Infernal Revolutions (15 page)

Queasy, lightheaded, I put the paper down and requested of Pete another plum to calm my nerves. He tossed one over – which Hartley almost intercepted with a leap of salmonlike strength and agility – and asked if anything was wrong.

‘I've just been reading about my probable end if I get caught on this spying caper. It seems that one day you might be reading your official despatches by the light of a candle made from my intestines.'

Hartley aggressively trotted up to me – his urine breath all over me – and stared with steady concentration first at the plum in my hand, and then at my mouth, as if gauging the fit. Needing to take my fear out on someone, I fondled the little juicebomb within an inch of the hound's slobbering jaws, and showed him every aspect of its ripe contours. Then, just as he was starting to shudder and salivate with the torment of it all, I gave him a sharp and unexpected flick on his rubbery nose, which he hated. An instinctive snarl, a pathetic whimper, and he was off behind Pete's desk, his eyes watering up. I ate the plum quickly.

‘Oh, I wouldn't believe anything they write in there,' said Pete with all the insouciance of youth, death unimaginable. ‘They're all hot air, Americans.'

‘Have you met one yet?'

‘Well…no…but I've spoken to people, read things, inhaled the atmosphere of the place. Take the name
Continental Army
, for example. What other nation would have the gall to call fifty ragged farmers an army, let alone a continental one?'

I agreed that was a point.

‘Then you have their Declaration of Independence. Declaration of hot air, more like. Strife, puberty and the pursuit of women. Put any words in there and the buggers'll cheer, as long as the rhythm and the…the…something…is right. What's the word I'm looking for, Harry? You're the literary man.'

‘Euphony? Cadence? I don't know.'

‘Brilliant. That's it. One of those. Perhaps both. So long as the rhythm and the euphony or cadence is right. Worth remembering that, if you're called upon to make an impromptu speech in the Haversack Valley.'

‘Speech! Me?'

I was aghast anew. After Parson Blood's humiliation I feared public speaking more than I feared evisceration. If someone told me I had five years to live I would accept the fact with aplomb, but if they told me I had to make a big public speech in five years' time I would probably be forced to commit suicide, just to end the intolerable anxiety.

Pete laughed.

‘You really are a frightful coward, Harry, when it boils down to it.'

‘Blathering senselessly isn't my strong point, that's all. I'm more of a deep independent thinker, interested more in ultimate truth than rabble rousing.'

‘Even if it's a matter of life and death, Harry, as it might be out in that hellish valley?'

I fear I turned nasty and resentful at this gratuitous goading.

‘This is astounding stuff, sir, coming from so poor a speaker as yourself; you, a veritable tongue-tied tomato head. You seem to be patronizing me, just because you've made a few terrible speeches to the men and I haven't. I am not afraid of public speaking, you know.'

‘I think you are, Harry, a little,' answered the youth quietly, perhaps a little cowed at my outburst. ‘As I was, a lot. Still am. I'm not implying I'm any good at it, or suggesting you wouldn't be, I'm just trying to get you used to the idea for your own good. I'm just trying to be a good lieutenant, Harry.'

With that, he swept the paperwork aside, laid his head on his folded arms, and started crying.

I felt terrible for being such a cowardly tetchy prig. I looked over with sorrow at the desolation I'd caused. Four hurt and swimming eyes – two human, two canine – looked back at me. Quickly I tugged my handkerchief out of my pocket, and had a good blubber myself. Then Dick Lickley and someone who was probably the Spymaster entered, and viewed us with wonder.

‘Someone dead, man?' asked Dick, using the argot he had picked up on his tour of the negro haunts.

‘Either that or someone's stolen their knitting,' said the Spymaster in a loud aside, before addressing us directly. ‘Come, come, ladies, things cannot be that bad.'

Pete, Hartley and I all looked at the Spymaster with snivelly hatred. He was a particularly raddled specimen of English manhood, toothpick thin, two front teeth sticking out at an oblique angle, dirty shirt flapping outside his breeches, frogged jacket, and shoes filthy except for a branded pair of H's where his buckles had been. This, according to Pete, was the only man in the British army who had read Machiavelli, hence his appointment. His name, as if he expected us to believe him, was Taylor Woodbine, and he'd learned his trade, he told us proudly, in the backstreets of Cheadle Hulme, ‘a mighty megopolis near Manchester', another stretch of our already strained credulity. He also had a charmless tendency to cock his leg up and rasp out wind loudly whenever the fancy took him, which was often. In a pigsty he would have stood out as a particularly uncouth animal, but here in this glorious room he was truly an affront to civilization. We didn't like Mr Taylor Woodbine, or his smarmy hackneyed remark on our joint grief, which we had just been starting to enjoy. Even Hartley, that finely perceptive animal, his eyes now dry, kept a permanent suspicious growl on him.

