Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘What have you done to my daughter?’ belatedly asked Mr De Witt, upon receipt of frequent nudges in the back from the strangely silent Clara.

  ‘What haven’t I done to her, you mean.’

  ‘Let me see her.’

  Sophie pointed a pistol up his nostrils.

  ‘I don’t like the way you’re looking at me, Fish Face.’

  ‘’Tis just my usual expression.’

  ‘Then change it to something unusual.’

  Realizing that he was no longer dealing with a compassionate Englishman, Mr De Witt slowly, with great reluctance, contorted his features grotesquely. His bottom lip rose to cover his nose, and his eyes retracted into his head.

  ‘That’s better,’ Sophie chuckled approvingly. ‘Now you, Crab Face.’

  Clara, cowed into passivity by violence and visibly shaking with fear, sucked in her cheeks, wrinkled up her nose, and bulged her eyes out at extraordinary angles.

  ‘Now let’s look at you two beauties standing side by side. There, what do you think, Harry?’

  I was not happy with these crude bully-boy tactics, but human nature being the paradox it is I could not help but smile. Turning my eyes to Sophie in an attempt to regain my composure, I was dismayed to see that her cheeks too were twitching with repressed snorts. Within seconds the pressure had built to such a degree that we could control ourselves no longer, and exploded into riotous laughter. Not since I had been taken to see the lunatics in Bedlam as a boy had I witnessed such a ridiculous spectacle. Sophie and I howled until tears ran down our cheeks, and the only way I could justify my howling was by telling myself that Sophie’s tactics made life interesting. This was life in the raw, and it opened up new areas of experience that I would never have been able to open up on my own. Hurting people, even through an intermediary, brought on keen emotions of guilt and remorse, and my poetry, if ever I had the opportunity to write again, would surely explore the deeper reasons for these emotions, and become more profound as a result. Even Eloise’s miserable experience, it could be argued from the comfort of vast celestial heights, was grist to her soul’s mill.

  ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I urged. ‘Job done. Let us depart.’

  ‘Can we not stay and torture them for a while?’

  ‘No, you’re too tired for that now. You’ve been a busy little bunny, and busy little bunnies need their rest.’

  ‘All right, sweetie, if you say so. Do you want to go and see what I’ve done to Eloise? She won’t be painting any more portraits in a hurry.’

  ‘Er, no, I had better not. I would not know what to say to her.’

  ‘Do not say anything. Just get stuck in. Good fun. I’ll keep a guard over these drips.’

  ‘No, sweetie, thank you. We must go. The sun is almost fully risen.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Sophie, ‘if you insist. All that remains, then, is to tie everyone up, lock them in their rooms, and set fire to the house.’

  ‘I’m sure just the first two actions will suffice, my dear. I mean, look at their faces – you have scared the De Witt’s out of their wits. Their game is up.’

  Sophie reluctantly agreed to my suggestion, and after forcing Mr De Witt to tell us where the rope was kept, we busied ourselves at our work. Clara and Mr De Witt were soon bound and gagged and locked in their rooms, but then came the dreaded request to help with the binding of Eloise, who was proving unexpectedly fractious.

  ‘Come on in, sweetie. Don’t be scared – she’s just having a bit of a swansong.’

  I gingerly stepped in to the demolished bower, and looked over at the shape huddled under the blankets. Sobs and groans emanated from it, and I remembered with shame the letter I had written to Eloise from my prison cell, all love and forgiveness for her sins. Some Jesus I had turned out to be.

  I dithered nearer the bed, and was awaiting Sophie’s instructions when Eloise’s head shot up and scared me out of my wits. For instead of the slightly-crumpled-but-still-beautiful face I was expecting, I was confronted with a veritable spitting Gorgon, unrecognizable as Eloise, with bloody hair sticking out at all angles and eyes wilder than a witch’s. Had she not spoken, I would have sworn on any Bible that this beast was not the same bewitching girl I had exchanged bodily fluids with a month earlier.

