Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘There is?’ I said, staring down at the pile in my hand. ‘Is it here?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘Addressed to Burnley?’

  ‘No, addressed to you, Sir. Obviously Mr Axelrod has the post rider in his pocket.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘And what does this letter say, as far as you can understand?’

  Isaac ploughed in with relish, untroubled by sensitivity to the sufferings of others.

  ‘That she needs proof of your death before she will consent to marry Axelrod.’

  ‘The stupid cow!’ I exclaimed, after a few moments of wide-eyed horror. ‘Fancy telling a dragoon that. She has sentenced me to death!’

  ‘I don’t think there is much chance of that now. I scared the rogue so much he will think twice about pursuing his plan further.’

  ‘Did he admit that he engineered my excursion into the hellish Hackensack for the express purpose of having me killed?’

  ‘Not in so many words. Even I couldn’t get that out of him. But best to assume he did.’

  I proceeded to think out loud, trying to make sense of these shocking and frightening disclosures.

  ‘So, he sent me into the Hackensack Valley in the hope that I would be killed by a rebel. But perhaps he was only toying with the idea, and my safe return might have been the end of the matter. But now he has revenge as a motive: against you and against me, by association.’

  ‘He will not exact revenge on me, that is for certain.’

  ‘Violence breeds violence,’ I muttered, highly agitated. ‘Diplomacy was called for after all, not torture.’

  ‘Then you should have gone yourself.’

  ‘I was going to, but you appropriated the situation.’

  ‘I was bored, I needed action. Anyway, polite enquiry would not have got this information out of him. On the contrary, he would probably have murdered you there and then, and posted your head in a box to Amanda Philpott as proof. Diplomacy, as you call it, works only when ‘tis based on a position of physical strength. Now he has been smashed by my iron fist, you can tickle him as much as you like with your velvet glove.’

  I did not want to tickle anyone with a velvet glove; no, not even Sophie. I did, however, desperately want to read the letters in my possession, and decide for myself the most appropriate course of action, but I could not do this while Sophie was enjoying herself so much. I determined therefore to put as brave a face on it as I could, and rejoin the celebrations – a man’s marriage, after all, being more important than his death. It would also be the best way of slapping Isaac Tetley in the face, for, if I was not mistaken, he relished bringing me bad news, and liked my nervous reactions to it.

  ‘Oh well, what is done is done, Mr Tetley,’ I said, pulling myself together with several deep breaths. ‘Thank you for your efforts. Now, I must return to the ball. Are you a dancing man, sir? A devotee of the gavotte perhaps?’

  ‘Sometimes, Oysterman, I think you do not take life seriously enough.’

  ‘Strange – I was under the impression that I took it too seriously. Now, Sir…’ I offered him the crook of my arm, ‘…a jig?’ After all, ‘tis not every night an Oysterman marries.’

  As expected, the rogue was off in a flash, cursing my frivolity and no doubt my ingratitude too, but I’d had enough of him, so that was that.

  ‘That looked intense, sweetie,’ said Sophie, as I took my rightful place in her arms. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Just a sailor I came over from England with,’ I said, adjusting my dancing position so that my bulging pocket did not knock against her. ‘And you know what these sailors are like – yarn, yarn, yarn.’

  ‘Ah well, at least he’s gone now, and we can get on with celebrating my last night as a Mecklenburg, and your last night as a single man.’

  Or perhaps even my last night as a man, I thought, pushing up a wide smile with enormous effort and keeping it there, permanently fixed, until a convenient moment arrived to take a temporary leave. Then, on the pretext of easing my sluices, I dashed outside to the nearest flaming cresset and tore into the packet Isaac had delivered to me.

