‘You in there, Doll?’ called out Sophie breathlessly.
‘Ooo’s that?’ came back a squeaky voice that reeked of the English gutter.
‘’Tis I, Sophie B. Mecklenburg. I mean Oysterman. We had a chat in the woods last night.’
‘You that American girl wiv marital problems?’
‘The very one.’
‘Gotcha. Cam orn in then.’
We clambered up the step into the gloom of the wagon. Immediately my nostrils were assailed by the heavy stench of blood and sweat, which came from the disorderly heaps of damp clothes that lay scattered around the floor. Comfortably wallowing in the middle of them, lit by a lantern, was an enormous creature who looked for all the world like a bloated white grub. She was seated on a three-legged milking stool, and rotund little arms and legs stuck out of her body like balusters. Tiny eyes regarded me impassively, before a grunt indicated that the bulk was moving. Aghast, I noticed that her hand had extended slightly in my direction in a sort of capillary motion, and I had no alternative but to take it. Unsurprisingly, it was hot and clammy, and I had to fight down my rising gorge.
‘Meet Scavenger Doll,’ said Sophie. ‘Nothing gets past this one.’
‘Keep me eyes open, I do,’ exclaimed Doll, lolling back wheezing. ‘Know evryfin worf knowin’.’ Then, weighing me up, ‘This the one causin’ you all the problems, luvvie? Not much to look at, is he?’
‘He’s all I’ve got, Doll. But that’s all solved now. ‘Tis a dress I’m here for. One that will fit my husband.’
‘Funny time to desert, innit, gel?’ said the knowing Doll. ‘War’s over, so they say.’
‘We need to get away,’ said Sophie. ‘Quickly.’
‘Ah well, if yer must, yer must. Ain’t fer me ter question yer motives. ‘Ave a sift through that little lot, ‘n see if anyfin fits the bill.’
‘Thanks, Doll.’
While Sophie began to sort briskly through the fetid mound of clothing, I watched in disgust as Doll moved to another tiny stool in the corner of the wagon. Both Sophie and I rose a couple of feet skywards as she poured herself over it like a giant bladder.
‘What is it we are searching for?’ I dithered, still squirming from the repulsive sight. ‘A dress for me?’ Suddenly my mind returned to the task in hand. ‘Wait a minute, I’m not wearing a dress. No, not I!’
From the corner Doll’s wheezing came faster and louder, as though something had amused her. Indeed I thought I detected the ghost of the phrase fackin’ fanny in her gasps.
‘’Tis the best way for a man to escape – ain’t that right, Doll?’
Doll wheezed and coughed assent.
‘Besides which,’ Sophie went on, ‘There’s no time now to think about it. Get your clothes off.’
I was not happy, and unbuttoned only reluctantly until Sophie came out with the clincher.
‘Do not be so nice, Harry – I dressed as a man to help you out, after all.’
That was true, so I discarded all notions of taste and shame, and began to undress quickly ready for the fitting, an act which increased the wheezing more.
‘Here, try this one,’ said Sophie eventually, holding up for my delectation a frilly gown which even in this light I could see was in a far from perfect condition.
‘But it’s got blood all over it,’ I protested, ‘and there…look there…a dark gaping hole.’
‘Ah yes,’ Doll enlightened, squinting over. ‘Had that one brought into me only yesterday. Not had time to wash or mend it yet. Belonged to a poor gel over in Bloomin’dale. Bayoneted, so I’m told.’
And probably not even dead before her clothes were removed from her, I conjectured queasily.
‘’Tis the only one about your size, though, Harry,’ said Sophie, sensing my distaste, ‘so I would not worry about the history of the outfit. Not wearing it will not bring back the girl.’
‘Don’t care!’ I protested, suddenly sick at heart. ‘I’m not wearing it, and that’s final.’
‘Very well then. Try this one. ‘Tis smaller than the other, but you might just be able to squeeze into it.’
Afraid to examine it closely, I took the gown, and with Sophie’s help struggled in. Buttoned up, bewigged, bonneted and padded at the breast, I felt like a molly in a straightjacket, a feeling the obligatory look in the mirror did nothing to dispel.