‘Things are that bad, Mr Woodbine,' I said, to divert attention from my affected friend Pete, who was pulling himself together as quickly as he could with cubitlength swipes of his sleeves. ‘For I understand Dick and I may get brutally murdered before we get ten yards up this Hackensack Valley.' I picked up and waved the offending article at him, as though he'd written it.

‘Well, you might,' he soothed, before curling up his lip, lifting his leg slowly like a tentative chicken, and trumpeting out a vile pod of wind that sent Hartley wild, ‘…aahh…but I doubt it very much. I've just come back from my sixth tour of duty up there, and I must say that not even in Russia have I met a friendlier bunch of people.'

‘Russia, eh? Wonderful,' was Dick's sardonic comment on this disclosure. Then, winking over at us: ‘Did you meet Catherine the Great?'

‘Met her? Had her, mate.'

‘Good?'

‘I was; she wasn't. Like shagging a nun. Opened her eyes, though. I doubt whether she gets much satisfaction from her guardsmen now. Once you've had the best, you know, ‘tis all downhill. Do you want to know how good I was?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘This is how good I was.'

He drew out of his jacket pocket a small square of paper, tightly folded. This he awkwardly unfolded with his long rickety fingers, accompanied by much blowing along the side of the little packet, until he held up for our delectation a letter in some sort of code.

‘Look,' he said proudly.

‘What is it?' asked Pete, coming round from his desk for a closer inspection.

‘A letter.'

‘Who from?'

‘Cathy. Thanking me for my services. Never experienced anything like it, she says. If I'm ever in St Petersburg again, I'm to go straight to her bed and wait for her there, if she isn't in it already. Quite an export, I am. Mr North should reward me with a baronetcy or something.'

‘Why can't we read it?' said squinting Pete. ‘Is it in code? Do you have to hold it up against a mirror or something?'

‘'Tis Russian,' clarified Taylor Woodbine with condescension. ‘They talk and write different to us. Shag different, too.'

‘Amazing,' said Dick, speaking for all of us. ‘I bet you have a similar letter from every queen in Europe.'

‘Most. Not all.'

‘Had ours?'

‘That ugly bitch? No fear. She can't write anyway. ‘Twould be pointless.'

‘No queens in America though, Mr Woodbine. You'll have to lower your standards here.'

‘Lower…higher…'tis all the same to me. I'm not a proud man or a braggart, as you know, so I'll content myself for the time being in taking what I can where I can. Anyway my duties to my country always come first. Like my women.'

‘After which noble sentiment,' said Pete, ‘perhaps we can move on to the matter in hand, for presumably your ferretings in the bedrooms of the world were simply pleasurable adjuncts to your main job of spying.'

‘Indeed, indeed,' said Taylor Woodbine, folding his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, pride written all over him. He studied Dick and myself with a look that seemed to say ‘I'm a spy, I am, and a shagger of royalty.'

‘Couldn't spying just be a pleasurable adjunct to our main job of bedroom ferreting?' asked Dick of Pete. ‘I mean, we don't want to make it obvious to every colonist what we're up to.'

‘That's a matter for Mr Woodbine, gentlemen. If he's willing to let you do that, ‘tis fine by me. He knows more about the risks you take. In fact, he seems to know more about everything than I do.' He turned to the man himself with a look of distaste. ‘So perhaps, Mr Woodbine, you'd care to proceed with your tuition so that these gentlemen can be off and spying. Meanwhile I will draft a memorandum to Lord Percy informing him of our contribution to the British Army's clandestine operations. You'll find paper and writing implements in that desk over there if you need them.'

‘Right, follow me, lads,' said Mr Woodbine, leading the way to the back of the room, ‘'tis time to educate you in the ways of the world.'

Like little boys at dame school, we followed Mr Woodbine to a small blackboard that was propped against a wall. Then we sat crosslegged on the floor to await enlightenment in the dark arts of espionage.

