Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘I was dumbfounded by this information, as you can imagine, especially as Verne was too happy for it not to be true. “So ponder that, O Duped One,’ he gloats, “while I celebrate with…” and here he paused for emphasis…”…your friend Nancy. A real woman, she is, every part working as God intended.” I heard him bump into various farm implements and curse. “I’m coming, Nancy,” I heard him mumbling next, “I’m coming, you hot little whore…”

  ‘This was said to hurt me of course, as revenge, but all it did was confirm my suspicions that it was Nancy who had informed on us. This revelation was as nothing, however, to the news that you were a British spy.’ Here she looked at me straight. ‘Tis true, I presume?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, shamed retrospectively by my lying.

  ‘At first I was horrified. I felt degraded and defiled – not to mention stupid – when I remembered the favours I had bestowed upon you, and which you had so deceitfully taken. I went over every word you had ever spoken, and weighed them in the balance of my new knowledge. I made plans to abort your baby, should one appear. I made plans to find you and murder you. But after a few dry retches another feeling came over me – that of concern for your plight. This quite perplexed me, for it indicated Love, and set at nought all my cherished revolutionary principles. In short, I was in a quandary, but I knew I had to see you again, whatever my final decision. Thankfully who should return with the sun but stumbling old Mr Placquet – God knows where he’d been all night – and I managed to attract his attention and get out.’ Here Sophie stopped abruptly and gripped my arm. ‘Listen, what was that?’

  We listened hard, but could hear nothing except a sudden soughing of the wind in the branches, and the occasional snort of our waiting horse.

  ‘So yes,’ Sophie went on, ‘now I am free, and my job is to get you free too. First I confirm that you are still alive, and find out when you are due to swing – sorry sweetie – then I set off on horseback to rouse my girls. Torturing Brits, though, not saving them, is the reason the corps was formed, and I have some trouble persuading them to acquiesce to my plans. I manage to do so, however, by reminding them how you helped them personally, and by promising them the opportunity to administer a real tar and feathering if they agree to the undertaking. This they reluctantly agree to, and as we cannot free you till nightfall, when we know the militia guard will return home for their supper, we spend the afternoon pleasantly torturing Nancy and Verne, noting their reactions as they are tarred and feathered together in her bed. Then we change into our work clothes and masks, and the rest you know.’

  Sophie shook her head reflectively, and wiped a tear from her eye.

  ‘What splendid girls, though. Absolutely superb! Brave as lionesses!’

  I had indulged myself once or twice in daydreams of escape whilst languishing in gaol, and told myself I would never be unhappy or complain of my lot again if I could just live a little while longer. Yet these words of Sophie’s gave me my first pang of concern, not an hour after being sprung. If I threw in my lot with Sophie, I too, I fancied, would be expected to be splendid, absolutely superb, and brave as a lion if not a lioness. I would be pushed to my limits, forced to excel, and generally encouraged to fulfil all of my God-given potential. Having just had the fright of my life, however, I was not sympathetic to such a hard and stony path. I craved my old life of ease and comfort, at least for a while, but love for Sophie appeared to have excitement and danger sewn into it. Grateful to Sophie though I was to be free, I began to wonder if there was a way out of the consequences.

  ‘If you’d rather be with them than me, Sophie, I’ll understand…’

  ‘Of course I would not rather be with them than you, Harry, I was just saying they were brave, ‘tis all.’ She put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. Instantly I felt ashamed at the unworthiness of my thoughts. ‘Or was that a way of saying you do not want me to come back with you to New York?’

  I had been about to ask where she had in mind for us next, and here was my answer. I think I was glad.

  ‘You want to come back to New York with me? Will that not make you a turncoat?’

  ‘Well, neither of us can stay here, and you will be safe back in the British lines. It will do as a temporary refuge.’

  ‘It would be a very temporary refuge,’ I said with mixed emotions, ‘for upon successful completion of my spying mission I will be discharged from the army and sent home. Though whether the mission will be deemed successful if I return now is another matter.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sophie, visibly trying to work out the consequences of this information. Then, brightening: ‘Well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it. The main thing for the time being is that we are together, and if we keep together there will be no more prison cells for you, my boy. There wouldn’t have been any in the first place, of course, if you had told me who and what you really were.’

