Disembarking with relief, I sarcastically thanked the skeletons for their efforts and trundled off immediately towards the Bear Tavern Road, which, according to the map Washington had given me, was the only route into Trenton from the north west. The way was far from clear, and often hindered by fallen logs and snowdrifts, but by keeping the Delaware River in view on my right-hand side I eventually managed to stumble across it; and once on ‘twas simply a case of following it to a hamlet called Birmingham, from whence it continued straight on as the less imaginatively named River Road. This was the road that would take me directly into Trenton, so, as a grisly light began to appear in the eastern sky, I started to brace myself for contact with the dreaded picket line. Sure enough, it was not long before I saw figures emerge from a distant building on the right. This building, I presumed from a quick peep at my map, was a place called The Hermitage; the figures, alerted by my rattling barrels of metheglin, would undoubtedly be Hessians. Unable to turn back now, I trundled on with mounting trepidation, my heart beating like a mighty piston. As I got ever nearer, the figures turned into four blue-coated mountains of German fleisch, all with their muskets aimed at me, so that I felt I was riding forward into a firing squad.
‘Halt!’ called out one of them as I approached, ‘Vass ist your name, and vass ist your business?’
The brass caps and upturned moustaches closed in for the kill, so I set my tongue at a loll, slackened my face muscles, and went into action.
‘My n-n-name is T-T-Thomas C-C-Clark, and I am a T-T-Torwey F-F-Farmer come to s-s-sell m-m-my s-s-surplus stock of m-m-m-m-m-m-m-METHEGLIN.’
The soldiers looked at each other, then roared with laughter.
‘Keine Gefahr,’ one of them said to another, lowering his musket. ‘Kopf Kaputt.’
‘Show me your papers, Dolt.’
I showed them my forged Oath of Allegiance to the Crown, but it could have been the Declaration of Independence for all they could make of it. They soon handed it back.
‘So vass ist m-m-m-m-m-METHEGLIN?’ one of them mocked, moving round to examine the barrels.
‘It is like cider,’ said another in German. ‘Not as good as beer, but take a barrel anyway, and let him through.’
‘Check that it is metheglin first. Bayonet a barrel. If it is not metheglin, bayonet him.’
Pretending not to understand what they were saying, I feigned a little start of surprise as the biggest of the rogues, with prodigious power and aggression, held aloft his musket, and ran his bayonet through the side of a barrel. Wincing, I could not help but wonder how many Rebels this lot had killed between them; so it was to my infinite relief when a jet of liquid, confirmed as metheglin, spouted out and splashed onto the snow.
‘Here,’ I said, ‘T-t-take the b-b-bawwel with my c-c-compliments. A g-g-gift for the p-p-pwotection you have given our p-p-people.’
They did not understand, so – fighting a tremendous urge to show off and translate the offer for them – I had to make do with Take It! gestures, which eventually had the desired result. With genial cries of Guten Morgen, Dummkopf, they waved me on, and rolled the barrel into the Hermitage with great joy, little realizing what horrors lay ahead.
Reassured that Washington had not deceived me as to the contents of the barrels, I shook the reins and moved on towards Trenton, eventually coming into sight of a group of buildings that indicated my arrival in the outskirts of the town. Soon afterwards I heard shouts in front of me, which grew louder as I approached, but it was not until I rounded a corner into King Street that I learned of their provenance. A group of blue-coated, brass-capped, moustached Hessians were drilling with the dawn, turning and wheeling with a precision that put any British regiment to shame. Unable to pass them, I had no alternative but to draw my horse to a halt and wait for the manoeuvres to finish. I was admiring the display, albeit fearfully, when the unthinkable happened: one soldier lost his balance slightly as he executed a turn. Immediately a horsewhip from the drill sergeant cracked onto his face, drawing a fount of blood that fairly pissed onto the packed snow of the street. As the soldier staggered around bleeding and yelping, another adroit whip sent him scurrying back into line. ‘Twas brutal stuff, even by British standards, and I was glad I had not been born German – glad, that is, until I caught the eye of the whipcracking sergeant himself.
‘You!!’ he screamed, in splintery English, ‘Get out ov my sqvare!’
