Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘Twas in this state of relative elation that our first two days of travel were passed. Having crossed a wooden bridge over the Passaic River, we made good progress south-westwards into the heart of New Jersey. Sophie’s mood was sweet, mine was determined, the track was still easy to follow, and there was no sign of the slightest danger; indeed, I felt far safer than I did in England. The only thing that was lacking was information as to the progress of the war – we did not know whether we were heading towards it or away from it. But we worked on the basis that no news was good news, and continued to plough on as quickly as we could. Then, alas, the rains came. Seeking shelter at the edge of the nearest forest, we watched glumly as our track turned first to mud, then to glue, then to a babbling brook. Further progress was clearly impossible, so we retreated to a concealed position deeper in the forest, and studied our maps in the dripping gloom.

  ‘Well,’ said Sophie, sighing, ‘We could always abandon the wagon and pick our way to Philadelphia on Quick and Easy here. You could carry us both, couldn’t you, girls?’

  The horses, so named because of the nature of our escape from Fort Lee, looked at us as if to say they could, but they wouldn’t enjoy it very much.

  ‘No, Sophie. We are not near enough yet. We are still about a hundred miles away by my reckoning. Besides, we will draw attention to ourselves if we are stopped without a wagon, and I doubt whether many strangers around these parts are as kind as the Bushes. Also, we will need the wagon in Philadelphia when we are starting up our business ventures. No, let us wait here for the weather to change. One day of rain will not delay us long, and we have plentiful supplies for the time being.’

  ‘And if the weather doesn’t change? We are well into the start of winter now, you know.’

  ‘Then we will take the wheels off the wagon and sail to Philadelphia, pirates permitting. We will get there somehow, do not worry.’

  ‘Frivolous man!’ exclaimed Sophie, starting to unharness Quick. ‘But what are we going to do stuck here all day?’

  I looked around clueless, until the trees themselves gave me an idea.

  ‘I am going to practise with my pistols.’

  ‘In this weather? I think not, Sir.’

  ‘I do not mean to fire them. I mean to get used to the feel of them, to strengthen my arms and hands, so that if I am called upon to deal with a certain personage, I can acquit myself creditably.’

  ‘Yes, I wonder what is happening on that head? ‘Tis ominously quiet everywhere. ‘Tis as though Tuesday night never happened, except in our imaginations. I thought I heard some distant explosions in the east last night, but I could have been dreaming.’ Sophie paused for reflection. ‘In fact, that is what I can do while you are practising with your pistols. I can find out what is happening, and then we will know for sure how desperate is our need to get to Philadelphia quickly. Get the map out again, Harry. Show me where the nearest village is.’

  A pang of unease went through me that I could not immediately account for.

  ‘Do you not think I should come with you?’

  ‘No, you are a deserter now, remember, as well as a spy. And if the war is still going badly for our boys, the whole countryside hereabouts will have turned Loyalist. You will be a wanted man again, only this time wanted by a different side. As for me – well, I can just be another refugee passing through. No-one will notice me.’

  Except Burnley Axelrod, I thought, simultaneously identifying the source of my discomfort. But though suspicious, I could hardly accuse Sophie of arranging for the rain to fall as heavily as it did, just when it did. In fact, jealousy and irrational suspicion aside, I could see that what she proposed made sense. Sighing at the never-ending perplexities of life, I got my map out.

  ‘’The nearest village is called Bound Brook, by the look of this. Right on the Raritan River. About five miles or so to the east.’

  ‘Good, then ‘tis there I shall go. Any provisions we need while I am there?’

  I thought not, and helped her to saddle Quick.

  ‘Right,’ said Sophie, ‘then I am gone. Be good, sweetie. Keep practising with those pistols. I shall be back before nightfall.’

