‘Anything?’ I croaked.
‘Anything.’
‘What, we can even play Rebels and Redcoats?’
‘That, my dear, will be your hors d’oeuvre.’ Then, presumably a hors d’oeuvre for the hors d’oeuvre, she unbuttoned her gown, took my hand, and placed it on her bosom. I watched with interest as it began involuntarily to squeeze at the firm fruit. ‘God, the things I can show you,’ Sophie panted in my ear, ‘my breath goes just thinking about them.’
My breath had already gone, as had my mind. Taking one cursory look to see that no-one was around, I began kissing her lasciviously, and tugging her to the ground.
‘Let us find that field first,’ I urged, heart pounding furiously, ‘and then set about finding Parson Blood.’
‘No, Harry, you impetuous dog. We marry first, then fornicate like hot little devils later.’
Ceasing my immediate mauling, I rose as best I could given the state of my stalk, then pulled her in the direction of Trinity Church, last sighting place of Parson Blood.
‘Oh Harry, is this not thrilling?’
I grunted assent, mute with swinish lust.
‘What church shall we get married in, dearest? I had a look at a few yesterday. There’s St Luke’s in Cotton Street – a lovely little church with pale blue walls and a flat ceiling. Or there’s The Old Dutch Reformed Church off Garden Street, with its glass chandelier and gallery. Then there’s…’
‘Which has the shortest aisle?’
‘St Luke’s, I think…’
‘Then that’s the one it will be. Now come – come quickly before I do, you…you…’ A thought struck me – I gambled on it, ‘…you hot little whore!’
This was a bold thing for me to say, but I thought it might please her, these being the very words Verne used on Nancy to hurt Sophie. And I was right, it did please her.
‘For that, Sir,’ panted Sophie, beaming with satisfaction, struggling to keep up with me, ‘you will experience Hot Hell.’
I couldn’t wait, and we hurried back into town as quickly as we could; indeed, I even gave Sophie a piggy-back on several occasions, just to speed things along. When the spire of St Luke’s Church finally hoved into view, my stomach gave a strange lurch, as if suddenly aware of the significance of the occasion. As I stopped to gawp upwards in a kind of religious awe, Sophie took the opportunity to hop off my back.
‘This will do, sweetie,’ she said, all vivacity. ‘Now we must part for a while. You go and find the parson; I will go and find a dress. I will meet you at the church door
at…what time is it now?’
‘About eleven, I think.’
‘About one then. Don’t be late.’
She gave me a kiss with some tongue, then scurried away as if she knew exactly where she was going. Able to make my own way around the city as well as Sophie – what a cosmopolitan couple we were – I set off with equal confidence for Trinity Church, a landmark so famous only a fool could miss it. It was with some mortification therefore that I found myself, not fifteen minutes later, on the banks of the Hudson River, scratching my head and wondering where on earth it had got to. Vanity wounded, I retraced my steps with more concentration and attention to street signs, but this only disorientated me more. Eventually I had to swallow my pride and ask directions of an old woman who looked as though she had lost her brain in an Indian attack. Gawping at me as though I were the idiot, she told me exactly how to get there, and why I had missed it – it had been razed to the ground in the Great Fire, as every person above suspicion knew. Astonished at both forms of intelligence, I thanked her grudgingly, and ran off in the direction indicated, aware of the need to make up for lost time.
As informed, all that awaited me was the burnt-out shell of the church, inside which five crows bickered raucously over a loaf of bread. Human crows appeared to have accounted for the fixtures and fittings of the place, and of Parson Blood or anyone else in the 85th Foot there was no sign at all, even in the immediate vicinity. Feeling an unexpected sense of abandonment, I made frantic enquiries of passers-by, but no-one seemed to know or care what had happened to them. I hurried to Pete’s lodgings like a child running back to its mother, but was dismayed to find the 85th no longer on picket duty, which probably meant that Pete was no longer inside either. I enquired anyway, but was aggressively told to ‘hawae hae cruddy yon rigwoodie messan’, or some such nonsense, by a glassy-eyed Scotsman in a tartan bonnet. All further attempts to locate the parson similarly thwarted, I trudged back to St Luke’s in tears. The day was ruined, my lifeline to England was gone, and there would be no sex in the fields for me later. My sole melancholy job now was to find Sophie, tell her that I could find no-one to marry us – at least for the time being – and break her happy heart. I was on the lookout for her when, to my joy, I spotted a tower of books entering the very church in which we hoped to get married. It looked for all the world like the carapace of the man I wanted.