I pulled my best idiot face, and gurgled happily.
‘Out, I zay, out!’
I bubbled at the mouth.
‘I have b-b-bwought d-d-dwink for your M-m-m-men!’
I could not have said this loud enough, because I was ignored completely.
‘Vight, you Schweinhund!’
The rogue charged towards me, crunching through the snow, absolutely incandescent with rage. Panicking, I jumped down from the cart and took refuge behind the barrels.
‘Take dat! Und dat! Und dat!’
The whip cracked over my head in three rapid shots, then the fourth hit, by the sounds of it, my horse’s arse. There was an agonized whinny, a rearing, and a blur of kicking forelegs. The cart overturned, the barrels rolled off in all directions, and then my cover was dragged away by the galloping horse. Left with no protection other than a barrel I had managed to grab, I dived down behind it and peeped over the top in trepidation. The sight I saw nearly did for me: the sergeant had stopped five yards away, and was staring hard at me as he circled the whip over his head. It looked as though he was deciding which part of my brain to slice open, but just as the killer blow was about to be unleashed I managed to shout out my purpose again.
‘I have b-b-bwought d-d-dwink for you and your m-m-men. These – these are for you!’
This time the volume was loud enough, and the sergeant’s face creased into a frown.
‘Warum?’
‘In gratitude for the protection you have given us.’
Either the language or the concept of gratitude seemed to puzzle the sergeant. With a look of bitter disappointment he lashed one of the barrels – having to bring the whip down somewhere – then returned to the tedium of questioning.
‘You live in Tventon, Ja?’
‘N-n-no, acwoss the wiver in B-b-bucks C-c-county P-p-p-p-p…..’
He thrashed his whip again to gee along my stammer.
‘P-P-PENNSYLVANIA!!’ I exploded, panting.
‘Pennsylvania, ja? Gut, zenn you might be useful to us. Korporal!’
A tall grenadier came running as fast as the conditions would allow.
‘Take zis country clown to ze barracks and keep him zehr. Inform Colonel Rall venn he vakes zat he might vant to see a vell-visher. Then collect the barrels together and store zem outside ze barracks.
The corporal, to no great surprise, did as he was told, taking me roughly by the scruff of the neck and virtually carrying me to a handsome stone building at the foot of King Street. At the door he passed me over to another guard who, after receiving instructions in fast German, promptly threw me into a room whose floor was covered with straw and about twenty pallet beds. In the far corner of the room was a small fir tree in a pot, on whose branches hung little parcels, neatly tied. Promptly making a mental note that these were the Christmas billets of the men drilling outside, I further concluded, after looking out of the windows, that there was no evidence anywhere of defensive earthworks. My spying duties accomplished, I soon had nothing else to do but lie down on a pallet, wonder how to furnish my confiscated Loyalist house, and wait for Colonel Rall to wake up. I was still wondering and waiting at ten o’clock, when a band struck up a few streets away, a sign perhaps that general life was stirring. Half an hour later, sure enough, there was a clatter and the sound of Germanic bluster at the door. This, if I was not mistaken, betokened the arrival of Colonel Johann Gottlieb Rall. I reset my face into a mask of absolute idiocy.
‘Vell, vere iz he? I have a card game vaiting.’
‘In here, Colonel.’
Then into the doorway, accompanied by two aides, pounded the bull-like Colonel Rall, an elderly man of about sixty. Large and coarse-featured, drunk and swaying, he regarded me, once he could focus, with utter contempt.
‘Iz ziss it?’
‘Ja, Colonel.’
The Colonel tutted, stepped forward, breathed his foul breath all over me, and then began turning my head from side to side with his stick.
‘Zese are the zort of people ve dvown at birth back home in Hesse-Cassell.’
I gave a happy gurgle.
‘Still, zese fools sometimes see zings ze rest of us miss. So speak, dolt, and tell us vat you know ov ze Rebels across the river.’
‘They are d-d-deserting in d-d-dwoves. What men are left have b-b-barely any c-c-clothes. They c-c-cannot survive m-m-much longer.’
‘So zey are not, in your opinion, planning to attack us here in Tventon?’