  We kissed, and I watched her splash and slide her way out of the forest onto the road, where, my view of her increasingly obstructed by trees, she eventually vanished from sight. I climbed back under cover of the wagon, dried off, and picked up the pistols. I brandished them for a full ten minutes, at all possible angles, before realizing there was less to it than I thought. So, suddenly and surprisingly, the rest of the day was mine to do as I pleased. As writing poetry was no longer an option, it seemed that I had three possibilities, all to do with getting out of my system the thought of Sophie and Burnley going at it together. I could frig, drink or sleep. Perhaps all three. But options one and two would only weaken me mentally, morally and physically, and I could afford to be weak no more. Sleep would strengthen me, so despite having woken only three hours earlier, I tied up Easy on the wagon and settled down again. I reasoned that I was no longer catching up sleep, but storing it like a good squirrel for the rigours of my new life to come.

  But sleeping in a dark forest proved troublesome. My imagination refused to shut down, and all sorts of fearful phantasies involving dragoons, Indians and bears kept me awake, so that after two hours of ceaseless tossing and turning I gave it up as a bad job. Profoundly depressed and isolated, I decided to try a day of physical exercise, in a desperate attempt to purge the black humours from my body, and to test my bravery. So, wrapping myself up as best I could against the rain, I jumped down from the wagon and set off into the forest with only a knife, a pistol and some biscuits for support and sustenance. Scoring crosses on trees with my knife so that I could find my way back, I ventured ever further afield, until the wagon was out of sight and I was truly alone in the forest. Protected now from the rain by the thickening canopy of branches, I removed my makeshift hood and wandered on along the carpet of pine needles, Hansel without his Gretel, and made good progress to nowhere. Still, aimless though the walk was, ‘twas all an excellent test of my nerve. Had I still been in my poetic persona I would have been screaming my head off by now, imagining Burnley Axelrod, an Indian, or some other tomahawker lurking behind every tree. But so long as I kept my imagination under lock and key I was safe, and even able to enjoy the experience; indeed, I felt manly and free and very Crusoe-like. Even the dart across my path of a squirrel or some American variant thereof did not disconcert me; I simply whipped out my pistol and despatched it with a simulated shot to the brain.

  I was, however, somewhat worried by the trodden paths that seemed to crisscross through the forest. People, it seemed, had been through here sometime in the last hundred years, suggesting that this was by no means virgin territory. Quickly closing my mind to the thought that gin-traps might be lurking, I plunged grimly on, until there seemed no point in going any further; one tree, after all, looked very much like another.

  I was just thinking of turning back – bravery, like muscles, best acquired in small, frequent doses – when I came across a clearing in the trees, where ran perpendicular to me a wider path than usual. I was vaguely wondering what metropolises this road connected, when I heard the short whinny of a horse not a hundred yards away. This, I confess, caught me by surprise, and, despite my best intentions, I could not stop my heart from leaping into my mouth. Though determined to endure and even fight if necessary, I thought it prudent for the time being to hide behind the nearest large tree, and see what transpired.

  As the horse came into view I saw that it was finding the going as heavy as ours had done, for though the track appeared less muddy than the one Sophie and I had been following, the advantage in terrain was offset by the fact that it was carrying two riders, both of whom were so heavily wrapped up against the rain that at first I could detect neither their sex nor their age. I would not have done so ever had not a large dog come barking and bounding towards me, intent on flushing m
e out for the benefit of his owners. Finding my attempts to pacify the beast to no avail, I peeked around the tree and saw the two cowled heads turned in my direction.

  ‘Samson, off!’ cried one girlish voice.

  ‘Heel, Samson, Heel!’ cried another.

  Cocky with success, Samson did as he was told, leaving me dripping with slobber and squirming with embarrassment. Taking a deep breath, grateful at least that the travellers were female and did not seem to be part of a train, I stepped fully into view and advanced towards them.

  ‘Good God, he has a pistol!’

  ‘And a knife!’

  ‘He is a highwayman! Gee up, Titus, oh Gee up.’

  ‘We are done for, O Sister!’