  ‘I could not tell you, Sophie, for then you would have done to me what you did to Verne. And then you would have left me.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie. I might have had you tarred and feathered in my first flush of dupehood, ‘tis true – but I would have come back with the turpentine when my girls had gone.’

  We kissed.

  ‘Did you really tar and feather Nancy and Verne?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Sophie’s eyes shone bright at the memory. ‘T & F’d them both in the very bed we found them. Lucy shaved off their hair while Melanie stirred the tar. Then in comes Vanessa with the bag of goose feathers, and abracadabra! – two cooked treacle puddings, very professional for a first attempt. You should have heard Nancy squeal about the loss of her looks – as if she had any in the first place, ugly cow! And Verne made me laugh too, what with his “Ye cannot do this to a Placquet!” shriek, even as we poured the pot over him. Excellent, the whole experience.’ Sophie suddenly looked up keenly at the sky, as if gauging the time. ‘And there is not long before I get the opportunity to do it again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Does not the name Eloise De Witt ring a bell?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Well-known official portrait painter of the Hackensack Committee of Internal Safety. Her brush has killed more men than musket balls in this war. Every spy is processed through the De Witt’s, and we found out from our own spies that you were no exception. Whilst not previously concerned about the practice, I take exception when it is my Harry she is framing. Come, let us hurry. Speed is of the essence if we are to fit this one in before news spreads of your escape.’

  Despite everything, I still had a soft spot – sometimes a very hard soft spot – for Eloise De Witt, and I did not wish her beautiful locks to be defiled by pitch. After all, she had only been doing her job. Alarmed, I tried to divert Sophie from her avowed aim.

  ‘Sophie, listen. I was already confirmed as a spy before I was taken to the Committee Room – Verne found my spying notes in the barn. Eloise’s painting played no part in my seizure.’

  ‘But it did in your sentencing. Come on, I know the way.’

  So determined was Sophie that I feared she had become addicted to the administering of pain, but I could hardly refuse her wishes just yet in view of what she had done for me. The future with Sophie, however long it lasted, looked as though it was not going to be a dull one.

  29

  Hammered

  Dawn was just breaking when we arrived at the De Witt household. In the slate grey light it resembled a peaceful, bucolic retreat out of an ode by that noble Roman, Horace. Shortly however, judging by the electricity coming off Sophie, it would resemble that apocolyptic painting of Mr Hogarth’s, The World’s End, and look as though a company of Hessians had hit it.

  ‘Right, Harry. You look for some tar and rope while I think of how best to go about this.’

  ‘Sophie – I don’t think we should be doing this. Let us simply report their activities to General Howe and let him deal with it. He has artillery that can
simply blow the place to bits.’

  ‘Please, sweetie, for me. This may be my last chance for independent action until the war is over.’

  No intention of finding any tar or rope, I ambled around the outbuildings in the vague hope of finding the neutral Elzevir, whom I could perhaps coax into some sort of conciliatory role. Not surprisingly, however, he was nowhere to be seen, perhaps lying dead of exhaustion in a field somewhere. When I turned back to see what Sophie was up to, I found her peering inside the windows one by one, like a hound sniffing out a badger’s set.

  ‘No success, sweetie?’ she whispered, seeing me approach empty-handed. ‘That’s a shame. Still, there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit. Which one’s Canaletto’s room?’

  I gasped.

  ‘You know Canaletto?’

  ‘Not personally. But we had a painting of his on our parlour wall. Well, a copy anyway. First Flight In A Balloon, or something. We are not devoid of culture out here, you know, and I resent the implication in your astonishment.’

  ‘My astonishment is due to the fact that he is my second favourite painter after Mr Gainsborough. What with other signs, such as your middle name being Belinda, I get the sense that…’

  ‘We were made for each other. Yes, yes – you’ve told me that before, sweetie. But ‘tis just coincidence, because I hate Canaletto. Now which one is Eloise’s room?’

  I looked up and pointed it out. We made our way round to the front door, continuing a whispered conversation as we went.