‘I hope you have paid for those, Parson,’ I said excitedly, when I caught up with him in the porch of the church, ‘and are not abusing your position as a holy man to plunder an occupied city of its treasures.’
A face turned towards me that was about as far from Parson’s Blood’s as ‘twas possible to get. It was young for one thing, with startling blue eyes and a long straight bony nose.
‘What?’ he said, seemingly dazed from a morning’s unearthly reading. ‘Oh, yes, these. Yes, I have. I have money to burn thanks to the ridiculous fashion that has sprung up for tawdry marriages to the nearest drab to hand. But who are you, Sir, and what can I do for you?’
Though taken terribly aback, I knew I had to seize my chance. It seemed as if I had stumbled across the very man I needed.
‘My name is Harry Oysterman, and I’d like one of those very same tawdry marriages, if you please.’
The parson groaned, as if torn between duty and the love of easy money. He put his books down on a table just inside the church door, and studied me in the gloom.
‘You are not even a soldier, are you?’
I no longer found this old barb so maddening, having adjusted more to my place in the world. Besides, I was too desperate for his services to be indignant at anything.
‘I will doubtless be back in scarlet this time tomorrow.’
‘Not many soldiers get the chance to take time off from soldiering, and wander around a city in their ordinary clothes.’
‘I am a very special soldier, but more I cannot say.’
‘Does your commanding officer know you plan to get married?’
‘No.’
‘You cannot get married without his permission.’
I pulled out a few notes of uncertain denomination from my coat pocket, and waggled them in front of his face. His eyes crossed as he focused on them, and he began to salivate.
‘More books, Parson.’
The young face creased with spiritual pain, as Morality and Cupidity locked horns once more within his breast. There was no real doubt as to the outcome.
‘Cannot you wait until after the war?’ he asked in a voice that wavered like a cat on a tightrope. ‘See if you like the girl or not.’
‘I like her. I like her a lot. And in these uncertain times one cannot afford to linger, as these books surely point out.’ I picked one up at random and squinted at the title: Teleology Or Chaos? Internecine Religious Strife in the Outlying Villages Of South-Eastern Connecticut, 1610-1683. Not germane to my cause after all, I put it back quickly and returned to my theme. ‘Look, Parson, Death is more imminent for me than it is for you – though of course neither of us have long in the wider scheme of things, as a man of your calling knows only too well.’
‘Yes, but is the brevity of life any excuse for foolishness? For acts that jeopardize the integrity of your Eternal Soul?’
‘I don’t know about my Eternal Soul – and nor do you, with respect – but there is nothing foolish about marrying the woman you love,
surely?’
‘Oh, you love her, do you?’ said the Parson in surprise, perhaps spotting an escape clause. ‘That’s different, then. I just assumed you were doing it for a lark, as the others do. They use the service merely as an appetizer for the main meal of the day, viz. sexual nourishment in the fields afterwards.’
‘No, not I,’ I stammered, trying not to blush, ‘I am deadly serious, Parson, I promise.’
‘And is she a good Christian girl?’
‘Yes, of course she is,’ I rattled off quickly, to hide my doubts.
There was a pause, in which I could almost hear the gurgle of convictions draining away. He came back to life with a lighter tone in his voice, as though the bleeding had done him good.
‘Then you will want my longest service, perhaps the one I prepared for Alexander Webster, the fourth greatest landowner in the colony of New York. I have it here somewhere.’
‘Oh no, no,’ I objected, my heart leaping. ‘Just the truncated one will do. We are not that important, and I do not want to hold anybody up. Besides, this is all the cash I have at the moment, and I presume more minutes mean more pennies?’
‘Alas, yes,’ said the parson, making a handwringing gesture of pure humbug. ‘Though I could let you have a discount rate if you can recommend me to anyone of importance.’
