Infernal Revolutions (18 page)

‘Horses are ready, gentlemen! Time to be up and away!'

‘Horses?' I whispered, after several seconds of incomprehension. ‘What horses?'

‘The bloody ones that General Mercer told us about last night,' croaked Dick, groaning with misery at being disturbed.

‘I don't remember that.'

‘Then you weren't listening.'

‘But I cannot ride!'

Dick groaned again.

‘According to my map,' I babbled, panic rising within me, ‘the whole valley is only fifteen miles from end to end. Why can't we just walk it?'

‘Suppose we get into trouble? Suppose the Rebels sniff us out? Do you think we'll be able to outpace their spurred horses with a leisurely stroll? They're all Paul Reveres out here, you know; speed is in their blood.'

Accepting the premise of Dick's argument, I rose stiffly and squinted out of the window. It seemed sometime around mid-morning, and the night-time drama of New York in flames had become the more sober salon topic of New York in smoke. Grey columns of it billowed slowly into the clear blue sky, so that Manhattan Island reminded me of a picture I had once seen of the ancient town of Pompeii, after the volcano there had erupted. Food for thought though this image was, it was nothing compared to the sight that awaited me when I looked down into the parade ground. Two of the biggest horses I had ever seen were being held by a cross-eyed soldier right under our window.

‘They're bloody huge, Dick!' I exclaimed with fright.

‘What are?'

‘Our horses!'

‘Good. More power to escape.'

I groaned, and remembered with disadvantages the summer of 1769 when, in an attempt to gentrify me, my mother and father had bought me a piebald nag of twelve hands which I was allowed to christen Swift, after my favourite author at the time. Thinking I had my very own Houyhnhnm to frisk with, I was keen to learn to ride him and enter into that much vaunted union with the noblest member of the animal kingdom. I visualized day trips as far afield as Hampshire, Surrey and Kent, full of poetic reverie and contemplation, with Swift as my constant companion and confidant. I also envisaged, once my daily poetic burden had been lifted, exciting romps with lonely young human fillies on the way home, while Swift stood by ready for dramatic escapes from outraged fathers. But alas for me, Poetry and the ladies, none of this came to pass. Swift proved to be mean, vicious and stupid, whose main pleasures in life were biting me and depositing steaming piles of dung on our front doorstep. I barely managed a mile out of him before I gave the whole thing up as a bad job, citing the beast's interference with my artistic temperament. My parents howled, I howled, and Swift was sold off to gypsies. I had hated horses, and by association the author of
Gulliver's Travels
, ever since.

But now they were back to haunt me in the shape of these American beasts, and it looked as though I would have to re-learn how to ride one in front of a crowd of curious ill-wishers, for the rabble of the previous night seemed to have nothing better to do than stand and watch. Sighing, I had no alternative but to clamber on, knowing full well what awaited me. Sure enough, even though Dick held a restraining rope, I was not in the saddle ten seconds before I was back on
terra firma
again, tossed off like an irritating bug. Rubbing my arse as the soldiers hooted and jeered, I consoled myself that at least the first humiliation was out of the way, and that subsequent baitings would not sting my pride as much. This proved to be correct, and before long I was hanging on for several minutes at the time, albeit sweating with concentration as I clung desperately to the beast's neck. After a while I was even managing to sit upright and trot in circles around Dick, who alternately shouted encouragement and puffed on his pipe. Basic competence was finally confirmed when the Rebels, finding the show funny no more, began to drift away to their less than onerous duties. Fifty uneventful circuits later, flushed with success if sore around the tail, I told Dick I felt ready to begin our journey northwards.

‘Thank God,' said Dick ungraciously, before tamping out his pipe and clambering on his own horse. ‘Now we just have to find someone to let us out.' This was no sooner said than Captain Roper emerged yawning from his quarters, having perhaps watched the whole enthralling show. He mumbled something about the underrated benefits of persistence then mounted his horse and led us to the main gate.

‘Good luck, genle'men. Just follow the causeway and you'll be in Hoboken before you know it. Seems all of us might be heading that way before very long, if the rumours are to be believed.'