‘I wonder why they've chosen us for this operation?' Dick whispered to me, as Mr Woodbine took his jacket off and set up the blackboard on its legs.

I did not know whether Dick knew that I had specifically requested his company, so I gave a noncommittal shrug.

‘Something sinister is afoot, if you ask me. But never mind, I will take my chances. And if the life of a spy is not for me, then at least I shall be in a better position to desert than I am now. For desert I will, Harry, as sure as pain follows pleasure.'

I nodded agreement, as much at the simile as the proclamation. Then I shushed him, for Mr Woodbine was about to start.

A whole new world of dirty duplicity was swiftly delineated for our edification. Sections divided by legcocks and foul emissions (which eventually caused Hartley to be led out of the room panting), Mr Woodbine ran through a variety of basic spying techniques that included Things To Look Out For In The Homes Of Rebel Sympathizers (pamphlets by Tom Paine; paintings of George Washington; an aversion to tea); Things To Listen Out For (whistled renditions of
The World Turned Upside Down
; the distant rumble of baggage trains; nonsense language that might be code); Danger Signs (trapdoors; displays of guns and knives on walls; bear droppings; Irish accents); How To Carry Out Quiet Assassinations (throttle in river; stab through eye with knitting needle; push off roof); How And Where To Bury One's Ordure (obvious); Who Could Be Bought, Who Couldn't (everyone except Quakers and those with a burning hatred of Old England, viz. the Irish); Detecting The Sympathies Of The Hackensackers By The Type Of Smoke That Rose From Their Chimneys (pale smoke Loyalist: dark smoke Rebel); How To Kill Oneself If Being Tortured (tip bound chair over and crack occiput hard on floor); The Mysteries Of American Currency And The Slang Terms Used For Various Denominations Of Specie (incomprehensible); How To Conceal Messages About One's Person (hide papers in shoes, in the lining of one's jacket, inside a silver bullet); How To Make A Fire (either for personal warmth or to raze a town – the techniques were different, depending) and How To Cover Up The Slight Differences In Accents (emphasize the r's and talk slowly from the back of the throat, as if stupid). The advice, though eye-opening, went on and on, until both Dick and I had filled our allocated supply of paper. We did not ask for more, however, because we could not hope to assimilate the information we had written down. So on came, uncaptured by our pens, undigested by our brains, the torrent of Mr Woodbine's guiding words, while we simply stared at him stupefied, jaws lolling.

Eventually Mr Woodbine noticed that we were no longer paying attention, and moved without concern onto the subject of our guise for the expedition. We were to be Rebel booksellers, ousted from our shop by the swinish British, who had destroyed our stock and gratuitously urinated over tomes of great value. We were to be on our way to our second shop in Philadelphia, and if anyone doubted us we were to produce forged papers confirming all.

‘Booksellers though,' said Dick, visibly disappointed. ‘Is there no better option? The only form of literature I am familiar with is the betting slip.'

‘Then you are better read than the average American, Mr Lickley,' said Mr Woodbine. ‘For I have here a list of the current bestsellers throughout the Thirteen Colonies. They shine a light on the inner workings of these people, and the titles will not take long to learn by heart.'

He handed us a sheet which we surveyed together. Expecting fiery tracts of sedition to be popular, I was surprised that the Number One bestseller was
Dolly Potter's New Continental Cookery
. Close behind came such sparklers as
Where Have All The Passenger Pigeons Gone?
and
Scalp Or Be Scalped, Rudimentary Selling Techniques For Indian Traders
. Nowhere to be seen were tracts of sedition, fiery or otherwise.

‘Note the Number One bestseller well, boys,' said the by-now sulphurous Mr Woodbine. ‘For you will each carry a copy with you at all times. ‘Tis to be your codebook for the duration of your tour.'

Handed a copy, I flicked through it with a mixture of disgust and envy. How could such trash sell when my brilliant yet admittedly unfinished
Night Thoughts
languished unread? ‘Twas hellishly unfair.

‘The Cryptographer-in-Chief of the British Army – viz.,me – has chosen this book because a) it is popular and practical, and the Rebels will sense nothing amiss with your constant reference to it, and b)…' Here Mr Woodbine paused to lend greater effect to upcoming reason b)…'…it is a cookery book.'