  I read, absorbed and trembling, as one letter after another paid tribute to Burnley’s powers as a Man, a Lover, and a Beast, a typical one being the encomium of 15th July 1776:

  Philpott Hall

  Steyning

  Sussex

  England

  Dear Burnley,

  My God, is that the time already? I have not moved a muscle since you left in the early hours of this morning; and do you know why that is, Tiger? BECAUSE I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO. Every fibre of my body and my soul has been ripped apart by your searing Manhood. The jangle of your spurs, the rippling bass of your voice, the hairiness of your massive bawbles – these things go round in my mind, until I am quite sick for your return. You see, my darling, you have made me a woman – a gratified, sensuous, jealous woman – where before I was only a foolish girl. You have awakened me, and I cannot look at other men now (NAMING NO NAMES!!) without wanting to puke. I want your babies, Burnley, so do not go diluting your gravy on those pockmarked Colonial blowers. Come back to me soon, my Thrusting Boy, and we will ALL the pleasures prove.

  Yours Obsessively,

  Amanda

  This was shocking enough, but then I came to the letter that Isaac had referred to, the Crux of the Whole Matter:

  5th July 1776

  Philpott Hall

  Steyning

  Sussex

  England

  Dear Harry,

  I am writing this in the garden of Philpott Hall. You remember it well, don’t you, sweetie? Yes, it was here in this very garden that you made love to me. Here that you mentally raped me with your ratty eyes! Oh, Harry, how I love you! At the moment a breeze is blowing in from the sea, and my darling little dogs are running and barking and rolling over to have their bellies tickled. Aren’t they divine babies!

  So, I understand that you have decided to join the army and fight for the Crown in America. Was my rebuttal of your suit so great a blow to your pride? I must have hurt you deeply for you to have taken such a drastic step (though if you had been really hurt you would have made at least one suicide attempt). But how could I accept anyone with such poor social skills as yours into the gracious ways of life at Philpott Hall?

  You will say, I know, that soldiers don’t have or need social graces. Well, I’ve met one who has – SO THERE!! His name is Burnley Axelrod and he’s a real man. Gentle, kind, and big enough to put you in hospital for life with one flick of his finger. I need not add that he’s a perfect beast in bed – inconsiderate, vigorous, selfish and magnificent (oh I swoon!). He makes your slobbery fumblings – that I had once thought so cute and appealing – contemptuous in comparison. You dithery worm, darling! How we laughed at you! And yet, what poor creatures we women are – sex is not everything to us. How I wish I had you to play with in the daytime, and Burnley to satisfy my womanly needs at night.

  But the world is not perfect, and I must face my dilemma like a heroine. You have left me, and Burnley wants me. Therefore I have reluctantly agreed to give him my hand in marriage provided I have proof that you are either dead, or incapacitated in some way. For I am true to you, my dear Harry, and will not give myself to anyone else whilst there is still hope left that you might be alive and capable. I realize that you cannot reply if you are dead, but if you are alive please write to me (or dictate to someone if your arms have been blown off) and put me out of my misery.

  Oh Harry!!

  Yours Confusedly,

  Amanda

  PS. I hope this letter reaches you. I have been given your address by Burnley himself so it should do – he is certainly more than capable in every other field (There, you are jealous now, aren’t you? What is wrong with you, Harry? Cannot you just grow up?)

  Shaking my head in disbelief at this crass piece of stupidity, I wondered if I really did have ratty eyes. And d
ithery worm indeed! With her I may have been, for it was the best I could muster in the circumstances, a mere half-harded attempt to do my duty. With Sophie all was different – a love based on mutual admiration, respect and loyalty, and frighteningly stiff as a result. Yes, I just about convinced myself, I was sure I was more of a man than Burnley would ever be, despite his brawn.

  I was still mulling over these heavy matters when I became aware that I was being watched. Twirling round, I found myself face to face with Sophie, whose pie eyes moved slowly from my letters to my forehead and back again.

  ‘Up to your old tricks again, Lover?’

  ‘No,’ I blathered, very flustered, as I quickly stuffed the letters back in my pocket, ‘Nothing like that. They are just…just…’

  ‘Whatever they are,’ interrupted Sophie, slurring badly, ‘I need to attend to my toilet. Where is the best place?’

  I pointed up the nearest dark alley, and heaved a sigh of relief. When she came back five minutes later the letters had been forgotten, and the subject of overnight accommodation had taken their place.