‘Yer lack fackin lavley,’ wheezed Doll, loving, I suspect, every minute of my ritual humiliation. ‘A proper li’l ‘Essian magnet.’
‘And now we need an ordinary suit of clothes as well, Doll,’ said Sophie. ‘For when we have slipped the pickets.’
One was soon found – a relatively clean russet affair with no obvious signs of a turbulent history – and arrangements were made for payment.
‘That’ll be a bob altogether,’ said Doll, making a parcel of my suit and my uniform. ‘Plus sixpence for keepin’ quiet.’
In no position to haggle, Sophie dug the requisite coins out of her pocket, and placed them in Doll’s outstretched hand.
‘An fer anuvver sixpence, I can tell yer where ter find a wagon and a pair o’ osses.’
Sophie and I exchanged glances.
‘But that means leaving by the roads. I was thinking of getting out through the woods, where horses can’t follow.’
‘Up to you, dearie. The offer’s there.’
‘Harry, what do you say? Are you confident enough to endure glances dressed like that?’
I peeped out coyly from under my bonnet.
‘More confident than I am entering a dark wood the size of England, crawling with Indians and ghosts and bears, aye.’
‘Then the roads it is. Here, Doll – another sixpence. Which wagon, pray?’
Doll peered out through her own private slit in the canvas and invited Sophie to peep too.
‘The one over there, look. Abandoned by the Rebels as far as I can make out, and as yet unclaimed by King George. Get in quick, while yer can. God knows what’s in the back of it, though; even my eyes can’t see that.’
‘We’ll take our chances. Thanks, Doll. Not a word now, if anyone comes asking.’
‘Me word is me bond. Always has been. Always will be.’
Doubting that very much, we left Doll to her grubbing, and hurried towards the wagon, eager to claim it before Doll’s bond expired. Indeed, such was our haste that I had no time to feel self-conscious about my dress, despite a couple of wolf-whistles I fancied I heard on the wind. Reaching the wagon, I toyed with the idea of peering under the canvas to see precisely what it was, if anything, we were stealing, but then demurred on the ignorance is bliss principle. Instead I blindly threw my parcel of clothes on the front seat and climbed up beside Sophie. Already she had the reins in her hands and was ready to be gone.
‘Hurry up and sit down, Harry. Speed is of the essence.’
The girl was on fire on my behalf, and I looked at her with great love and affection as she gave the horses a good whipping, and set us on our way out of Fort Lee.
‘So where is it we are going, sweetness?’ I asked in falsetto, taking the opportunity to practise my womanly accent.
‘Ooo – too high, Harriet. Lower it.’
Hurt, I tried again.
‘Is this better?’
‘Aye, better, but still not perfect. Keep practising under your breath. ‘Twill not be long before we reach some bayonet-poking bumpkin or other. As to where we are going – a town called Paramus, a few miles north of here. A cousin of mind lives just outside there. Or did do five years ago, anyway. Might be dead now, for all I know. Never liked her much actually, but blood is thicker than water, as they say.’
‘Not something I’ve noticed personally,’ I shrieked, still modulating, as the memory of my parents’ abandonment of me sprang up spontaneously, ‘but we can live in hope.’ Then, sotto voce, I began to recite what I remembered of Gray’s Elegy for further practice, so that by the time we were stopped by the inev
itable pickets, my voice was as near to a woman’s as I could get.
‘Halt, my beauties,’ called a snaggle-toothed sharp-nosed redcoat, grabbing the reins of the nearest horse as we pretended not to notice his command to stop. ‘Where be you off to in such a hurry?’
I flickered my eyelashes at him, and instantly regretted it, for it appeared to quite inflame the rogue. Handing the reins of the horse to a fellow soldier, he slowly walked round to me and asked his question again.
‘Paramus!’ I squealed.
‘Oooh, Paramus. What business does a pretty girl like you have in Paramus?’
‘We’re visiting my cousin,’ Sophie called across boldly. ‘Now let us get past.’
‘Silence, Pie Face, it is Goldilocks here I am talking to.’
Inevitably, a hand insinuated itself up my skirt, and started rubbing my leg up and down.