  ‘I thought you’d know,’ said Sophie, suddenly curt. Then, after a long silence: ‘Good, was she?’

  ‘With her brush?’

  ‘No, with her bush.’

  ‘We did not aspire to that level of intimacy,’ I lied with equal curtness, realizing now that dark ulterior motives were feeding Sophie’s revenge fantasies. At this rate even Nutmeg Nell and Vickie Tremblett would not be safe, if she ever found out about their existence.

  ‘Hmph – aspire, you call it, do you? Aspired to it with her, did it with me. I see.’

  ‘Wrong word then,’ I said, as we opened the unlocked front door and made our way up the well-remembered staircase. ‘Not aspire…try proceed.’

  ‘Too late! First words chosen always give away the true intention.’

  ‘That is palpably untrue. As a poet I can assure you that first words are often a million miles away from the ones you want. You have to feel and fumble for the mot juste sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, feeling and fumbling is what you are good at, is it not?’

  I was not sure whether this was criticism or praise, but there was no time to demand an explanation, for with Tarquinish stealth she had opened the door to Eloise’s room, slid in, and shut it behind her again. I heard an ‘Aha!’ from Sophie and a muted yelp from, presumably, Eloise, before an ominous silence descended. I stood guard nervously on the landing, hoping that the silence would last and I would not have to confront Clara and Mr De Witt – but ‘twas not to be, however. Soon enough a series of dull thuds and high-pitched shrieks began to shake the frame of the house, and out to investigate came Clara and Mr De Witt in their nightclothes, appearing ghostlike at their respective doors within seconds of each other. Busy tinkering with the wicks of their lamps, they did not at first see me standing in the shadowy corner, and I was able to watch freely as they dithered on the threshold, each one waiting for the other to make the first move. Resisting the urge to scream and break the tension, I listened hard as they whispered to each other.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It sounds as though it is coming from Eloise’s room.’

  ‘Full marks, father. I had rather taken that for granted.’

  ‘Perhaps she is having an epileptic fit.’

  ‘Tell me if I’m wrong, father, but doesn’t one need to be an epileptic before one can have an epileptic fit?’

  ‘There is always a first time, Clara.’

  ‘Indeed, father, just as there is a first time to be well and truly rogered, which is nearer the mark, I’ll wager. ‘Tis what it sounds like to me.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Mr De Witt, no whisperer now, ‘Elzevir? Back? Do you think? Dare we hope?’

  I caught a glimpse of the look on Mr De Witt’s face as he advanced towards Eloise’s door. ‘Twas of a man about to welcome home a dearly beloved son, even if he was at that moment drilling his daughter to a bedstead. Quickly divining that Elzevir had run off, I felt a surge of repugnance at Mr De Witt’s putrid commerce-eaten morals; Elzevir’s return was obviously considered of greater importance than his beautiful daughter’s fancied degradation. This repugnance enabled me to step forward out of the shadows with more conviction than I would otherwise have been able to muster.

  ‘No further, Clogmeister – if ‘tis your brains ye value!’

  Clara shrieked alarmingly, almost making me drop my pistol, while Mr De Witt assumed the expression of a man bayoneted, and staggered backwards. I felt the thrill a vengeful ghost must feel as Mr De Witt began to blather uncontrollably.

  ‘Why, ‘tis Mister…’tis Mister…Oy-yoi-yoi-yoi…’

  His eyes began to roll, and he seemed to have no control over his oy-yoi-yoi-ing. Fearing he was about to have a heart attack, I slapped him quickly round the face and said the dreaded word for him. Oysterman.

  ‘Ye-e-e-sh,’ he articulated, with all the apparent agony and effort of a statue trying to speak. ‘Oy-shter…Oy-shter…Oy-shter…’

  I slapped him again.

  ‘…Shterman!’

  ‘Good,’ I said, my pleasure in being an object of fear dissipating already. ‘Now calm down and you will come to no harm. My, er, accomplice and I are here merely to reprimand you for your part in the wicked gallows trade. We are not here to kill you. Unless, of course, you force us to.’

  ‘So is that Dick in there with Eloise?’ asked Clara, revived by jealousy.

