Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘Well, Oysterman, there is not much to tell. I cruise up and down the coast of Connecticut and Massachusetts, bombarding the odd village and destroying the odd church, but it is not like fighting the French. When on shore I travel up to Albany, and do some trading with the Indians there. I give them food, rum, pieces of clothing, powder and shot; in return, they give me furs, which I am collecting to fund my retirement in Scotland. Some, of course, I wear now…’

  He raised his eyes skyward to indicate his beaverskin hat, a pretty piece of millinery I had been admiring for a while.

  ‘The rest of the time I spend drinking and fighting, because frankly, Oysterman, there is nothing else to do. I am bored with this war – neither my heart nor my mind is in it, and the sooner it finishes the better as far as I am concerned. Which is why I am more interested in your story. You have someone not exactly a Rebel on your tail, you said. Explain.’

  ‘I fancy I am being hunted by one of our own Hellhounds; namely, the dragoon we talked about last time, Burnley Axelrod.’

  A spark of interest glinted in Isaac’s eyes as he threw back his glass and poured himself another drink.

  ‘Fancy, Oysterman, or know?’

  ‘Fancy verging on the Know.’

  ‘Spit it out then. Every last drop.’

  Even now I wondered whether I should reveal all, but spit it out I did, every last drop as requested. Isaac watched me coolly as he quaffed his wine, and displayed no surprise at anything; no, not even my close shave with Death, or my ability to capture the heart of a Rebel girl, and though I was vaguely angling for help of some sort, the response when it came was shattering in its simplicity.

  ‘Right,’ he said, taking a final swig and slamming the empty glass down on the table. ‘Wait here. I shall return in two hours with the matter settled once and for all.’ ‘Wait! What are you going to do?’

  ‘I am going to accost this Burnley Axelrod, and shake the truth out of him.’

  ‘But…he is a dragoon!’

  ‘Were he a dragon, Mr Oysterman, he would not frighten me. Anyway, in my experience dragoons are no more than glorified milksops, wallowing in the power their family’s money has given them. Had you seen them, as I have, collectively vomiting over the poop deck rail, crying for their mothers in the mildest of westerlies, you would not hold them in such awe.’

  This was indeed a startling piece of imagery considering the fear the rascals had always induced in me. Emboldened, as one who had survived an Atlantic Crossing without once crying for his mother, I too finished off my glass. Then I wiped my mouth meanly with the cuff of my sleeve, in the manner of a fierce pugilist, and made a determined effort to leave the table.

  ‘And where do you think you are going?’ said Isaac, holding me down with one powerful hand on my shoulder. ‘I told you to wait here.’

  ‘’Tis for me to confront Mr Axelrod, not you. I cannot allow others to do my dirty work.’

  ‘A neutral third party is just what is needed in this situation.’

  I pondered.

  ‘At least let me come with you then.’

  ‘No, your presence will only be a hindrance, calling for more diplomacy than I am willing to bring to talks with a dragoon. I will go alone. Play cards with these dogs if you wish to kill time until my return.’

  And with that typically domineering instruction he was gone, leaving me to deal with a situation potentially more dangerous than the one he was bent on exacerbating, bearing in mind the upended card player’s frequent scowls in my direction, and the group’s refusal to let me join them. Relieved, not in the mood for cards anyway, I nevertheless managed to sooth them with a few well-oiled gestures and words of reconciliation, not to mention two conciliatory bottles of port. For my own part, I ordered a dish of coffee and a fresh pipe, and settled down to my anxious wait.

  My cogitations had not progressed far along the usual roads of Regret, Fear and Loneliness, when another voice called me, bearing out the truth of the Chinese observation that if a person could only stay in one place long enough, then all the world would eventually turn up at his door. And sure enough, this was All My World coming to me now, for ‘twas Sophie, looking radiant.

  ‘Put that pipe out, sweetie. ‘Tis your lover come to see you.’