‘We will meet again, I am sure,' I said suavely, liking the deportment of the youngster. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.'

‘Our pleasure, gen'lemen.'

The gates creaked open and we were free, following the causeway that ran in a straight line through the enveloping salt marshes.

‘A very nice young fellow,' I said to Dick, ‘as all of them were really. They have totally ruined my desire to kill them.'

‘They wouldn't have been so nice had they known the truth about us.'

‘I suppose not,' I said, imagining the different looks on their faces as they pulled my teeth out with pliers. ‘In that case then, did we learn anything about them that we ought to pass back to headquarters?'

‘Probably, but what's the point? We don't know whose side Taylor Woodbine is really on. The rules of the game have changed now. Best to say nothing.'

‘Why not write direct to Lord Howe, mentioning Taylor Woodbine's perfidy as a
bonne bouche
?'

Dick thought about this.

‘Is it perfidy, though, or is Taylor Woodbine cleverly duping the Americans? Anyway, we're just ants to Lord Howe and the other bigwigs, Harry – they'll take no notice. No, what I suggest is that we look after ourselves from now on. Travel independently. Think independently. Act independently.'

‘To what purpose?'

‘To see America. To find, perhaps, a new home.'

‘Well, we're seeing America already. Look around, Dick. We are free, we have come through!'

We both looked around and took deep breaths of air, in pantomime portrayal of free men. A powerful mix of salt and smoke hit my brain and reminded me strongly of Nutmeg Nell's boudoir, but I battled to keep the memory down.

‘And now that we are embarked on our expedition proper, I think we need to tighten up our story so that we are not caught off-guard again.'

Dick agreed, and we spent the next few miles trying to remember all that the devious Taylor Woodbine had told us, trying to sort the wheat from the chaff. We even built on his basic foundations, so that as we trotted on I started to test Dick on his knowledge of English literature, just in case we were unlucky enough to fall into the hands of an erudite torturer.

‘Writers beginning with M?'

‘Er….'

‘Milton, Mandeville, Middleton. Remember them. Author of
Hudibras
, six letters?'

‘Sutler?'

‘Butler.'

‘Name three of Shakespeare's plays.'

‘
Hamlet
, er,
Macbeth
, er,
The Two Molly Boys of Verona
.'

‘Take it seriously, Dick. Next great English poet?'

‘Percy Plumparse.'

‘Harry Oysterman. Most popular book in the colonies last month?'

‘Dolly Potter's New Continental Cookery
.'

‘And the book we use for coding, if we ever bother with it?'

‘Dolly Potter's New Continental Cookery
.'

‘Good,' I said, licking my lips at the mere mention of that masterpiece of culinary innovation. Thin in Brighthelmstone, I was positively Rebel-like after two months of army rations; indeed, I was so hungry I could have eaten Dolly Potter herself, as well as all her children, if she had any. To take my mind off such fantasies, I solaced my existence by admiring the scenery that was slowly unfolding before us. I had been expecting a textbook valley, discernibly U-shaped, but this place had no defining ridges as far as I could see, perhaps indicative of the lack of cartographic skills in America. In its place, once past the salt marshes of Paulus Hook, was an undulating countryside of well-watered pastures and fertile meadows, dotted with red barns and big Dutch wagons. Little figures, uninterested in the Revolution by the looks of them, were busy at some agricultural work in honey-coloured fields far away. Horatian in its simplicity and reasonableness, the scene was so pleasant that it was impossible to believe a war was going on here.

‘'Tis only a pleasant scene to an aristocrat's eye, Harry. Symmetry and beauty and all that. But if you were one of those little figures gathering wheat or whatever they're doing, your back breaking, your belly empty, your sweating face a magnet for flies, I venture to suggest that you would fall in love with the first person able to articulate your dissatisfaction with your lot. In other words, you'd be a potential piece of roused rabble yourself.'

‘I doubt that very much,' I said indignantly, rabble indeed. ‘I have suffered loss too, you know, and I have not rebelled. Not many could come to terms with the loss of Philpott Hall, and adjust accordingly.'

‘Ah God, not that again.'