Mr Woodbine smiled with satisfaction at our stunned silence, though strictly speaking it was the same stunned silence as before. Knowing what was expected, but not really wanting to do it, I waited until the silence became oppressive before sighing and asking him why b). Mr Woodbine beamed in triumph.

‘Cookery books are considered poor vehicles for cipher keys because they do not contain words of a military nature.' He let that one sink in for a while too. ‘Using the most popular one will therefore ensure double protection.'

‘But supposing we want to send messages containing words of a military nature?' I got in quickly, before the tension started to build up again.

‘You
will
want to send messages of that sort, my boy; that is why you are going up the Hackensack.'

I feigned contrition at my stupidity.

‘Then how can we possibly do it?' rescued Dick, shaking his head and wringing his hands.

‘Trust me,' said Mr Woodbine, impervious to sarcasm, ‘the problem is easily overcome. Please turn to page fifty-six, gentlemen.'

We turned, and saw that it was the beginning of a chapter entitled
The Story Of American Pork
.

‘Look at the third paragraph down, the one that begins:
At the turn of the century our forebears loved best the faces of our porcine friends
. I have produced a list of replacement words for many of the words in that paragraph. Here.'

He passed to us a sheet of paper that had two columns of substitutions on it, so one column began century = cannon, forebears = troops, porcine = attack; chall = withdrawal, and so on.

‘I think you have all the military words you need there, gentlemen. But these substitutions must be learnt by heart; you cannot be caught in possession of this piece of paper. Learn the substitutions thoroughly, and destroy the paper.'

‘But even if we learn them, how do we send an actual message?' asked Dick, scratching his head in what looked like genuine puzzlement.

Mr Woodbine showed us how to write the word we wanted by using three numbers divided by a period, with the first number referring to the page number of Dolly Potter's opus, the second number referring to the line number of that page, and the third number referring to the word number of that line. He then tested us by asking us to decode the number 116.7.7. This set off a furious race which ended, to my chagrin, with Dick shouting out the correct word
pancake
at the top of his voice.

‘Very good,' I said sourly, as smug Dick begged for another number so that he could beat me again, ‘but this system or cipher or whatever you call it is surely easier to decode than encode.' I flicked through the volume with an airy show of condescension.

‘It would take hours to sift through this lot to find the exact words you wanted for your message.'

‘It's slow at first, agreed, but you will soon develop a nose for the most useful passages the more you look into the book. Any words you can't find just stick an initial letter in amongst the numbers; we'll have no trouble guessing who or what it's supposed to stand for. And as for filler words like
and
and
as
, just write them as normal, they give nothing away. It's all a piece of cake.'

He went on to explain proudly that this was a system he had developed in secret consultations with King George himself, and was a refinement on the standard alphanumeric substitution cipher, whatever that was. The code, he assured us, was all but unbreakable by those not in the know; yet so low already was our opinion of Mr Taylor Woodbine – and, by association, whatever systems he may or may not have devised – that Dick and I did not strain ourselves to understand it perfectly.

‘Oh, and one more thing. You are to write your messages in invisible ink under cover of a normal letter about the hardships of the wartime booktrade. Address it here to me in New York – Taylor Woodbine, Fine Books Merchant, Queen Street – and I will magically bring your vital information to life.'

‘And where do we get invisible ink from?'

Mr Woodbine smiled and gave a smug chuckle; a good answer was coming.

‘Your bladders, gentlemen, your bladders.'

‘What?' said obtuse Dick, ‘We swallow some chemical or other and then piss it out into an inkpot?'

‘No need to complicate matters, Mr Lickley. Mr Ockham taught us that. Just good old everyday piss will do. No additives required.'

‘Will not the smell of the letter give the game away?' I objected.

‘These are not love letters you are writing, Mr Oysterman, they are the agonized outpourings of a broken bookseller. You may well have pissed yourself with worry while compiling the letter.'

I squirmed involuntarily at the coarseness of Mr Woodbine's language,

‘But if the smell offends you, use vinegar instead, or lemon juice, or milk. It all works when heated up in front of my magic candle.' He opened his eyes wide, waggled his hands in the air and went
oooh, magic candle
, as if to convince us that we would be taking part in a near-miraculous piece of natural philosophy.

Taking exception to being addressed as a four-year-old – magic fucking candle indeed – I asked him what our messages were to be about, so that we could be done and away.