‘I’m a sixpence-a-day man, as you know, Parson. Holy as the day is, I cannot afford anything more than the basic ceremony.’
‘Fair enough, Mr Oysterman. Whatever you wish.’ The Parson beamed and rubbed his hands together, much happier now that his scruples had been thrown out of the window. ‘Now, where is the blushing bride?’
‘Buying a wedding dress. We have arranged to meet here at one o’clock. Can you marry us then?’
‘Well, that is my dinner hour – but, yes, very well. I will be waiting for you just after one. If for any reason I am not there, just ask for Parson Larsen.’
Delighted with the name and the deal, I settled the bill, shook his hand and strode out into the tiny churchyard. The world had righted itself again, thanks to my fortunate discovery of Parson Larsen, and I felt like jumping over the gravestones in joy. Parading up and down with my hands behind my back, the dead below me groaning in envy, I radiated goodwill to passers-by on the street before sitting down on a bench for a calming ponder. As expected, fleeting fears of Burnley Axelrod kept shooting unbidden through my mind, but I stopped them from taking hold, not with equally negative thoughts of battle, as advocated by Sophie, but with positive thoughts of my own wedding day. This was, after all, one of the holy days of a man’s life, up there with his birth and his death, and I was not going to let Captain Fear intrude upon its majesty. Feeling warm and sacred, I tucked into my thoughts as if they were a luscious Christmas dinner. Even the bad memories, which had so tormented me in Hackensack gaol, were now no more than undercooked brussel sprouts, insignificant compared to the gorgeousness of the meal as a whole, and easily pushed aside. Serene beyond belief, I leaned back and watched the drifting white clouds above me, the better to contemplate my place in the universe, and as I did so a line from Spenser’s Epithalamion insinuated itself into my consciousness: Let this day, let this one day, be mine. The words were so appropriate, and so soothing, that I kept on repeating them like an incantation, until the first couples started to arrive for their services.
Eyeing them keenly, I was fairly sure that they had not read Spencer, or spent much time contemplating their place in the universe. Nearly all applicants were drunk and foul-mouthed, and most looked like case studies in scrofula or smallpox. The women giggled and the men roared, and I began to feel sorry for Parson Larsen, despite the money he was making. The couples were civil to me though, and I responded in kind by helping them up when they toppled into the bushes on one side of the path, or fell into a badly-placed open grave on the other. As one o’clock approached, however, my mood barometer began to shift to Chronic Fretfulness. I stepped out onto the main thoroughfare and nervously paced up and down, scanning the street corners for signs of my bride. Would Sophie turn up, or had she already run off with someone she had met in Canvas Town? Was that why she had been so strangely confident and happy when we last parted? I began to feel sick with anxiety, and the former serenity of my mind was completely shattered.
‘Here I am, sweetie,’ called a voice behind me. ‘Did you think I’d stood you up?’
From around the corner of the church itself appeared a little vision in white, unrecognizable as the leader of a terrorist brigade. Gone, somewhere, was her previous costume, and she stood before me in a white gown and a preposterous blonde wig, on top of which perched a tiny flower-strewn hat. A beauty spot had sprouted on her cheek, and on her arm she carried a wicker basket draped with a white cloth, out of which peeped, like a couple of miniature cannon, the necks of two wine bottles. Had I not known her, I would have taken her for a Covent Garden whore, so much so that I wondered whether she had dressed in this manner in readiness for the first sexual fantasy bout of our married life together.
‘Well?’ said Sophie, twirling around. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I like it very well,’ I slavered, a curious hotchpotch of relief and lust. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Kiss me first, then I will tell you.’
I did as I was bidden, putting as much holiness into the act of osculation as my raging gonads would allow.
‘From the girls in Battery Park,’ said Sophie, looking at me in puzzlement. ‘At least twenty-first hand, this outfit, I imagine. But it serves the purpose admirably, do you not think?’
I agreed that it did.
‘Harry – was that love that made you tremble as you kissed me, or fear of Burnley Axelrod?’
‘Did I tremble?’
‘Aye, Sir, you did.’
‘Then it must have been pure love, my dear, for I have no fear of Burnley Axelrod or anyone else at this moment.’
