Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘I am not holding you accountable. I am simply trying to divine from your past what will happen in your, and therefore my, future. I want to make sure you are not just using me to satisfy your foul lust. But oh, but why am I bothering to ask you? You are, after all, a professional liar, in the employ of the most odious monarch since Herod.’

  ‘Come, come, my dear, that’s a bit strong, however right you may be about Farmer George.’

  Sophie ignored the attempt at facetiousness, and ploughed on.

  ‘If you did not board each other, why did Elzevir say you were the only man she had ever loved?’

  ‘Just as we would be out of our depth in an African tribe, so Elzevir is out of his depth in white society, and therefore cannot appreciate its finer shades of meaning. Eloise, if I remember rightly, had a melodramatic turn of mind. She might well have told Elzevir that I was the only man she had ever loved, but, undetected by Elzevir, she would not have meant it. As soon as his back was turned I could imagine her burying her face in her pillow, and gagging.’

  Sophie considered this answer, then visibly brightened up, a sure sign that I had escaped yet again.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine her doing that, the treacherous little blower. Still, I am sure she was not laughing when I buried her pretty face in the wall. No-one makes a monkey of my Harry and gets away with it.’

  ‘Except you, sweetie.’

  ‘Aye, but that is my prerogative, as the one who cares for you most in the world.’

  We chuckled together at the fond badinage, though I was a little unsettled by the excessive abuse still being meted out to the lovely Eloise, which only confirmed that her continued vilification had less to do with her spying and romantic proclivities, than with unfathomable fears and inadequacies lurking deep within Sophie’s psyche. But as Sophie caressed my grateful gonads, I reflected that everyone in the world was a useful whipping boy or girl for others at some point in their life, so perhaps I was taking God’s guilt on my shoulders, and should not worry so much about the welfare of others. Good often came of evil, according to Parson Blood, and evil often came of good, though there was no way of knowing in advance which causes had which effects. Eschatology was God’s business, not man’s.

  ‘So I have set your fears at rest, I hope.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Sophie purred, resting her head on my chest. ‘They are sleeping like babies.’

  ‘Then ‘tis only fair, while we are at it, that you set a fear of mine at rest, sweetness.’

  Though this was said as softly as possible, in a mood of tender reconciliation, I felt her body stiffen apprehensively.

  ‘Proceed then, Sir, if you must.’

  I edged my head back slightly, in case she suddenly exploded in another fit of violence.

  ‘If you feared that I was using you to satisfy my lust, I fear that you are using me as a means of seeing life and the world.’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ said Sophie, genuinely astonished, and not at all offended.

  ‘Nothing, while I am seeing life and the world too, but I fear that when the time comes for poetic incarceration in Sussex – which is probably not far away now that it looks as if this war is as good as over – you will start to chafe at the bit, and begin eyeing up every passing clod in breeches, much to the detriment of my composure and our marriage.’

  ‘And your poetry, don’t forget that. As if you ever could.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh Harry, Sussex has all the appeal to me of a dead baby.’

  ‘But you have never been there.’

  ‘No, but how many people go backwards? A move from west to east is always a retrograde step. And besides, I am torn, Harry. Torn between love of you and love of my country – as you are torn between love of me and love of your poetry. Surely the solution is simple – we live here and you write here.’

  I had to think about this for a few moments.

  ‘Aye, that’s all very well, but the literary honours and the patronage are all in London.’

  ‘If you were a real poet you would not care about honours or patronage.’

  Stung, I whipped out my new composition, and thrust it in her face.

  ‘The work of a real poet, Madam. Tossed off in ten minutes. Why not use such God given talent to make a living for us both on the hallowed shores of Albion, or even – if it would excite you more – on the banks of the fabled Thames?’

  Sophie scanned it, and handed it back with a frown.

  ‘Oh, let us not argue about this now. We will sort something out, my dear. The main thing is that we are together again. Let us celebrate the moment, and promise that misunderstandings will not come between us again.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, vaguely unsettled by the inconclusive outcome to my enquiries, ‘I promise.’ I returned my poem to its nesting place inside my pocket.

