girls had been somewhat cool towards her. ‘But they will get over it. As for you, Mr Turncoat Oysterman, come here!’
Sophie embraced me and we kissed tearfully and tenderly. I was damnably moved, yet still perplexed as to the nature of events that had led to my rescue. When we had eventually paid our homage to Venus, I asked outright for a full explanation.
‘What happened, Harry,’ she said, taking me by the hand as we sat down on grass not yet moist with dew, ‘is this. After leaving you on Tuesday night I got home to find Verne waiting for me with a look on his face that could turn milk. I thought something was amiss, but I was not going to ask him what it was, so I busied myself with my spinning and made a show of ignoring him. The next thing I know a jordan comes flying through the air, and knocks me off my stool. �
�Right,” I remember thinking, even as I sprawled to the floor, “for that you are a dead man, Mr Verne Placquet.” He then proceeds to hurl foul abuse at me, calling me all the usual names sexually inadequate men resort to when rattled. Oh, Harry, ‘twas horrible!’
I clenched my fists tight, a sexually adequate man by definition.
‘“I know where you’ve been!” he kept shouting. “And who with!” “Who then?” I challenged him. “Who?” “With that bookseller you’ve been hiding in the barn for weeks.” “How dare you spy on me?” demanded I. “No need to,” says he, “gossip spreads fast”. With that he bundles me into an outhouse with the pigs, locks the door, and rides off.
‘Naturally I am vexed for your safety even to the point of madness, because I can do nothing except listen and wait and nurse my bruises. Then, hours later, I hear drunken singing in the distance – ‘tis Verne returning, happy as a sandboy. Then I really do start to panic – nothing but other people’s misfortunes make Verne happy – and begin to bang on the door until my hands are raw. Look….’ She held out her hands for my inspection. They were raw. I kissed them. She went on: ‘I shouted to him to tell me what had happened. He was almost too jubilant to speak, banging on the door like a lunatic, and laughing with great vigour. “Thank you, God,” he yelled up to the heavens. “That was wonderful. Beyond my wildest dreams!” “What was wonderful,” I cry out, “what was beyond your wildest dreams?”
‘The smell of rum then comes through the door, and he says, in between hiccoughs, “Do you know what your bookseller lover really is? What he really is?” “No,” I said. “He really is a bloody British spy! My conjectures were correct…Oh, the joy of it…the sheer joy…the happiest day of my life, without doubt…Neither the militia nor I could believe our luck.”
Infernal Revolutions Page 37