  ‘I have been talking to a very decent gentlemen in there who has offered us a room for the night,’ said Sophie, taking my arm and very affectionately nuzzling her head under my chin. ‘He is a scrivener and lives in something-or-other street, not far from here. Says we can stay, but we must leave the house when he does at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. The uncertainty of war means he cannot leave his door open all day, as he used to.’

  ‘That is fair enough, my dear. And well done for finding us somewhere to stay; I had completely overlooked the matter.’

  ‘As long as you do not overlook me, I do not mind. Now come, Sir, we must drain the night to its dregs – this is our engagement night, AND THIS IS NEW YORK!!’

  Suddenly shouting at the top of her voice, and whooping like an Indian, Sophie dragged me back into the tavern, and subjected me to more furious merriment. As the night wore on into the early hours, I kept gaping at the scrivener in the hope that he would leave soon and put me out of my misery. When at last he did express a desire to be gone, I was at his side in a flash, and soon had Sophie brought into line with me. Taking emotional leave of our well-wishers and companions for the evening, we left the tavern and followed the scrivener – Mr Roderick Quiggins, a handsome-looking youth – out onto the streets, which were eerily quiet until Sophie started caterwauling at the top of her voice, so that all New York must have heard her.

  ‘Happy, my dear?’ I enquired, keeping a nervous look-out for dragoons in the gloom.

  ‘Very,’ said Sophie drunkenly, trying to leapfrog over me and ending up sprawled and giggling on the ground. ‘The happiest day of my life.’

  I helped her up and kissed her, and said it was mine too, which it would have been had not Isaac’s disclosures just about ruined it for me. Then, for the rest of the walk, still feigning outward happiness, I gloated on the slowest and most agonizing ways I could kill Amanda Philpott if I ever got back to England alive.

  34

  The Marriage

  As we left the scrivener’s house the following morning, after a decent sleep and a breakfast of coffee and rolls, Sophie was strangely pensive. I thought at first that crapulousness was the cause, but it turned out to be disappointment following discovery of my letter cache.

  ‘I hope you have not lapsed back into your old habit of secrecy,’ she suddenly snapped, as we walked towards Kip’s Bay, a beauty spot recommended to us by the ever-accommodating Mr Quiggins, ‘knowing how it almost finished us before.’

  ‘My dear, what is the matter?’

  ‘Don’t my dear me, you sly dog. You see, my memory is very good, even after liquor; I remembered the letters I caught you reading last night so I have been through your pockets and I have read them. So before we search out a parson, I need you to tell me who Burnley Axelrod is, and who Amanda is. There is to be no more secrecy between us, if you remember.’

  ‘I was going to tell you everything, my dear,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Aye, this very morning. Truly I was. But you must remember that I was not aware of these things myself until last night, when Isaac Tetley handed the letters to me; I needed time to comprehend their import. Also, I did not want to trouble you when you were enjoying yourself so much.’

  ‘Thoughtful,’ said Sophie sarcastically. ‘But now I am not enjoying myself, so now you can.’

  Sighing, truly in the doghouse, I led the way to a shady bench overlooking the East River, and proceeded to turn it into my latest confessional.

  ‘Well,’ said Sophie, chuckling to herself when I had finished my narrative, ‘who would have thought? My Harry prefers me to a real English heiress. What is the world coming to?’

  ‘But what about Burnley Axelrod?’ I said, wanting to bring her back to the point. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘What are we to do, you mean, sweetie.’

  ‘What are we to do then?’

  ‘We are to shoot him dead if he approaches us,’ said Sophie brightly, mind obviously still musing on the mysteries of love. ‘’Tis simple.’

  ‘No, ‘tis not simple,’ I said. ‘’Tis not simple at all. You cannot just kill a man in cold blood – even your greatest enemy – without the most hellish remorse haunting you for the rest of your days. Have you not read your Macbeth?’ There was a silence, suggesting she had not. ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘I’d miss, I’d be so nervous.’

  ‘I’ll shoot him then; I’m not bothered about all that remorse stuff.’