  ‘If this is the end of the war,’ said Sophie, briskly changing the subject, ‘- though I doubt that it is – then I am glad that it is over without too much American suffering, at least here at Fort Lee. I dread to think, however, what has happened over there.’

  I followed Sophie’s concerned gaze over to the smoking ruin of Fort Washington, and tried to work myself up into a similar pitch of caring, but without visible or audible evidence of suffering, the grim beauty of the scene only added to the wellbeing of my aesthetic senses. They were there, and I was here, after all. It could easily have been the other way around. The most I could do was sympathize with Sophie’s sympathizing.

  ‘There, there, my dear. Do not think about it. ‘Tis over now. What is done is done.’

  ‘Harry, do you still have your spyglass, pray?’

  ‘Aye, my dear. I have it in my knapsack somewhere.’

  ‘Then hand it to me, sweetness. If I am fated never to experience war at first hand, then at least I may be able to report upon it from a distance. Perhaps I can observe some Hessian atrocity in progress, and report it to the Continental Congress.’

  ‘What good would that do?’ I asked.

  ‘Lots, if it gets us a letter of commendation for our services to America. And if we are to settle here, then we need as many letters of commendation as we can get, from as many different sources. Ideally, one or two from your side would be beneficial too, just in case we find ourselves in a Tory town by mistake.’

  I had to smile at the girl’s curious mix of compassion, hard-headed opportunism and naivety.

  ‘If that is the aim, then surely there is no need to actually observe an atrocity in progress. Simply make one up. No-one will ever know.’

  ‘Oh no, I could not do that. I’d know, and the knowledge would forever haunt me.’

  Nevertheless, I could see Sophie’s mind ticking over as she scanned the New York shore of the Hudson river.

  ‘Ooooh, look at that!’ she would exclaim at regular intervals, though maddeningly ignoring my pleas to explicate further.

  ‘What?’ I would plead, staring desperately at the barrel of the telescope, ‘What? What?’

  Chuckling, Sophie kept the spyglass to her eye, and pushed away my clutching hands.

  ‘British troops on their way over. Lots of them. And my, are they handsome! Just look at the juicy thighs on that one!’

  Feeling keen pangs of jealousy, my heart sank, taking every poetic sensibility with it. My decline from Godlike poet to whipped dog was complete. I pouted, sulked, and felt like crying. Eventually, goaded beyond even a gentleman’s limit, I could play the forbearing husband no more, and snatched the spyglass from her in an energetic fit of pique.

  ‘Pah!’ I sneered, scanning wildly the blur of soldiery on the opposite shore, ‘call those thighs? I’ve seen better legs hanging out of a sparrow’s nest.’

  ‘You poor sap!’ laughed Sophie, ‘I was only teasing.’ Adding, ‘But see! See how it feels, not being the only one in your lover’s life. Now you know how I felt when I heard about Eloise.’

>   ‘’Tis different,’ I muttered, steadying my arm and studying the troops more closely, to see if I knew anyone, ‘different completely.’

  ‘Jealousy is jealousy,’ Sophie pronounced, ‘whatever the cause. And I must say a little of it does you good. It makes you angry and masterful, and it makes me feel wanted.’