  This remark raised a few eyebrows at the surrounding tables, not least because it issued from a woman missing the usual accoutrements of a tavern whore. Eyebrows were lowered again, however, when Sophie jumped straight into my lap, put her tongue down my ear, and tickled me under the chin in a very saucy manner.

  ‘Well,’ she breathed hotly, with a note of trepidation in her voice, ‘are we on the next ship to England or not?’

  ‘No,’ I said, to her evident pleasure. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Oh Harry, I am so relieved. I do not want to go to England yet.’

  ‘Why are you so relieved? Have you found yourself another lover?’

  I did not want to put ideas into her head, but as Taylor Woodbine’s cynical laugh was still fresh in my mind I could not help but blurt this out.

  ‘Why do you say that, sweetie?’

  ‘Because you are obviously bursting with happiness over something that has happened since we parted not two hours ago.’

  ‘I am, ‘tis true – but ‘tis not another man that is the cause, you jealous boy.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘I have discovered how easy it is to get married in New York.’

  This caught me entirely by surprise, and I could only mumble something about how easy it was to die there too, a sour remark which Sophie thankfully chose to ignore. I was beginning to sense that all my preconceived plans were destined to end up in the ditch as soon as Real Life came swaggering along.

  ‘Aye,’ she went on, bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘I have been talking to the wives that congregate around Battery Park of an evening. Some of them have been married eight or nine times in as many weeks.’

  ‘But I do not want to be married eight or nine times. Even to you. I just want to get married once. Forever.’

  ‘Aye, me too – I was merely illustrating how easy it is. All you have to do is contact your regimental parson and he does the business, no questions asked. There are no banns, no frowning authorities, no disapproving elders. ‘Tis all a wonderful lark.’

  I had vaguely imagined my wedding, if it ever came, to be a cool, elegant affair at St Nicholas’ in Brighthelmstone, not a hot, hurried and larkish one in the fleshpots of sleazy New York; but the more I thought about the idea the more I liked it. It would certainly be cheap, and the happy glow in Sophe’s eyes made even my spirits lift. But not wishing to be an easy touch in the marriage market, I threw myself into the role of Devil’s Advocate with great verve.

  ‘So are you proposing marriage to me, Madam?’

  ‘Indeed I am, Sir.’

  ‘And if I accept – if, I say – are you prepared, following the hellish battle at Fort Washington, to spend your honeymoon tending my grave?’

  ‘All unions are temporary, sweetie. Even the longest marriage is still a temporary affair, given the Dominion of Death and Eternity. Cowering away from it will not do any good.’

  ‘Then what if I am blinded, or horribly mutilated by grapeshot, or have my manhood blown away. Will you still care for me then?’

  ‘Ah well, I might have to go elsewhere to satisfy my sexual needs then; though of course I will still tend to you the rest of the time.’

  ‘Aye, I thought as much.’

  ‘But on the other hand, what if, assuming you survive long enough to give me a baby, my womb drops out in the very dangerous act of childbirth, and sexual congress is no longer possible – will you not be off in a flash?’

  Before I had chance to say no, I would not, Sophie chipped in again.

  ‘So you see, Harry, we can all play the What If? game. But instead of fearing the worst all
the time, why not look on the bright side, which is equally possible? What if, for example, an end to the war is declared tomorrow, and we become free to start our life together wherever we choose? What if everything turns out beautifully? What then?’

  ‘Then that would be the end of me as a serious poet.’

  ‘Nonsense. You will pick up more original material out here, where new life is, than the greatest poet could in shopsoiled London.’

  ‘But I am the greatest poet, can’t you see that?’ I cried out, in great distress at being so underrated.

  ‘Yes, of course you are, sweetie. I know that. Those poems you courted me with were absolutely divine.’

  ‘Pah! Those were nothing,’ I sneered, before adding quickly, ‘technically, I mean’, when I realized the snobbish insensitivity of the remark. It did not matter though; Sophie was too busy cueing off in a game of pocket billiards to notice.