‘N-n-no. You are as s-s-safe as houses here.’
I laughed and gargled.
‘Do zey have artillery?’
‘N-n-no.’
‘Boats?’
‘Only to use as f-f-firewood.’
‘See, gentlemen,’ he said in German, turning to his aides in triumph, ‘did I not tell you zat zat was the position? Now, ve vill get this fool to repeat his story to ze troops, and then ve vill return to our Christmas festivities. Your deal, I believe, Otto…’ Then he reverted back to a sort of Anglicized German and addressed me with great insolence. ‘Komm, Bumpkin. Komm und tell meine Soldaten vass Sie mir gesagt haben.’
I was dragged out into the courtyard by my lapels, given a gratuitous kick up the arse, and manoeuvred roughly into position next to another fearsome-looking sergeant. Then Colonel Rall got the rogue to stop drilling and called the men to attention.
‘Schweine!’ he cried, reverting to easily-translatable German, ‘I have here a loyalist farmer come over from some county or other across the river. He has brought us several barrels of liquor, to thank us for our services to the loyal subjects of this area.’
A lusty, dirty cheer went up.
‘He has also brought us much valuable information on our foes. Listen to what he has to say, and try not to laugh as he says it.’
With the aid of an interpreter, the indoor question and answer session was repeated, only this time each answer I gave was rewarded with a sobbing cheer.
‘So you see, Schweine,’ Rall went on, ‘there is absolutely no danger from the Rebels. There is no need to break our backs building earthworks or any fortifications whatsoever. We are safe enough as we are.’
Another great cheer went up.
‘So, Sergeant Klotz, bring the drilling to an end for the day, and let the men have the liquor. They deserve it as reward for their victorious campaign.’ Then he turned to the troops, who seemed hardly able to believe their ears. ‘Happy Christmas, Schweine. And here – play with this Booby as you wish!’
To my surprise and horror, I was picked up and thrown to the howling soldiers like a hedgehog to a pack of hounds. Curling myself up into a protective ball, I was kicked, punched and pricked with bayonets, all to great Teutonic joy. Once this initial mauling was over, most of the men ran to the barrels, but several of the more soberminded stayed behind to question me in their broken English. Checking that their officers were out of earshot, they grabbed me by my lapels and began the interrogation.
‘Vass ist the price of a farm in Pennsylvania, Fool?’
‘Have you of Hans Berger and Pieter Riedle heard, who from this regiment five weeks ago deserted?’
‘What of Germantown, in der Nähe von Philadelphia, do you know?’
‘Scriveners in Philadelphia, do they have need of?’
As all these questions were accompanied by encouraging slaps to my face, I was not much inclined to respond even had I known the answers. But I managed instinctively to mumble and stammer out a few reassuring lies until the hardened cases returned, refreshed from their draughts of metheglin.
‘Stand aside and give the fool a drink!’ cried out one hearty. ‘It might bring him to his senses.’ Without further ado my jaw was grabbed and angled to receive a draught of the vile liquor. Knowing the dangers of swallowing, I did everything I could to prevent it from going down. I gargled, dribbled, coughed and spluttered, all to great Hessian amusement. Then the real questions poured in:
‘You have a vife, ja? Vare iss she?’
‘Go und bring her to us.’
‘Bring too your daughters and your sisters.’
‘And your nieces and cousins.’
‘And your mothers, aunts and grandmothers.’
‘Ach, Siegfried,’ laughed a comrade, ‘you are zick!’
‘Don’t vnock it till you’ve tvied it, Hans! I had zat gvandmutter in Bvunsvick vemember. Must have been zixty at least. Scvaggy arms und neck, aber zoft und plump und weiss as a chicken everyvare else.’
‘Ach – you cannot beat young girls. Ze younger ze better. At ten, zey are already too old.’
They laughed with the wild joy of the barbarian, and tried again to pour metheglin down my throat, this time successfully. Then one of them, perhaps the sick Siegfried, got another idea into his head, and lit up with creative joy.
‘Komm, Ich know vat ve can vith him do! Hans, fetch some nails und ein hammer. Everyvon else follow me und bving ze fool vith you.’