  ‘This is your doing, Harry!’ it howled. ‘You have set your attack dog on me because I did not let you have your way with me. I am punished for being virtuous.’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly, glancing over at Sophie, who was all ears as she stretched out the rope, ‘you are being punished for nearly killing me, for betraying me as a spy.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I painted your picture, that is all.’

  ‘Aye, and then what?’

  ‘Then Papa took it, as he takes all the portraits I do. He sells them to his friends and gives me the money for them.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘You mean you don’t know what they are really used for?’

  ‘OF COURSE I DON’T!’ she screamed unexpectedly, before suddenly lunging towards me with both hands outstretched, my neck their destination. I jumped back terribly affrighted, but Sophie moved in quickly to restore order, administering a neat clonk on Eloise’s forehead with the butt of her pistol.

  ‘She’s a lying bitch,’ said Sophie, as Eloise flopped back cross-eyed on her pillow, unconscious. ‘Anyone can see that.’

  I wasn’t so sure, and as we started to tie up the limp body – me trying very hard not to fondle any of Eloise’s still-tempting flesh in full view of Sophie – I expressed my concern that perhaps she had misspent her time sorting out the wrong person.

  ‘No,’ said Sophie, grunting as she made the knots super-tight, ‘I am quite satisfied I have nailed the main culprit. She knew what she was doing. The question is, did you, when you tried to have your way with her?’

  I knew this was coming, though why it should be of concern to Sophie I could not understand.

  ‘Sexual frustration, that is all, my dear.’

  ‘But she is – sorry, was – beautiful, wasn’t she? Much more so than me.’

  This was a vicious, twisting ball to negotiate. I ventured to play, but then drew back my bat at the last moment, trusting to luck that the ball’s trajectory and bounce would take it safely past my wicket.

  ‘Not at all, my dear. She was always the Moon, a mere stepping stone on the way to the glorious radiance of your Sun, which I knew was shining out there somewhere.’

  I peeped down surreptitiously at Eloise as I said this, hoping she was still out. She was, and this encouraged me to sally forth even further on the wings of Eulogy until I lost sight of land completely, and had not the faintest idea of who or what I was praising. Eventually Sophie could stand no more.

  ‘Stop, Harry. Your verbosity is answer enough. But what does it matter if she is more beautiful than me? She had her chance and she didn’t take it. You are mine now, and what I lack in beauty, I will make up for in loyalty and passion.’

  I had been bowled, but sweetly, and I was just kissing her when a groan from below brought me to my senses. I looked down and saw as if for the first time the bruised, defiled face of the girl who had so recently captured my heart. Belatedly, I felt intense anguish at her suffering, mixed with exasperation at the messy, tangled web of loyalties which had led to it. I did not know who I hated the most: Sophie, for being so cruel and vindictive; myself, for being so weak; Mr De Witt, for desecrating the holiness of a father’s office; or Eloise herself, just for being a victim. I was angry and confused, and recoiled from the bed with a start. I stormed towards the door, with the intention of getting as far away from the contaminated house as I could.

  ‘Sweetie, where are you going?’

  ‘Outside. To think.’

  ‘About what?’

  Quite beside myself with passion, I stopped, turned around and blurted it out.

  ‘About who is the most guilty person here!’

  Th
e remark caught Sophie by surprise. She frowned, as if trying to divine my meaning, then continued uncertainly in the old vein.

  ‘Why, this trollop, of course. She knew what she was doing, I told you; a woman’s instinct is never wrong on these matters. She embroiled herself willingly enough.’

  ‘And you tortured her willingly enough!’

  A steely look entered Sophie’s eyes. She penetrated me with this for a few moments, then answered in a voice that could have frozen the blood of Beelzebub.

  ‘I was making the punishment fit the crime. But I see now I have done wrong. I also see now who it is you really love. Here, untie her. Revive her. Care for her. Marry her. Love her for the rest of your treacherous life. I am done with you both!’