  Quivering with pleasure and happy that all the objections I could think of had been overcome, I prepared my acceptance of Sophie’s offer. First, however, for better recall on my deathbed, I impregnated all the sights, sounds and smells of the magical moment in my brain. The smoky interior, the cardplaying drinkers seen through a haze, the roar of conversation, the smell of mutton fat and tallow candles – all would remind me of the most romantic day of my life. And Sophie was right, there was a sense of being slap-bang in the middle of Life here, and I felt it with an intensity that I had never experienced before. Feeling a very lucky man in one sense, and a very doomed one in another, I pulled my ear off Sophie’s tongue, looked deep into her lovely eyes, and uttered the fateful words:

  ‘I accept your proposal of marriage, Madam. And I declare my undying love. As long as we are together, that is all that matters.’

  ‘Whooo, sweetie!’ was Sophie’s response to this. Then she threw her arms around me and kissed me. Just by the thrilled look that swept over her face I knew I had done the right thing; if nothing else, for perhaps the first time in my life I had made another person deliriously happy. The smiles did not last long, however – Sophie’s face soon crumpled, and tears began to flow.

  ‘Sophie – what is it?’

  ‘I never thought anybody would want me, Harry. What with my leg and everything. But you want me, don’t you, you sweet man?’

  This in turn set me off, and soon we were the dampest, happiest couple in America, a condition not to everyone’s taste, judging by the remarks around us.

  ‘There’s something odd about him,’ said one. ‘Knew it as soon as he came in. First that tar comes to talk to him, and goes off in a hurry, then she arrives, and now look at ‘em. I’ve a good mind to ask him what his business is.’

  Elated far beyond my normal limits of reticence, I stood up and addressed the speaker of this last remark, as well as anyone else who cared to listen.

  ‘My business, Sir, is Love,’ I declared, with a wave of my bottle in the air, and cheeks still wet with tears. ‘I have agreed to become this young lady’s husband. And tomorrow this young lady becomes my wife.’

  For a few moments everyone stopped talking and turned towards me. With tankards, pots and pipes poised halfway to mouths, the scene resembled a piece of Dutch portraiture entitled Interior of New York Tavern, 1776. Then, Mars melted by Venus, all faces softened, and people started moving again. Grog was called for, and duly supplied once the tavern owner had established who was paying for it. We were toasted with repeated cries of ‘A Long And Happy Life!’, a ridiculous toast in the circumstances, but appreciated and seemingly possible in the elation of the moment. ‘To the King and his Queen’ was another, though this made Sophie frown, until I explained to her that we were the royal couple so addressed, and reminded her that the tavern was, at least for the time being, British, and therefore susceptible to metaphors of a royal nature.

  A resting fifer leapt up to volunteer his services, and after a few peremptory toots on his instrument he serenaded us with a breezy rendition of The World Turned Upside Down, a highly appropriate choice given the somersaults my stomach had performed in the last few weeks. Sophie, on the other hand, looked as serene and buoyant as a swan, as though her world had just righted itself at last. Still, I was happy that she was happy, and I proceeded to throw myself into the impromptu celebrations with gusto. We danced and we sang and we drank with hearts made even fuller by the friendliness and generosity of the tavern patrons. Indeed, on many occasions I was close to more tears, and had to revive myself with copious draughts of grog, which went down so quickly that I soon forgot the errand Isaac Tetley had run for me. Until, that is, his return.

  33

  Love Letters

  ‘I cannot leave you alone for five minutes, can I, Oysterman?’

  I looked around and saw Isaac Tetley standing on the edge of the makeshift dancefloor, huge fists resting on hips, elbows sticking out like handles. With a contemptuous curl on the corner of his mouth, he turned his huge head from side to side and surveyed the scene.

  ‘Who’s that prig?’ shouted fearless Sophie, loud enough for George Washington to hear, let alone Isaac Tetley. ‘And what’s his game?’

  ‘He is a friend, sweetie. Let me introduce you…’

  ‘He is no friend of yours if he speaks to you like that.’

  ‘’Tis just his manner. He talks to everyone the same way.’