  In a more sheltered and stable condition, this remark would have been the cue for hot matrimonial rogering, but up here on a crumbling, exposed ledge I could do nothing about the spark that went through my artillery except leer lovingly, and rub my hand up and down Sophie’s thigh with masterful possessiveness. Gratifyingly, however, ‘twas enough to subdue Sophie’s rebel heart, and soon she was cooing and billing like a turtledove, and nestling her head on my shoulder as if in parody of a colonial housewife. After checking out of the corner of my eye to see that no parody was intended, I was free to turn my attention back to a scene that had caught my eye moments earlier. I immediately wished I had not bothered – the fight I had been watching between five men on a hilltop was now over, and I watched with horror as two supine, squirming Americans were bayoneted to stillness by three burly redcoats. ‘Twas sickening stuff, like watching tribes of savages hack each other to death, and it brought home to me how brutal was the actual business of battle. Dry-mouthed, I quickly turned my spyglass away, but the new sight I chanced upon showed human nature in no more rosy a light. Three men were pulling sailors out of a bateau at the water’s edge, with the apparent intention of climbing into it themselves. When they did not climb in, but simply stood around waiting, my curiosity was aroused, and I watched in anticipation for the appearance of some bigwig – perhaps Lord Howe himself – from the woods behind. Sure enough, after a few minutes, the branches of a fir tree began to twitch, and out appeared a trio of men on horseback. Examining their insignia closely, a sudden terror struck me as I realized that these were not any old horsemen, but members of the 16th Light Dragoons. Looking from rider to rider, I eventually found myself staring straight into the bruised and swollen face of Burnley Axelrod himself. I studied the features in a state of shock for a few moments – for he looked even more fearsome than I remembered – then began an involuntary shaking, as of one scared for his very life, a reaction which communicated itself to Sophie.

  ‘Someone walked over your grave, sweetie?’

  ‘Someone will be walking over it soon, I fear. And over there you will see the reason why.’

  I handed her the spyglass like a man with palsy, and gave her directions as well as I could. ‘The big one, with the bruised face.’

  ‘Burnley Axelrod, I presume?’

  ‘Twas Sophie’s turn to be perceptive.

  ‘That’s him then, is it?’ said Sophie. ‘The mythical Burnley Axelrod, the Stuff of Nightmare. My, let me get a good look at the rogue.’ She studied him in silence for a few moments, while I fought the urge to run screaming to Lord Cornwallis for protection.

  ‘Well?’ I said, when I could no longer stand the pain of chewing my lip.

  Sophie took the spyglass from her eye and looked at it quizzically.

  ‘Am I not focusing right, or is he much bigger than everyone else around him?’

  ‘He is much bigger than everyone else around him.’

  ‘My,’ she said, peering in once more, ‘What a beast! Handsome too, in a brutal way. Only joking, sweetie. But, oh my God – what’s that hairy thing dangling in front of his groin? Surely ‘tis not his…..’

  ‘What?’ I shrieked, nerves strung to snapping, ‘What? What?’

  ‘Oh no, ‘tis not what I thought – but ‘tis something disagreeable, that’s for certain. A baby racoon perhaps, or a pelt of some kind…’

  Without looking, it occurred to me in a flash what it was, and my agony was compounded.

  ‘Is it perhaps…..’ I could hardly get the words out, ‘…a hairy, bloody scalp?’

  ‘My God! Yes, it could be. In fact I think it is!’

  ‘Then my surmise was correct, and we know who he wants to murder next.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Sophie, laying down the spyglass and taking my trembling hand in hers, ‘one scalp looks much like another, after all.’

  ‘No, the coincidence is too great. ‘Tis Isaac’s barnet on his belt, of that I am sure.’

  ‘Well, even supposing that to be true, it does not follow that he is after you now. Or if he is he might just be coming to negotiate with you….’

  ‘Does he look like the negotiating type? Besides, why negotiate when you can get what you want by brute force? Oh Amanda, you stupid, stupid bitch! He knows I’ve read her letters by now. He probably knows that I know that he’s killed Isaac.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Harry. You are getting into a state. Events are coming to a head now, if you will excuse the pun, so we must think logically and calmly. Negotiate this crisis and we are free to start our life together, war permitting.’

  ‘But how do we negotiate this crisis? They will be over within an hour, and I’ll probably be dead within ten minutes of them finding us if we stay here. ‘Tis not just me in danger you know; once they find out you are my wife, you will probably be raped as a hors-d’oeuvre. I suppose I might be too for that matter.’