I did not like the sound of this, but not wanting to scream for help unless ‘twas absolutely necessary, I allowed myself to be dragged a hundred yards to a spot where a green-coated jäger was battering the ground with the butt of his rifle. I wondered what he was up to, until I heard the sound of ice cracking and water splashing. Then I knew very well.
‘Komm, thvow him in ze pond,’ said the ringleader, after enough ice had been cleared.
Now I did deem it necessary to scream, but ‘twas futile. I was flung through the air like a rag doll, and landed plumb in the middle of the space created, where I flailed, gasped in the icy water, and duly sank. Above the roaring in my ears I could hear the sound of Hessians howling with delight.
‘Gut,’ said the unknown but surely damned Hessian, as I was hauled out dripping and shivering fit to burst, ‘Now bving him to ze church.’
‘F-F-fuck off!’ I mumbled in vain as the soldiers grabbed me, hoisted me up on their shoulders, and then carried me down King Street. The band started up again, as if to add a carnival atmosphere to the proceedings, and I got an upside-down view of them as I passed on my way to the church. I also passed what must have been Rall’s quarters, for I saw him appear at a window with a glass of wine in one hand and a fan of cards in the other. As he raised his glass in approval, I saw another officer behind him peaking at his cards, in the manner of a painting by Mr Hogarth. Then my direction changed, and I was carried up to the church door, where Hans was waiting with hammer and nails.
‘Now, lift him upvight…gut..gut…now stretch his arms out…gut…gut…..’
Held tightly in place by strong hands, I screamed as the hammer hit the nails, thinking I was being genuinely crucified. But as it turned out I was only being tacked up against the door by my sleeves, collar and breeches. Once I was securely in place, they all stepped back to admire their handiwork, while I hung there dolefully – dripping, freezing, and no doubt dying.
‘Chin up, Jesus!’ called one of the men. ‘You vill be back in zvee days!’
‘Take avay all our sins, Fool, so zat ve can start pillaging vith a clean conscience again!’
‘Tell St Peter ve are coming for him venn ve die! Ve will chain zat smug bastard to his gates, and his guts vith our ghostly bayonets ve vill outrippen!’
Then, curiously, and without any sense of irony, several of the men began singing carols and sobbing, while others, less curiously, hurled snowballs at me, many of which thumped into my plums, causing me exquisite agony; this provided entertainment for the remainder, who just watche
d and laughed and hooted with joy. Eventually, when all had had their fun, they started to make their way back to their warm quarters, there no doubt to finish the metheglin and brag about their future exploits.
Meanwhile I froze most uncomfortably. Across the way faces would occasionally appear at the windows, and laugh heartily in dumbshow. Robins hopped about on my head and shoulders, and shat on me. Squalls of sleet would come and go, plastering me with snow and slicing through my vitals in the process. I was, in truth, sick to death of the world, but though part of me wanted to go to sleep and be done with it, another part had an urge to see how much abuse a single body could take before giving up the ghost. So I held on, trying to keep conscious by imagining the hottest things I could. The trouble was, the hottest thing I could imagine was being burned alive, and this bothered me, because incineration might well be my fate yet if I was not cut down and released by the time the metheglin started to work its magic on the troops.
I was still alternately dousing and inflaming my imagination when I became aware of men’s voices below me.
‘Come on, down with you, Cousin.’
‘Careful how you do it – I do not want any more damage to my church door.’
‘Tush – where is your Christian charity, man?’
‘I have no sympathy for fools, Chesney, especially ones from outside my parish.’
‘Here, hold him up, William, while I remove the nails.’
A few moments later, and I was lowered gently to the ground. But as my clothes were now frozen solid in the crucifix position, I could do no more than take a few desperate fairy footsteps, then crash forward wide-eyed and helpless into the snow, like an inebriated scarecrow.
‘I said hold him up, William!’
I was picked up by several pairs of hands and carried horizontally to a wagon, where excess snow was scraped away and blankets were thrown over me.
‘Don’t forget to take his name and address,’ persisted William, as the cart lurched forward and away. ‘I will send him the bill for repairs to the door.’
Infernal Revolutions Page 61