  Startled by this response, I looked down at my hands like an idiot, and saw that I was indeed still in possession of my weapons, and I supposed I might have resembled, to active imaginations, a footpad starved of love and money. Seeking to reassure them that this was not the case, I immediately threw down the offending items and stood passive before them, palms open and a look of soft amiability on my face.

  ‘Who are you, Sir, and what do you want?’

  ‘My name is Harry Oysterman, and believe it or not I am lost in the woods.’

  ‘Where are you trying to get to?’ asked one of them sceptically.

  ‘Philadelphia, to start a new career there as a merchant. Perhaps you are going there yourselves?’

  The girls, who I now noticed were exceedingly attractive, seemed to recoil in horror.

  ‘We would not go to that Sodom if you paid us!’

  I pricked up my ears. This was a most curious response. I sought enlightenment.

  ‘’Tis the City Of Light, so I hear.’

  ‘The City Of Outer Light, perhaps, Mr Oysterman, but most assuredly not the City Of Inner Light.’

  ‘The light shineth in the darkness,’ said the other traveller, looking up to the treetops and smacking her lips, ‘and the darkness comprehended it not.’

  I must have looked as puzzled as I felt, for the words ‘John, Chapter One, Verse Five’ were spat out at me with an anger that made the girl’s beauty vanish. ‘Do you not read your Bible?’

  ‘No I don’t,’ I stated bluntly. ‘I am confused enough already.’

  ‘The Good Book would make everything clear.’

  ‘Until the next distraction comes along perhaps.’

  ‘You are hardened in your sin, Sir. I can tell from the surly tone of your replies.’

  Hackles rising enjoyably, I obliged with my best wall-eyed stare.

  ‘I feel sorry for you,’ she added angrily. ‘Your heart must be black to its very core.’

  ‘It has certainly gone into eclipse since meeting you.’

  ‘What you need,’ said the other girl, pushing her cowl back to reveal lovely blonde hair, ‘is someone to show you the way.’

  ‘Indeed I do, Madam. As I said, I am lost in the wood.’

  ‘You know very well I am not speaking literally, so why pretend that I am?’

  ‘It amuses me to do so.’

  The girl snorted indignantly, and ploughed on.

  ‘You need someone to show you the way, as I say. Someone to open your eyes to the glory and beauty of the world; someone who can bring the Good Book alive for you.’

  ‘You have someone in mind?’

  ‘The man we are going to see.’

  Immediately I became suspicious.

  ‘Man? What man?’

  ‘A great preacher, in the tradition of Jonathan Edwards and George Whitefield. Not, I suppose, that you know who they are.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of them. But what is the name of this one?’

  ‘This one, as you so cynically term him – seeming to imply that you think there will be many more – is called Gadarene Rush. And not only is he a great preacher, he is the last descendant of the lost tribe of Walthamstow.’

  ‘The lost tribe of where?’ I said, astonished.

  ‘I think you heard, Sir. Repeating the name will not serve any purpose.’

  I could hardly contain my joyous incredulity. Could this be Dick, the only Walthamstowian I knew, comically converted?

  ‘At what time does this man preach?’

  ‘At one o’clock, in Dean’s Clearing.’

  ‘And is that far from here?’

  ‘About a mile and a half.’

  ‘Then I will come with you, if I may.’

  ‘Hallelujah! You will not regret it, Brother. I see you are excited already; your eyes are shining with excitement.’

  Pausing only to retrieve my weapons (an action of which the girls did not approve) and score a large cross in the nearest tree (an action of which they did), I was soon squelching along in front of them, leading their horse by the reins to the Promised Land of Gadarene Lickley. A Christian going to meet the Messiah could not have been more excited than I.

  42

  Gadarene Rush

  The forest became less dense as we neared the clearing, and between the trees I began to glimpse distant movements. These, I deduced, were other celebrants arriving from different directions, and soon the excited chatter of their voices became audible. I could not help but notice that nearly all of the voices belonged to young women.

  ‘Are there not many male followers of Gadarene Rush then?’ I turned and asked the girls, noticing with surprise that they had uncovered their heads, and were looking absolutely radiant.