  I rose from my seat, and paced about in exasperation, gesticulating wildly.

  ‘No, no, no, no. We are barking up the wrong tree. There must be a peaceful way of resolving the problem.’

  ‘Why not simply write to Amanda and break her heart. Tell her you are married, or dying from disease. Or I will.’

  I remembered the farewell letter I had written to Amanda from my prison cell, and wondered what had happened to it. Probably another farewell letter was required, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Yes, I will do that anyway. But one month will pass before she receives the letter, and another two months will pass before Burnley receives his reply saying he can have her and the accompanying estate. That’s January of next year at the earliest before I can be sure that Burnley is not coming after me. Three months of constant anxiety is an intolerable burden for any man, my dear; which is why, as I say, something must be tried in the meantime.’

  ‘Why not write to the old fools in charge of this war: the Howes, Cornwallis, Percy, one of that crowd? Or what about Axelrod’s commanding officer? Even he must have one…’

  ‘He has – General Harcourt is his name, but I do not think I rate very highly in the scheme of things. Axelrod is employed as a loose cannon in any case, and given carte blanche to do as he wishes.’

  ‘But they are supposed to be gentlemen, are they not, stuffed full of honour and all that ordure? Surely they cannot stand by while one of their own soldiers is hunted down and hacked to death.’

  ‘Sophie, please. There is no need to be so graphic in your scenarios.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie. ‘Tis just that I cannot see what there is to fret about. Two are stronger than one any day of the week, and we will always be together.’

  ‘What, even when I am advancing into battle?’

  ‘Even then, sweetie.’

  I concluded from these ridiculous answers that Sophie had spiritual togetherness in mind, of no solace to me at all. Nevertheless I was pleased that a hitherto dormant religious sense had appeared; if nothing else, ‘twould come in useful when the time came for Sophie to compose an inscription on my gravestone.

  ‘So you think I am worrying unnecessarily?’

  ‘I am positive of it. But even if you are not, you can alleviate distress by playing off one fear against another. For example, if you are worrying about Burnley Axelrod, think about the horror of going into battle; if you are worrying about the horror of battle, think
about the terror of Burnley Axelrod.’

  I looked closely at Sophie to see if she was being serious. She was. In despair, I sat down next to her, stuffed my hands in my pockets, outsplayed my legs, and gazed out over the water to the idyllic pastures of Long Island.

  ‘Well, nothing can be done, it seems, whether I am worried or not. So let us enjoy what is left of life. It is, after all, a lovely day to get married.’

  I said this with all the mournfulness of the philosopher in Ecclesiastes, but either Sophie was not sensitive to my mood, or she deliberately put a more optimistic gloss on the words, for she suddenly jumped up with all the eagerness of a schoolgirl.

  ‘My feelings precisely, Harry. Come on, up you get! Let us go and find your Parson Blood, then we can get married, and spend the rest of this lovely day as God intended, fornicating freely in a field somewhere. I am eager for it, Harry, I do not mind telling you. After two days without it you must be too, poor boy.’

  She clamped her hand on my artillery, and gave it a good squeeze of encouragement. I looked down dispassionately at the manoeuvre, then turned to Sophie and feigned a grotesque smile.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Sophie. ‘Cheer up. After all, what is life?’

  ‘A great adventure,’ I said, a morose parrot.

  ‘And is that not why you joined the army in the first place, to seek adventure and get away from the stifling boredom served up by Amanda Philpott?’

  ‘Sort of…’

  ‘Of course it was. But you must remember, Harry, that the very nature of an adventure means that the rough must be taken with the smooth. You must expect that, and not lose heart when it does come. You must be a like a Knight of the Holy Grail, for whom there is no turning back once a course has been decided upon. But in recompense for the little trouble you’re having with Burnley Axelrod, I promise you that this afternoon you will reach sexual heights unattainable in Sussex – or Europe, for that matter.’

  ‘I will?’

  To my own surprise, both my voice and my artillery sparked into life.

  ‘Promise. This afternoon you can do anything you want with me. Or to me.’