‘And what’s in the back of your cart, Goldilocks? Can you tell the Big Bad Wolf?’
‘I really do not know,’ I squealed, smacking him down before his hand reached my todger. ‘I did not load it.’
‘Well we will have to look then, won’t we? Wait there.’
I glanced at Sophie while the slimy soldier walked behind us. I could tell she was all set to whip up the horses and risk musket fire about our ears, but I supposed she was delaying the action because she was as curious as I to know what was in the back of the wagon. Looking over our shoulders, we watched as the soldier cockily grabbed the corner of the canvas, smiled up at us, and in one movement whipped it off.
Out jumped, like all the ills of the world personified, a brace of wild Rebels, screeching and swearing at the tops of their voices for maximum shock effect. They pounced on the soldier and soon had him on the ground, punching and kicking him as though they had some personal grudge against him. The second picket let go of the horse’s reins and ran to help his friend – leaving the road ahead of us temptingly open.
‘Go!’ I screamed, shedding all disguise, ‘Go, go, go!’
Sophie needed no encouragement; a blur of whips and arms, she lashed into the horses like a Fury, and off we shot at incredible speed. Behind us, all was still mayhem, which meant that the soldiers were too engrossed in their private battles to be bothered by our departure; nevertheless we kept up our furious pace until we were well clear of the trouble. Even then, we slowed down but little, so that I still had to hang on tight to prevent my being thrown head-first into one of many miry puddles that lined the road.
‘Enjoying this, sweetie!?’ yelled Sophie, an American Boudicca with her eyes screwed up against the wind and her hair streaming out behind her.
‘Immensely, Pie Face!’ I yelled back, full of excitement. ‘But are we on the right road?’
‘What?’
Perhaps, on second thoughts, it was fortunate she had not heard. I shouted the question again, omitting the reference to the pie. I received a wicked smile in return.
‘There’s only one road to Paramus, Goldilocks! And it looks straight and built for speed. Hold on tight!’
Clearly exhilarated by the idea of using the road as a racetrack, Sophie stood up and thrashed the whip down again on the flanks of the hurtling horses, causing them to rocket forward with even greater acceleration than before. Cobwebs, doubts and pieces of bonnet being ripped from my head by the wind, I could only laugh out loud with fright at the sheer mindless excitement of it all, and thank God I was not one of the horses.
39
The Bush Family
Rounding a bend on two wheels, the town came upon us sooner than expected, so that we shot down the main street at a furious pace, like competitors in a Roman chariot race, lost in time and space. Townspeople, geese, pigs and chickens scattered before us in cacophonous panic. Hats flew, babies were thrown in the air, ministers did the splits and housewives slithered on the mudlakes, so that after eventually reining in the horses we were forced to turn around and make a sheepishly sedate re-entry from the north-west.
‘Sorry, brethren,’ called out Sophie, as the mudspattered citizenry advanced threateningly towards us like the dead on Resurrection Day. ‘But the British have taken Fort Lee! They’ll be here by nightfall!!’
This news, considering the progress of the war so far, cannot have been unexpected, but the desperate exclamation marks in Sophie’s voice gave the impression that Hell’s legions themselves were on their way, and gave vent to dramatic outpourings of factionalism and delirium. Tories threw their hats in the air, and huzzaed the king. Patriots spat and skulked away down sidestreets, to be followed shortly afterwards by gangs of the more vengeful Tories carrying horsewhips. Modest beauties ran squealing to their homes. Brazen beauties clapped their hands in delight. Preachers began preaching. The repentant fell to their knees in the mud. The only ones not affected by the news were the stupid and the moribund, and it was of these that Sophie enquired the whereabouts of her cousin, Abigail Bartlett.
‘Never heard of no-one by that name,’ came the eventual response by the spokesman of the group, after much debate.
‘Then do you know of any Abigails around the age of twenty-five? She might have married since I last knew her.’
The jury retired for further deliberation, leaving Sophie and I to fret at the delay, and pretend to admire the architecture of the town, until the spokesman returned its verdict.
