‘Or was it never?’
Outraged that my lying should be disbelieved, I shot daggers at her, before turning a look of entreaty on Sophie.
‘She knows about us,’ said Sophie, seemingly having difficulty in keeping a straight face. ‘I told her everything.’
Though not ashamed of what I’d done, I could not help blushing at the ridiculousness of my situation. Equally, I was annoyed with Sophie for not giving me some sign of warning that my secret was out.
‘Ah, how whimsical. How capricious. How rug-pulling. A sudden access of guilt, was it, dearest?’
‘No, ‘twas the sudden access of your army jacket, with Betsy somewhere inside it. Not hidden well enough in the wagon. Letters stuffed in pockets. Gave the game away good and proper. ‘Twas not easy to continue the charade after that; had I lied further, simple cross-examination of you would have revealed the truth.’
I sighed with disappointment at the ease of Sophie’s capitulation. A redcoat’s jacket was not the most difficult thing in the world to explain away. Personally I would have lied on, and brazened it out, but what was done was done. So, proved to be a liar, I took a seat and poured myself a glass of wine without waiting to be asked. There was no further point in behaving like a gentleman now that the dangerous roads beckoned once more.
‘So what is the result of all the truth-letting?’
‘The result, Harry, is that we must be on our way first thing in the morning.’
‘I thought as much, but that was our plan anyway.’
You Liar! was the look that Abigail shot me. I sighed and swigged some more wine, waiting for the inevitable lecture on Puritan morality. It came after several minutes of the most awkward silence, during which the formerly unnoticed ticking of a grandfather clock seemed to get louder and more threatening by the second.
‘If you had only told the truth to me when you arrived, I would have been happy to help you. But I cannot abide lying: it demeans the speaker and the listener equally. The children whom you profess to so much admire are brought up never to lie.’
‘Quite right when they are children, but when they are adults they will have to lie like troopers or be locked up. The adult world is never black and white at the best of times, is it?’
‘It may not be in decadent England, Mr Oysterman, but it is here.’
‘Sometimes loyalty comes before truth.’
‘Oh, and what would you know about loyalty?’
‘At least as much as you know about telling the truth.’
‘Oh, and what does that mean?’
Whipping Benjamin Franklin’s name out would have been a low and dirty blow, so instead I said: ‘I don’t know. I am merely trying to say that our circumstances are more desperate than yours. Truth is a luxury we cannot afford.’
‘Do you think our situation is not desperate, Mr Oysterman? Do you think that all my husband and I have worked for is not about to be wiped out by the vengeful Tories? Because I can assure you that it is, Sir, on both counts.’
Then, unexpectedly, she began to cry. A trickle at first, then a torrent, then a deluge. The dam of social convention was quite washed away, and we were once more face to crumpled face with the dark side of colonial life. While Sophie placed a consoling arm around her cousin’s shoulders, and exhorted her to blow into my much-abused handkerchief, I felt the stirrings of a soliloquy rise up in me. I stood up and took a deep breath.
‘It seems then, Madam, that we are all in danger of having our little lives destroyed. Our dreams, our aspirations, our tenderest emotions – all, all, are threads as thin as gossamer, that can be snapped at any time in the winds of the rising storm. They are all as…’
‘Harry,’ interrupted Sophie softly.
‘What?’
‘Shut up.’
Deflated, I poured myself another glass of wine and surveyed the wretched scene with a great air of weariness. I wished I were back in my Brighthelmstone garret, scribbling, for I’d had enough of Life, and wanted to get back to Art, where all emotion was safely vicarious. I had just about lost the will to live, and was fiddling with my wig, when the door opened and a redfaced woman popped her mobcapped head in.
‘Pancakes and dishes of tea waiting in the dining-room, Madam.’
‘Thank you, Marsha,’ sniffed Abigail, struggling to compose herself. ‘So kind.’
‘Everything all right, Madam?’
‘’Tis just the vapours, my dear. They are passing now, thank you.’