  ‘Vivid, imaginative Boy! I’m sure nothing of the kind is going to happen. And even if they do try, you have a flintlock and a bayonet, and I have this…’ From deep in her coat, Sophie pulled out a well-used pistol. ‘…They will not take us lightly. Your problems are my problems, and I will not leave you.’

  ‘I could not fly a kite with my hands shaking like this, let alone fire a musket.’ I glanced fearfully over to the riverbank. The bateau was now embarking. ‘Oh God, if only I had time to think what to do for the best.’

  ‘Then I will think for you. We go back to your regiment and await developments. Axelrod and his henchmen cannot simply ride into camp and scythe us down. Then somehow or other we will find out exactly what he wants, and respond accordingly.’

  I mulled this over for a few moments, then – primal fears winning out over godlike reason – came to a momentous decision.

  ‘I already know exactly what he wants – which is why I’m off. Alone. ‘Tis best for both of us.’

  ‘No, listen! Perhaps you could come to an agreement with him never to return to England. Paper proof of your death could easily be forged for Amanda’s benefit.’

  Even though frantic, I instantly detected Sophie’s hidden agenda in this solution.

  ‘I don’t think I would like to be party to one of Burnley’s agreements; I would never feel safe. No, I’m off.’

  ‘You mean you are running away?’

  ‘I am not running, my dear. I am simply giving myself time to think.’

  ‘You’re running away!’

  ‘Your beloved bloody army has just run away!’ I shouted, exasperated, waving my arms wildly, ‘yet they are heroes to you!’

  ‘That was strategic.’

  ‘This is strategic.’

  ‘This is cowardice, plain and simple! Stand and fight. Be a man!’

  ‘Not yet!’ I thundered, in answer to the stand and fight injunction, before realizing another injunction had been made, making me sound despicable, ‘I mean yes…I mean….’ I was all confused now…’I mean I’m off!…I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Harry, where are you going?’

  ‘Away.’

  ‘Away where?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I will let you know when I get there.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I’m going alone.’

  ‘You won’t last five minutes on your own, especially in that outfit. Pickets will be placed on every approach road. I know the countryside and the people. You know neither.’

  ‘Ignorance is bliss.’

  ‘Ignorance is a sin that traps fools.’

  ‘And cowards. Don’t forget cowards.’

  Sophie looked at me reproachfully.


  ‘If you run away, you will have not just Burnley but the whole British Army after you.’

  ‘So? What good has obeying orders done me?’

  ‘So you are going to get on a horse and ride, are you? I know your riding skills, Harry. I do not think you will outride a dragoon.’

  ‘I am not going to outride him, I’m going to hide until he’s gone. Up a tree somewhere, like Charles II.’

  Sophie looked at me pityingly, then out of nowhere came up with a plan that would have done Cornwallis proud.

  38

  Scavenger Doll

  ‘I know somewhere safer and more comfortable than a tree to hide.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Aye, but we must go there together – they will not let you in alone. I will take you there only if you assure me that you will face your problems when you have had time to think.’

  ‘I have already told you I will,’ I shouted, taking umbrage at this nannying whilst I was at my most vulnerable. ‘What more assurance can I give?’

  ‘Good man! That’s what I wanted to hear. Now, let us make our way out of here. First we must get past the pickets that will be posted on every road in and out of Fort Lee. And to do that, my dear, we must get you into different clothing. Come with me.’

  After casting one final glance down at the hellhounds on my tail, I turned and followed Sophie as she stumped determinedly in the direction of the baggage train, which had now become a veritable Ranelagh for the men and their floozies. Torn coats were being held up and examined, babies were being dandled, bubs were being squeezed, tea was being poured, bets were being placed, bread was being gnawed, pipes were being smoked – all amidst animated chatter about the delightful ease of war in America. A few acquaintances saw me pass, and beckoned me to join them, but I simply extemporized my well-used mime of a man rushing desperately to the jakes. This was convincing, judging by the laughter, and I was allowed to progress to my destination, which turned out to be a canvas-covered cart at the rear of the baggage train.