‘What are the messages to be about? Well, you will report all you can of troop movements, state of the roads, mood of the natives, etcetera, etcetera; in short, anything that you think will be of interest to Lords Howe and Percy. And you will send these messages either direct to me, or along an established communication network, of which you will learn more as your journey proceeds. Indeed, your first point of contact in the Hackensack Valley will be with a member of this network, viz. a Mr Vincent De Witt, who lives in a place called Hobb Oaken, or something. With his family you will stay until he gives you further instructions to proceed…'

Mr Woodbine seemed about to go on, but then he suddenly paused and appeared to ruminate inwardly. Moments later the reason why became apparent.

‘Ahhhh. Better. Now, gentlemen, all that remains, I think, is to take you across to the Quartermaster's store and get you rigged out in suitable clothing. Then, armed with the directions I give you and a few coded messages for Mr De Witt, you will make your way to the Paulus Hook ferry for the sailing across to New Jersey tonight. Anything you want to add before I pack them off, Lieutenant Wriggle?'

Pete looked up and frowned, wafting away the hideous drifting stench with a sheet of paper.

‘Er, yes, there was something. What was it now? Oh yes, can I just confirm your next-of-kin, gentlemen?'

Deflated somewhat by this final duty, the fitting of our civilian clothes became a melancholy affair, like trying on winding sheets for size. Although the unexpected provision of pistols temporarily distracted me from my gloom, I was still depressed when we were eventually released onto the streets with our heads spinning, and top-secret papers flowing out of our pockets.

‘Cheer up,' said Dick, looking at me closely. ‘We're out now, and as free as we're ever going to be in this campaign. As I said before, this is a chance to see the country at the Army's expense, as well as a perfect opportunity to desert and start a new and better life if we so wish. Time for a celebratory pot of ale, my boy.'

Naughty, he jangled some of the coins he had been given for spying expenses, and honoured me with one of his famous lipcurling cowfaces, complete with moo. I could not help but smile.

‘Good man,' said Dick, slapping me on the back. ‘Now, where is the nearest friendly groggery? Let me think…'

It turned out to be
The American Hero
in Cortland Street. As we entered, ‘twas clear that the name had become ironic, for the murky interior was full of English sailors getting unheroically
bottled
.

‘No need to feign American residency here,' shouted Dick, as we pushed tight against sweaty, happy, pickled bodies. ‘'Tis like being back home.'

Indeed it was, for groups of sailors were clapping hands and stomping feet, and taunting each other with chants of an extremely repetitive nature,

‘AN-DO-VERR – AN-DO-VERR – AN-DO-VERR!!!'

‘KING'S LYNN – KING'S LYNN – KING'S LYNN!!!'

‘SOUTH-HAMP-TONN – SOUTH-HAMP-TONN – SOUTH-HAMP-TONN!!!'

A hundred English towns seemed to be vying for attention, though for what purpose neither Dick nor I were brave enough to try and ascertain. Just as it seemed inevitable that one almighty fight would break out between supporters of the rival towns, all suddenly joined together in one thunderous catch-all chant.

‘EN-GERR-LANDD!! – EN-GERR-LANDD!! – EN-GERR-LANDD!!'

Syllables emphasized by the hammering down on tables of pots and bottles, the noise was deafening. I could do nothing but watch and feign enjoyment until the display of brotherhood eventually ended, which it did fifteen minutes later in a playful bout of mass wrestling.

‘Come on, Dick, hurry up and get the beer in,' I was at last able to shout, ‘we've got a ferry to catch.'

Attention having been distracted by a group of trulls and doxies who even I would not have lusted over, Dick was no nearer to being served than when we had come in. Parched, I waited a few more minutes then went off in search of my own serving boy. As I waited in my turn, I could not help but overhear the conversation of a table of sailors next to me. A debate was taking place as to whether the colonists were our inferiors, our superiors or our equals.

‘Inferiors!' yawped a couple of the scabbiest-looking English dogs imaginable, perhaps friends of Taylor Woodbine, going on to justify their view with the argument that Americans were descendants of people who could not hold their own in the stronger society of England. Americans, in their view, were undisciplined, uncultured and uncouth, and would never prosper without the guidance of England. ‘'Tis only the middling and the poor English who ever emigrate here,' the scabbiest concluded in triumph, ‘the rich stay in Europe. That says it all, dunnit?'