‘Ah, nothing like a good cry and a chat with old friends to get rid of them. Ain’t that right?’
Belatedly realizing that Martha was referring to Sophie and me, we obliged with sickly smiles. Satisfied, she departed.
‘Tea and pancakes, eh?’ I said to Sophie. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘Ordered specially for you before little Betsy discovered our secret. I don’t think it would be right to eat them now.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Abigail, pulling herself together with admirable speed. ‘Food must not be wasted. Let us eat while we can. The way things are, we may never see a pancake again.’
Already touched that my favourite meal had been prepared specially for me, I was even more touched when Abigail begged forgiveness for her outburst, and hoped that we could be friends. This automatically triggered an auction of competitive gallantry.
‘Only if you will forgive me for my behaviour. ‘Twas heinous of me to lie like that.’
‘Aye, and me,’ piped up Sophie, taking Abigail’s other arm as we strolled to the dining-room. So insistent were we all on shouldering the blame, and apologizing profusely, that by the time we reached it we were all sobbing happily. Indeed, we apologized to each other so much, and with so much heartfelt sentiment, that I could barely see the table for my tears. When my eyes did clear, however, they beheld a wondrous sight. Two huge golden pancakes lay steaming on each of our plates, and there were many more on the way judging by the look of anticipation in Martha’s eyes, and the size of her mixing jug. Knives and forks lay ready for the cutting. Sugar was ready for the sprinkling. Halves of lemons and oranges were ready for the squeezing. Hot dishes of tea were ready for the slurping. This, I thought, getting ready for the gorging, was true colonial hospitality.
40
The Night Raid
I tucked in heartily, elbows pistoning, and demolished three pancakes in the time it took the others to finish one. Washing down my final total of twelve pancakes with five dishes of tea, I was eventually satiated, and sat back in my chair belching and blowing with as much discretion as I could manage.
‘Enjoy that, Mr Oysterman?’
‘I am ready for Armaggedon, Madam.’
‘I am pleased to hear it, Sir. Now, a toast to a friendship formed in the crucible of war.’
The wine was poured, the toast was drunk, the friendship sealed.
‘Please ignore what I said earlier about your leaving in the morning, Cousin Sophie. Stay as long as you wish.’
‘Thank you, Abigail, but ‘tis best if we leave. ‘Twas wrong of us to come here and dump our troubles upon you. We cannot drag you into our affairs.’
‘Can I not persuade you?’
‘No, really, we must depart.’
‘But where will you go?’
‘Harry and I have been thinking about Philadelphia. There’s Canada as well, I suppose…’
‘Oh no,’ said Abigail, pulling a face. ‘The Thirteenth Colony is where all those horrible Loyalists and French people live. And you will die of cold getting there at this time of year. Or get eaten by a bear.’
‘Well, the Dark and Bloody Ground is out because of the backwoodsmen and the Indians. The east is out because of the sea. That just leaves the south, and there’s nothing there but slavery and corruption.’
‘It depends on how far south you go. Why not head for Philadelphia? Only London is bigger among British cities. I’m sure you can find anonymity and a new life there, i
f you so wish. Indeed, I can write a letter of introduction to my husband, and he can get Harry apprenticed to a trade.’
A familiar skewer went through my heart at the mention of a trade. Twelve hours a day at some mindnumbing work would truly be the end of my poetic ambitions. Just the thought of it sent squeaks up from my stuffed stomach.
‘Harry is a poet,’ said Sophie. ‘A trade is not for him.’
I loved Sophie for this remark, but there was the usual price to pay for such a declaration.
‘A poet? Really? Then let us hear some of your work, Harry.’
‘Oh no, no. I couldn’t.’
‘Oh, please! ‘Tis not every day I have a real English poet in my kitchen.’
Squirming, I mumbled as fast as I could the following gobbet from my Night Thoughts:
No, Fortunato, Man was not built for work.
His tumultuous essence will not be entombed
In caverns of misery where the Damned howl for rest.