‘There’s a choice of two, we reckon. Abigail Morrissey, up at Platt’s Farm, and Abigail Bush, wife of our local congressman over at Tyrannicide House.’ The old man turned jocularly to his fellows. ‘Though I can’t see it being called that much longer.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘Abigail Morrissey is tall, thin and blondish, with pinched features; looks like she fell into a mangle as a baby. Abigail Bush is tall, dark, and serious; walks around with her nose in the air. Nice eyes, though, oddly enough. Serene.’
Sophie chewed her lip, and pondered.
‘’Tis Abigail Bush, then, by the sounds of it. I have a vague impression of someone a bit sure of herself. Congressman’s wife now, is she? My, my, my…’
I gave Sophie’s arm a reassuring if-we-ever-get-out-of-this-mess-you’ll-be-the-wife-of-someone-big-one-of-these-days squeeze, and soon we were off in the direction indicated, leaving Paramus a town in turmoil, tocsin bells ringing frantically.
‘Now is the time to revert back to your male plumage, sweetness,’ said Sophie, stopping the wagon at a deserted crossroads, under a signpost which read Bergen County – Home of Heroes. ‘You may fool goatish soldiers and otherwise distracted strangers in that guise, but I suspect Abigail Bush’s eyes will be keener.’
‘Keener yet serener,’ I said, looking at the clearing horizon of distant forests and beginning to strip off quickly. ‘So, what is our story to be this time, now that we know she is a rabid Patriot?’
Sophie leaned back on her elbows and watched as I struggled out of my petticoat. That she did not laugh was proof enough that she was lost in Mental Realms.
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. Simply newlyweds, I suppose. On the run from the beastly British. Very like the truth, in fact. Not much active lying to do, really.’
‘My origin? My trade? Why am I not running to Philadelphia with the rest of the Continental army?’
‘Your old bookseller ruse will do. It fooled me easily enough; though whether it will fool Abigail and her husband is another matter. They’re probably the sharp lawyer types, clever and heartless.’
‘They will be no cleverer than you, sweetness, of that I am sure.’ I leaned over and planted a patronizing kiss on her forehead. ‘Though admittedly the absence of love interest may make her more suspicious of me that you were.’
Immediately there was a drop in temperature, and I realized I had said The Wrong Thing.
‘Do not flatter yourself, Sir,’ Sophie immediately shot back. ‘I may have been gullible, but ‘twas not because of love interest; ‘twas because of desperation to leave
Hackensack and see the world.’
‘Yes, of course it was,’ I capitulated instantly, ‘I remember now.’ However, knowing that she was lying and trying to goad me again, I mentally vowed to spew up my humble pie and utterly dominate her the next time I boarded her – a thought which made the pulling on of my breeches an even more difficult task than it already was. Eventually though, I was squeezed into my manly business suit, and we were on our way once more.
‘But whether you love me or not, dearest,’ I ventured meekly, as the clopping of the horses and the rattles and creaks of the wagon became oppressive, ‘you cannot deny that you are seeing the world.’
Sophie scowled sidelong at me for signs of facetiousness. Finding none, she deigned to speak to me.
‘I did not say I did not love you now, did I?’
‘No.’
‘Well then, what’s the problem?’
The painters, I was sure, were the problem. They were in, I fancied. And so, when we arrived at the impressive Tyrannicide House at sunset, was the person who fitted perfectly the description we’d been given of Abigail Bush.
‘Yes?’ she said suspiciously, her eyes probably not at their serene best, ‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t you remember me, Abigail? ‘Tis I, Sophie. Your cousin.’
The recognition scene was delayed while Abigial visibly sifted through the Cousins section of her memory bank. After a few moments there were stirrings of a sort.
‘Sophie…er…Becklenburger or something like?’
‘Sophie B. Mecklenburg, that’s right. Bastard daughter of Henry Placquet over in Hackensack.’
‘Oh yes! Oh yes, yes, yes! How are you, my dear? Come on in, do.’
The sudden and unexpected warmth of the reception was very heartening. I stepped in after Sophie, smiling my suavest smile.
‘And this is?’ said Abigail
‘This is my husband, Harry Oysterman. A bookseller temporarily displaced from his work in New York by the British scum. We were passing, so I thought we’d drop in. Hope you don’t mind.’
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