  ‘There are a few, but none compare with Gad.’

  I felt some Devil’s advocate mood come over me, and blurted out:

  ‘Perhaps he does not have many male disciples because of the war. Most men have more pressing matters to attend to in times like these.’

  ‘There are no more pressing matters than the salvation of people’s souls, the war in Heaven against Evil, and the search for the Promised Land,’ I was informed, starry-eyed. ‘Women understand that better than Men.’

  Put in my earthly place, I shrugged my shoulders and decided further conversation with the ethereal pair would be futile. Now that we had reached the clearing, I concentrated my attention instead on the scene that was building around me. At the far end of the clearing, above the heads of the swelling congregation, I could just make out a long wooden platform with a giant pulpit in the centre. To the sides of the platform canvas sheets had been rigged up on poles, perhaps to prevent unauthorized peeking into the workings of the High Priesthood. Gad was near, and my excitement rose at the prospect of seeing him; would it really be Dick after all? And if it was, what would he look like? What would he speak about? How could he, the most Heathen person I had ever known, suddenly acquire biblical knowledge and spout it persuasively? Was he being serious, or just larking around?

  I could not wait to find out, so, expressing unacknowledged thanks to the girls, I parted from them in order to seek out a prime position in front of the stage. Purely by coincidence, I ended up next to a particularly buxom beauty who was breast-feeding an infant as goggle-eyed as I, and I passed the time until one o’clock in a very agreeable manner. But while my eyes feasted, my ears could not help but take in the conversation around me.

  ‘They say the authorities are on the tail of Gad.’

  ‘They will not catch him, Sister, never fear. Besides, what is wrong with a man who uses his God-given gifts to lead us to the Promised Land?’

  There was no answer but a strange barking noise. I looked around and saw that a young woman was jerking her head up and down so quickly that her face was a blur amidst a mass of whirling hair. Unsettled, I returned to my nature watch.

  ‘Gad is God,’ objected another fanatic. ‘His penis is the sword of Christ.’

  I was right to fear the impact of such an inflammatory remark, for moments later a girl next to me suddenly issued a piercing scream, dropped like a log to the ground, and stayed down as if dead. Vaguely concerned, I thought about going to her assistance, but soon saw
that none was required; other worshippers were looking down at her with envy, and asking each other in awed tones if this was a Sign.

  ‘He is the best preacher I have ever seen, and I have seen them all,’ boasted another. ‘Lorenzo Dow, Neeson Krick, Olway Barrett, Tubal Westlake. None of them, I say none of them, are a patch on Gad.’

  This eulogy coincided with a general chanting of Gad’s name.

  ‘Gad! Gad! Gad! Gad! Gad! Gad!’

  ‘But shhh…’tis near one o’clock….the drum will sound any minute, and he will be with us.’

  But it didn’t, and he wasn’t, and the silent expectation that fell over the packed crowd turned into something like fearful frenzy. The minutes passed agonizingly: what if he wasn’t here after all? There were several cries of ‘Gad, where are you?’ and there was a commotion near the stage caused, word came back to us, by an angel descending. Rumours spread that Gad was dead, which prompted some to declare that if the story were true, then they would hang themselves in sympathy, for life no longer had meaning without his physical presence. Surely, I thought again, it could not be earthy Dick Lickley causing all this madness. Then a drum went off, and the crowd surged to the stage screaming. But ‘twas only a false alarm, and the agonized frenzy was raised to a new pitch. The stupified baby next to me was raised in the air by its lovely mother, and pointed towards the stage, as though being held aloft as a sacrifice to the Divine Presence behind the canvas screen. But still Gad would not come out. Every call and gesture was hopeless, and ‘twas not until the gathering was collectively weeping and whimpering that, at around two o’clock, the canvas gave an insignificant twitch. Then, suddenly, a man stepped out who must have been Gad, for a surprised wail of such intensity went up that a huge flock of birds suddenly shot out of the trees in panic.