He needs like soothing balm the faery grot
Where he can stretch his limbs o’er mossy stones
And listen to the sound of his Creator’s voice.
There was the expected embarrassed silence, the usual consequence of casting pearls at swine, followed by constructive criticism of the most philistine kind.
‘We had a young man stay with us once by the name of Philip Freneau. The finest poet New Jersey has ever produced, by all accounts. He was getting nowhere with his poetry…’ I fancied I heard the trace of a ghostly either hang in the slight pause, ‘…so even though he was rich and had leisure, he went out to the West Indies as a secretary to a planter, purely in order to gather material. Perhaps you have heard of some of his poems, such as The Rising Glory of America and General Gage’s Soliloquy?’
‘I do not read propaganda, Madam. Especially that written by a Frenchman.’
Taken aback by the bluntness of my response, Abigail shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
‘He was not French; he was, is, an American of Huguenot descent.’
‘’Tis the same thing.’
‘Harry!’ Sophie hissed.
‘All I’m saying is,’ went on Abigail gamely, ‘poetry can only come about as a result of being alive. To Freneau, poetry was a natural consequence of being alive, not a substitute for it.’
‘And a trade would make me more alive, would it?’ I asked, wondering if Abigail was a relative of my mother.
‘It would keep you alive, for the time being. Why, you could even enter printing or commerce, like Mr Franklin did, and with sufficient energy accumulate enough wealth by the age of forty to spend the rest of your life doing exactly as you pleased. That, in effect, is what Mr Franklin has done.’
‘Aye, we all know what Mr Franklin has done.’
Abigail, blushing under my accusing gaze, turned to Sophie in exasperation.
‘My, hasn’t he an edge to him?’
‘’Tis what makes him so loveable, Cousin.’
Abigail, empathy strained to the limit, scrutinized me doubtfully.
‘Well, whatever you decide to do, I will write you a letter of introduction to my husband, just in case you change your mind.’
Subject closed, the conversation turned to matters less fraught, such as the vulnerability of Abigail’s position, Betsy’s bedwetting tendencies, and the suspected glanders of the family horse, Regicide. Soon, my head began to nod with increasing frequency, so that ever more powerful jolts were required to stick it back upright again. Eventually I could resist no more, and – sending a glass of wine flying in the process – I slumped forward hands first over the table, and fell fast asleep.
I must have been more tired than I thought, for the next thing I knew I was raising my head up from the table in the freezing dark. The fire and candles had gone out, and so, presumably, had Abigail and Sophie. Neck and shoulders aching, I was availing myself of the opportunity to indulge in some prodigious groaning and shivering when I became aware of a dim red glow flickering intermittently across the room. About to make my way to the window to see what was happening, I saw to my surprise that I was not alone after all – Sophie had fallen asleep at the table too, and her head was resting sideways on folded arms. A further check confirmed that Abigail had definitely vanished, however, and this made me suddenly fear the worst. What if we had been secretly drugged, and were now surrounded by the Patriot rabble, in a replay of the Hackensack nightmare?
‘Sweetie!’ I hissed, ‘Sweetie, wake up!’
Sophie stirred, and muttered unintelligible drivel.
‘Wake up, I say. Something is happening.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Never mind what time it is. Get up and…..’
I was going to add ‘come with me to the window’ when a rough cry outside stopped the words in my throat and turned my limbs to stone. A sudden primitive fear of a face appearing on the other side of the window quite unmanned me. In contrast, the cry quickly awakened Sophie, and I watched her silent silhouette rise and hurry towards the cover of one of the undrawn curtains. With gigantic effort of will, I managed eventually to follow suit, and dive behind the other curtain. Then, breathless, we peeked out into the yard.
A cart was on fire. Flames were leaping high into the darkness. Smoke was beginning to drift. Burning wood crackled and spat. Around the blaze stood three huge figures – one with his back to me, two others swigging from bottles. Swords dangled from their waists; carbines were held in free hands. From somewhere out of the blackness a horse whinnied. The man with his back to me turned, and there in horrifying profile was the battered, brutal face of Burnley Axelrod. I withdrew my head instantly.