  Smoking hot, she dashed the slack of the rope onto the floor and tried to barge past me to the stairs. I would not give way, and we rushed for the door together. The unfortunate result – for neither of us wanted low comedy at this moment of high frenzy – was that we both became jammed in the doorway, wriggling desperately for freedom like a pair of stuck chimney sweeps. Unable to strike physical blows, we hurled verbal abuse at each other at point-blank range until Sophie finally popped out onto the landing and clattered against the facing wall, which she slid down dismally. Dragged off-balance myself, I grabbed the jamb of the door for support, but only succeeded in spinning round and toppling backwards on top of her. She let out a groan, pushed me off her, then beat me about the head in a flurry of fists. I was about to retaliate in kind when I discovered to my surprise that all my anger had spent itself in the verbal exchanges. I suddenly realized I did not wish to lose her, and that even a physical thrashing by her was better than no contact at all. Perhaps Sophie felt the same way about me, for an odd stillness followed, when all I could hear was our panting and the thoughts racing around my head.

  ‘Our position, madam, is ludicrous,’ I ventured, when our breathing had returned to normal. ‘A good job Eloise is in no state to paint us.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a good job now, is it?’ Sophie replied in a softened tone. ‘A few minutes ago it was a very bad job.’

  ‘My allegiance is with you; it always has been,’ I said quietly. ‘I do not love Eloise. I would have expressed the same concern at the degree of punishment you were meting out whoever the recipient was.’

  ‘Caring man!’ said Sophie, putting her hand on mine. ‘And did you hear that, Fish Face?’ she yelled into the room. ‘He doesn’t love you! Never did!’

  ‘Sophie, there is no need to make her suffering worse than it already is.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ came back a faint broken sobbing voice, ‘she has eased my suffering. Now I know I am free to love another.’

  ‘Right, that does it,’ said Sophie, starting to rise to her feet in another fury, ‘I’m going to sort her out once and for all, the impertinent cow.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, holding her back and shaken to the core by Eloise’s declaration of love for me, ‘stop this. You are rubbing an open sore that will never heal unless you leave it alone. Let us get out of the house quickly, as was the original plan. Leave her, leave them all, and come with me.’

  I grabbed her by the hand to lead her down the stairs, but she broke away to go back into Eloise’s room.

  ‘Where are you going? No, no more!’

  ‘I need to finish tying her up!’ exclaimed Sophie in exasperation. ’Otherwise she will quickly release the other two and they will set about coming after us in some shape or form. I would have thought that was obvious. ’

  ‘Very well. But do not hurt her further.’

  I waited on the landing, not wanting to come face to face with my lover again, for various reasons all centring on shame. Though ready to dash in if absolutely necessary, all I heard were the grunts and groans one would normally associate with a person being tied up. Meanwhile, to fill the vacuum while waiting, my brain started hammering phrases in my head – so she did love me after all and I could have had a beauty like Eloise De Witt being the main two. I blew hard and shook my head with anguish, before managing to silence the tormenting voices by telling myself that she was probably lying anyway, merely practising emotional sabotage of the sort I had practised on others. Nevertheless, I wished Sophie would hurry up.

  Eventually she emerged, shutting the door behind her and dusting down her hands in a satisfied Job Done gesture.

  ‘To Paulus Hook then, Lover!’ she said brightly.

  ‘Yes, to Paulus Hook,’ I said, less brightly. ‘But first there is one thing I wish to do. Follow me.’

  ‘Oooh!’ exclaimed Sophie excitedly. ‘What is it?’

  I led her downstairs into Mr De Witt’s study, where we rummaged around in search of a safe or money box. Fearful of lingering too long, we were just about to give up when Sophie squealed with astonishment at a painting she had lifted from the wall.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said, turning it over, ‘King George on one side, George Washington on the other. The devious devil!’

  ‘And look at this,’ I said with greater astonishment, ‘a little door behind it. And inside the little door…’ I gave Sophie a kiss as I opened it, ‘…a great big fat safe!’

  ‘But sadly locked,’ said Sophie, as I beat and shook it with increasing frustration.

  ‘The key cannot be far,’ I said, redfaced. ‘The man is not a genius.’