‘Again? I think I have been rather sparing in my references to what after all was a disaster of staggering proportions. Many men in that situation would have hung themselves.'

‘We've all lost things as important as Philpott Hall, mate,' said Dick bluntly. ‘But self-pity does not become a man. Remember that.'

Suitably chastened, I could see that Dick was right, although I did not wish to admit it to his face. Instead I brooded in silence until a tree-shaded house loomed up on the road ahead.

‘That must be it,' said Dick, examining his map. ‘Another Dutch-looking place. What with the Dutch-sounding names of everyone as well, all Van this and Van that, anyone would think we had landed in a hilly Holland. Let us hope in that case that there are plenty of Dutch girls waiting for us.'

‘I met a Dutch girl once,' I said. ‘Tall, blonde, a statuesque beauty, quite stunning. Too good for the London rakes who gobbled her up. Dull though, never smiled or said anything interesting.'

‘Could you say anything interesting in Dutch?'

‘Not in Dutch I couldn't; ‘tis the dullness of the language. That's why they all paint. But she could have said something interesting in English. That's what our language is for, saying interesting things in.'

That shut us up, neither of us daring to subject our next utterances to withering accusations of dullness. So in silence we rode up to the house and dismounted from our horses. Then we assumed our tough seasoned-trooper carapaces in case there were girls watching – dull Dutch or otherwise – and swaggered up to the front door like men who wanted the hardest liquor yet invented by man, rather than the dish of tea that we so desperately craved. Suddenly fearing treachery, I nervously fingered my pistol underneath my jacket, and scanned the windows for peeking musket muzzles.

‘Who are we for this one,' I whispered. ‘British spies, American spies or simple booksellers?'

‘If he knows who we are, I do not suppose it matters. We'll try booksellers first, though, to get some practice in.' Dick cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at the top of his voice:

‘Is anyone in?'

There was silence, apart from what sounded like the noise of someone chopping wood in the distance. Then a tree above us rustled. I swivelled my pistol up at it, but saw just in time that it was only a turkey roosting on a branch.

‘Maybe they're dead,' I shouted helpfully. ‘Murdered by the damned Rebels.'

Dick spun round and shushed me with great animation.

‘We're booksellers now, remember. Neutral ones at that. We don't go around shouting which side we're on.'

‘Ya, you old keenie,' I replied gaily, following him up to the door. ‘There's no-one in anyway. Trust me. I've a sixth sense in these matters.'

Immediately the door opened and a tall, thin man with nervous eyes stood before us. He was dressed in a brown morning coat and a peruke, both of which had seen better days. The heavy bags under his eyes instantly made me feel tired on his behalf.

‘Mr De Witt?' said Dick.

The man didn't seem to know whether to say yes or no to this question. Instead, he flickered nervous glances over us and behind us.

‘We're booksellers from New York…' Dick began, winking furiously.

The door started to close.

‘Not today, thank you,' said the man. ‘I'm rather busy.'

‘No, no,' said Dick, a little desperately. ‘Not booksellers.
Booksellers
.'

There was more furious winking.

‘Yes, so you said. Goodbye.'

Dick jammed his foot in the doorway just in time.

‘Look, we're bloody British spies, Taylor Woodbine's boys. Are you Michael De Witt or not?'

‘Temper, Dick,' I cautioned.

‘Are you British spies, though,' said the probable Mr De Witt, ‘or are you Patriot spies, or are you simply murderers? One can't trust anybody these days.'

‘You can trust us!' shouted Dick angrily. ‘We wouldn't hurt anybody.'

This did not convince Mr De Witt, and a strenuous wrestle with the door ensued. Though both parties pushed with all their strength, the door gave little one way or the other.

‘Perhaps a letter from Mr Woodbine would convince you that we are who we say we are, Sir,' I called over the grunting.

‘Have you one?' Mr De Witt managed to pant in reply.

‘Yes, here.'

I waved the proof above Dick's head, holding it gingerly between forefinger and thumb in case someone found a fresh reserve of strength and slammed the door shut on my hand. Mr De Witt looked up at it through the curls of the peruke that had slipped down onto his forehead in the struggle.