‘Is that him?’ whispered Sophie.
I couldn’t speak; the fear coursing through me exceeded even that experienced in the condemned cell at Hackensack.
‘That must mean yes then.’
I still couldn’t speak.
‘Harry, pull yourself together. Their faces are no more immune to balls than other men’s. Now, where are our pistols?’
‘No!’ I managed to say. ‘Not yet! Let us see what happens first.’
‘Harry, they are not here to read us bedtime stories. I ask again, Sir – where are our pistols?’
‘Wait. Somebody is going out to them.’
We heard the sound of tiny boots clattering at top speed through the next room, followed by the jarring rattle of a door being desperately opened. I peeped back around the curtain and saw the heads of the hungry dragoons all turned towards the door, watching developments with the alertness of wolves.
‘I say, what is going on here, gentlemen? Why is my cart on fire? Why are you not attempting to douse the flames? Help me, do.’
‘Go back inside, Timothy!’ I wanted to cry out desperately. ‘Run away as fast as you can. Do anything but don’t stand there talking to them!’ My mind was suddenly flooded by a composite image of those Shakespearian scenes where cultured young princes were murdered by hired thugs. But I didn’t shout and he didn’t move.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ said one of the unknown dragoons, in a distinctly Northumbrian accent.
‘’Tis an educated young man,’ said Burnley grimly, his voice bringing back with great vividness the day of our fateful meeting, ‘of the sort needed to rebuild this country once we have finished with it.’
‘Cannot we establish who I am later,’ said Timothy, with heartbreaking steadfastness, clarity and innocence. ‘And limit the damage to my cart first?’
‘’Tis blazing out of control, as you can see.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Timothy, the first note of distress in his voice, ‘Betsy will be heartbroken; she loved being pulled in that.’
‘Betsy?’
‘My little sister. She’s asleep upstairs.’
‘Anyone else in the house?’
My heart began to beat even faster.
‘My mother and….’ There was the mos
t awful pause, in which I died several deaths….’What do you mean once we have finished with it? Who are you? What is your purpose in being here? Was it you who set fire to my cart?’
‘Never mind that, you little brat!’ thundered the third dragoon, lunging towards him. ‘Tell us who else is in the house!’
‘You answer me first!’ yelled Timothy, appearing seconds later tucked under the arm of the dragoon. ‘And let me go, you scoundrel!’
All three dragoons laughed heartily as Timothy bucked and writhed and kicked his legs wildly. Then one of them grabbed him by his hair and put his bottle to Timothy’s mouth.
‘Drink, Puppy, and tell us who else is in the house before we burn it down and find out for ourselves.’
A glugging noise was followed by much spluttering and coughing.
‘Vile liquid!’ exclaimed Timothy, as soon as he could speak again. ‘No wonder you are out of control, drinking this!’
‘It tastes better when it is warmed over an open fire. As you are about to find out.’
Much scuffling began, seemingly as a prelude to the roasting alive of Timothy. Nerves taut to snapping, I could stand no more, and was just about to walk out and meet my fate, whatever the consequences, when a terrible shriek announced the arrival of Abigail on the primal scene.
‘Put him down! Put my baby down!’ she cried, running towards Timothy, only to be grabbed around her waist and pulled away by Burnley.
‘Aha! Another! One by one the rats emerge.’
‘Tell us who else is in the house and he will not be harmed,’ he said. ‘And neither will you, my sweet little colonial housewife, despite the terrible temptation your juicy body presents to three sex-starved men.’
‘Get your hands off me, you sinful beast!’
‘Oh, do not talk about sin, Madam. Just the word itself I find the most terrible aphrodisiac. Now, tell me who else is in the house, or you lose your son, your daughter, your virtue – if you have any left – and your property. And don’t think we won’t enjoy taking it all from you. Now, speak. ‘Tis your last chance.’
‘Who is it you are after?’
Infernal Revolutions Page 52