‘Then there is no better time to seal our union. Come, sir, take my hand, and let us not tarry further.’
The queue had dwindled, so we entered the church and made our way as slowly as possible down the aisle, partly to appear stately and dignified, partly to ensure that Sophie’s wig did not tilt over and obscure her vision. In the distance, looking drained, Parson Larsen waited; around us, soldiers dozed or gambled or smoked in the pews, with only the cynical or the romantic popping their heads up to observe us. I thought again of the wedding I had envisaged in Brighthelmstone, with the music of the sublime Mr Handel roaring away in my ears, but Sophie and I were happy enough, especially when Parson Larsen unexpectedly came out with some fine-sounding phrases which struck awe into us, and put us in mind of our Creator. In fact, not since my contemplative morning on the Twinkle had I been so aware of the mystery and therefore the beauty of things, and when I turned to look at Sophie’s face in this new light, she did indeed look like something out of the Bible, even if it was more Mary Magdalene than the Virgin Mary. Dazzled, we gazed at each other quite goggle-eyed as the lovely words of the marriage ceremony rolled over us like a protective blanket.
‘…and therefore, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…I now pronounce you…man and wife…’
We kissed to applause from the romantics, and catcalls and cries of Next! from the cynics, but being humanists at heart, there was nothing to seriously distract us from sublime contemplation of the moment, and we milked it for all it was worth, until the prolonged clinking of coins in Parson Larsen’s pocket invaded even my rarefied consciousness, and broke the spell.
‘Pretty service, Parson, ‘ I complimented. ‘All that reading’s done you good. Very ethereal, for the price.’
‘I aim to please.’
‘Ethereal enough for you, sweetie – or shall we pay for another ten minutes’ worth?’
‘No, that was lovely just as it was, Harry. Any more religion would begin to cloy. Besides, we must not keep the next couple waiting.’
‘Nor,’ I whispered, saucy, firing off a volley of oeillades at her, ‘Venus.’
Snorting occasionally as we fought vainly to suppress our giggles, we thanked the parson before turning around and fairly legging it to the church door. Once outside in the crisp sunlight, we clasped each other joyously, and kissed breathlessly. Then she took my hand and we headed off towards the Elysian Fields, fairly salivating at the thought of the luscious feast to come.
35
Peerspotting
Without the panic of a deadline, it proved easy enough to locate Pete and the boys. They had simply moved a few miles north in readiness for the coming attack on Fort Washington. The thought of deserting did of course cross my mind, but I had just returned from prime deserting country, and New York would not be as easy to get out of as it had been the first time around. Besides which, I felt I would be safer from Burnley Axelrod within the protective bosom of my own regiment, until such time as I could plot a passage back to England for Sophie and I. So, from the dangerous freedom of the spy, ‘twas back once more to the mindless, coglike existence of the clockwork soldier. Rising blisters and aching muscles replaced the emotional and mental anguish of decision-making, and whatever energy I had left at the end of the day was quickly whipped off me by Sophie with a quick yet satisfying movement of her hips over my prone and battered body. I was very depressed after the elation of my wedding day, but ‘twas comforting to be back in the ranks in one way – that of learning I was not the only man with troubles. Everybody had them, most much worse than mine. Thomas Slocombe, for example, had just received a letter from England, which told him that his wife and child had been carried away by the smallpox, so that even as he read about them, they were mouldering away in a grave somewhere. Someone else’s mother had died of water in the head. Another’s sister had died of tympany. A fearful lowness of spirits prevailed, which not even the fine weather of the Indian summer could dispel. They all, however, stuck at it with admirable doggedness, which in turn strengthened my resolve to be manly too, and to enquire into their affairs as they had enquired into mine, however great the effort. We became confidantes to each other, and it was in this manner that I learned of the high regard in which I was held by my fellows. Astonished at this, I asked why, and they told me that they looked upon me as an adventurer, and a toiler in the petticoats of American women – both ludicrous notions that repeated denials only cemented into fact. Indeed, to signify the end of my perceived Dark Horse period, Light Horse Harry became my new epithet, a token of acceptance that gave me a curious pleasure.
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