  ‘No, I do not know where Dick is. Perhaps his rotting carcass is dangling from a gibbet somewhere at this very moment, thanks to you.’

  ‘Then is it Elzevir?’ asked Mr De Witt, revived by hope. I was astounded that neither Clara nor her father showed any awareness of their sins, let alone remorse for them.

  ‘No,’ I dashed once more. ‘It is someone far blacker in thought and deed.’

  They looked at me very quizzical, but I was in no mood to explain. I wished Sophie would hurry up, but it sounded as though she was enjoying herself – the thumping now being interspersed with crying and screaming and what sounded like either bones or paintbrushes being snapped.

  ‘Anyway, why do you ask about Elzevir? Escaped, has he?’

  ‘Yes, thanks to you and your friend. All that talk of Dr Johnson made him first dreamy, then restless, then gone. Haven’t seen him for five days now. Advertisements in the newspapers have elicited no response, and I fear dreadfully for his safety.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you do. Much as you must have done for mine and Dick’s. Yet you do not seem to fear for your daughter’s safety. What sort of father are you?’

  ‘A ruined one, now.’

  This was frank, and almost touching, but there was no time to play the Christian. Still covering the couple with my pistol, I opened the door with my left hand and swung it inwards slightly. My eyes still trained on the dastardly De Witt, I shouted in:

  ‘Sophie! Hurry up! I’m running out of conversation here.’

  A voice in terrible anguish came back to me, and it was not Sophie’s.

  ‘Harry…how…could you…let her…loose…on…me?!’

  Instinctively I looked in, and there in the half-light – against a backdrop of broken picture frames, shredded canvasses and paint-spattered walls – was an erotic dream come to life. Quelling somehow an overwhelming urge to jump in and join them, I watched rigid as Sophie punched, pummelled, kneed, and generally humiliated the formerly lovely yet now bedraggled figure of Eloise De Witt. Half-naked, sweating, panting and crying, Eloise rea
ched out an imploring hand towards me, and begged for mercy.

  ‘Shut up, you damned Bitch!’ panted Sophie, breathless but masterful as she jerked Eloise back by the hair. ‘Save your breath for the doctor!’

  With which remark, Sophie scooped up Eloise’s limp body and heaved it head-first into the wall above her pillow, as if wielding a coal scuttle.

  ‘Desist, Sophie,’ I called, fighting my own inner battles. ‘Enough is enough, girl.’

  ‘One more minute, sweetie – then you can finish her off. Have you murdered the other two yet?’

  Fortunately, the other two were as transfixed by the scene as I, otherwise they could easily have disarmed and murdered me. As it was, Sophie’s question brought me back to my senses, and I recovered enough composure to shepherd them back out of the doorway, and pull the door shut after me.

  ‘Almost done,’ I said, by way of mollification. ‘Then we’ll be gone. Though we’ll be back soon with the regulars to raze this place to the ground, so I recommend that you start making plans for immediate departure. Sorry, etcetera, but that’s the price one must pay for treachery. Many others, had they had the chance to return, would have killed you on the spot, after all.’

  ‘Preferable,’ gloomed the apparently broken Mr De Witt, ‘to this degradation.’

  ‘Come, come, Sir,’ I said. ‘I’d hardly call this degradation. ‘Tis no more than a domestic tiff. Worse things than this happen every day in England.’

  ‘Pah! England! What else would you expect – ‘tis a brutal country. We would all be happier if it were wiped off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Steady, Dutchman,’ I threatened, surprisingly roused at this remark. ‘I am no advocate of the country myself, but I do not like outsiders denigrating it in the manner you have just done.’

  ‘Patriotism is the last resort of the scoundrel, according to your know-all Dr Johnson.’

  ‘Provoked Patriotism is not, Squarehead. Now shut up unless you want my accomplice setting on you.’

  ‘Having trouble, sweetie?’ said Sophie, stepping out of Eloise’s room with the peaceful, glowing look of a satisfied artist. Sensing I was, she immediately cast upon Clara and Mr De Witt a withering, aggressive, wall-eyed stare, the terrifying effect of which was heightened by the blood and paint spattered on her face.