  This proved to be the case, for the key was soon found inside a nearby tobacco pot. I opened the box with great satisfaction, and took the money Dick and I had given Mr De Witt for the privilege of being hanged. Though hundreds of pounds seemed on offer, I took only three guineas, no more and no less.

  ‘’Tis tempting to take it all,’ said Sophie, licking her lips at the astounding sight, and fingering some of the wads of paper denominations.

  ‘Yes, but the dog needs a lesson in morality. If he sees others behaving well, turning their noses up at Mammon and acting with mercy, then there is a chance that he will see the error of his own ways in time, and become a beneficiary to the world, instead of a nuisance.’

  Sophie looked at me as if I were an idiot, so that I was forced to diminish the effect by adding: ‘Anyway, where would we keep it if we took it?’ Sophie was about to answer when I took her hand and led her outside, brooking no further argument.

  ‘You seem to forget that the De Witt’s are mainly on your side in this war – there is no point taking from them the means of their livelihood. We have done what we came to do, and more, so let us leave it at that.’

  Trying to remember which way to go, I stood in front of the house and looked around at the familiar surroundings. As I did so my eye caught sight of the well and the horse trough, now shrines to a lost love, and therefore lacerating emotional reminders of a Road Not Taken. As I stared at them, trying to milk them of their meaning, a powerful urge to cry came over me, but I managed to pull myself together and call out a spuriously cheery: ‘Now, which way is it back to the fort?’

  ‘Just follow the post road, of course,’ said Sophie, getting up on her horse, ‘no other way as far as I know.’

  ‘I’d better start preparing a story again,’ I sighed, as I climbed up behind her. ‘General Mercer will want to know what I’ve been up to before we travel back to New York.’

  ‘No need for that, sweetie,’ said Sophie, ‘Paulus Hook is in British hands now. Just like I am.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘A day or two after you left it, by my calculations. General Mercer abandoned the place for strategic reasons. The British just sailed across and occupied it with an invalid regiment.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, astonished. ‘We’d better get there as quick as we can, before it changes hands again.’

  ‘Hold on tight then, lover boy.’

  I did as bidden, even groping her bubbies facetiously in imitation of good British handling, but as I did so I could not resist a last long lingering look at the homestea
d of the divine Eloise De Witt, even though I knew that the image would always torment me. Imprinted on my brain, ready for retrieval whilst versifying or carrying out some dreary domestic chore, it would serve as a symbol of the inexplicable knottiness of human relationships, and a reminder of the days when I was a romantic, adventurous, free dog, beloved of a true beauty.

  30

  Salamander City

  Early morning in the fort of Paulus Hook looked drab enough to me, but Sophie drank it all in with avidity. Her eyes were everywhere, as though she had suffered an apoplexy, and was trying to make sense of the world again. She watched entranced as soldiers went about such dreary tasks as making fascines, building abatis, burying refuse and sweeping out the grounds. She even stumped up to a group of veterans making cartridges, observed their techniques at close quarters, and told them they were not doing it right. Their response typified the mood of the whole place: ‘’Tis the way we have been shown to do it, and do it this way we always will. Now push off.’ It was not an enterprising garrison.

  Though not expecting a hero’s welcome in Paulus Hook, a cordial handshake from an officer thanking me for my services to King and Country would not have gone amiss – especially as I now had Sophie to impress all over again. But the only things forthcoming were enquiries as to popular Dick’s whereabouts, and the grudging offer of tea and hardtack; which, though starving, I spurned haughtily. No-one, least of all the few officers who had risen from their beds, had the slightest interest in life beyond the boundaries of the garrison. ‘We will find out about that,’ wheezed one raddled old Invalid optimistically, ‘in our own good time.’

  Even Sophie, to my combined chagrin and relief, did not elicit from the sentries more than the passing glance accorded to any camp follower, so that all-in-all I was glad to be on my way, fearful of lingering in case Our Love caught the prevailing mood of resignation. ‘Twas like introducing her to my family, and deeply regretting it.