  ‘That is no reason for you to put up with it. See what he wants, sweetie, then get rid of him. This is our night.’

  ‘Some drab you’ve just met?’ said Isaac, as we made our way to quietest corner of the tavern.

  ‘That drab, Sir, as you call her,’ I said coolly, ‘is the one and only Sophie B. Mecklenburg, The Limping Lady Of The Lowlands, the love of my life, and the companion I was telling you about earlier. And tomorrow she becomes my wife, hence the celebrations.’

  ‘You? A husband? My God, now I have heard it all!’

  I seemed to recall a similar response to the disclosure that I was a spy, and I was getting sick of it. In my opinion the remark – and especially the tone in which it was delivered – crossed the thin line between good-natured ragging and outright insult, and a murderous rage welled up inside me as a result. Had Isaac been half the size he was I would have pummelled him to a pulp, but as it was I could only glare at him and demand that he tell me, before leaving us to enjoy ourselves, what news he had.

  ‘The news, Oysterman,’ said Isaac, unperturbed, ‘is that you were right to be suspicious about Burnley Axelrod.’

  My heart began to beat faster when I heard this, and my inners turned to ice.

  ‘I was?’

  ‘Aye – he was after your blood, all right. Evidenced by these…’

  Liking the sound of the was, I watched while he pulled out of his jacket pocket a thick packet of papers, and handed them to me without comment.

  ‘Not more coded messages,’ I said weakly, turning to scrutinize them under the feeble glow of the nearest lantern.

  ‘No, not coded at all. On the contrary they are communications of the most blatant sort. Love letters, mostly, from someone called Amanda Philpott.’

  ‘Amanda Philpott!’ I repeated, amazed. ‘What has she to do with all this?’

  ‘Read, and you will find out.’

  ‘I cannot read all these here, in my state, in this light. Can’t you just summarize events for me?’

  ‘A summary, Oysterman, would go something like this. I discover Mr Axelrod in his lodgings, enjoying a bath with two whores and a hogshead of brandy…’ I could tell by his intonation that he found the idea of a bath more decadent than the two whores and the brandy. ‘…I send the whores packing, then very politely ask the naked rogue what his business is with my friend, Mr Oysterman…’

  ‘You gave him my name?’

  ‘Indeed, Sir. How else could I have got the information out of him?’

  I groaned, and asked him to proceed.

  ‘At first he is surly, and professes never to ha
ve heard of you. Then I grab his arm and twist it behind his back, threatening first to snap his arm in two, and then his back. He is even surlier at this treatment, and snarls like the dog he is. Then I threaten to drown him in his bath water, reminding him that I have drowned Frenchmen in their bowls of onion soup before now. He remembers your name this time, points with his free hand to a cabinet, and tells me I will find in there everything I need to know. Not trusting him, I keep the armlock on, and drag the bath to the cabinet with me, slopping water everywhere. I pull out the correspondence you now have in your possession, and politely ask him to give me his own interpretation of their meaning, in case there is not everything I need to know in there after all. I use his arm as a lever to disgorge words, and what emerges, as far as I can understand, is that the rogue has been conducting a highly improper affair with the Amanda Philpott woman behind your back.’

  ‘I don’t mind!’ I babbled, wondering where all this was leading. ‘He can conduct an affair with her right under my nose for all I care. He can have her!’

  ‘Not up to New Jersey standards of beauty then?’

  ‘No,’ I said categorically, too absorbed in plot machinations to care whether he was being sarcastic.

  ‘Rich though, is she not?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because that is the crux of the matter, I believe. Nothing can set a rogue’s heart racing like a rich, ugly, lonely woman.’

  I did not like to hear a lady’s looks being so traduced, even Amanda’s.

  ‘She is not that ugly,’ I felt obliged to defend. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘But you turned her down.’

  ‘That is because I am not a rogue. My heart rules my head in matters of love, Sir.’

  ‘A philosophy obviously shared by Miss Philpott, because there is a distinct lack of head in the letter which caused all the trouble.’