Infernal Revolutions (20 page)

‘So ‘tis shaggy, brutish frontiersmen for you, then?' I said, saddened by the turn of the conversation.

‘Shaggy perhaps, Harry, but not brutish. I could not marry a man with no tenderness in him.'

‘Even if the alternative is hardworking, dangerous, ultimately futile spinsterhood?'

‘Someone will turn up.'

I felt a rush of blood course through my head.

‘Someone has turned up – here, now, right in front of you. Aye, come away with me and be done with this foolish talk.'

‘What?'

What indeed; what was I saying? I had not known her ten minutes and here I was proposing marriage. I listened to myself with a mix of fascination and horror, wondering what words would come out next.

‘You are a girl, and…er…I am a boy, or a man rather. We can have a most excellent life together…but only by moving on, spiritually and physically. Sticking here in…what's this place called again?'

‘Hoboken.'

‘Aye…sticking here in Hoboken is the same as sticking at fifteen in a game of pontoon. There is a small chance you are going to win, but a much bigger chance you are going to lose, so I could rest my case on mere statistics alone. Also, and more importantly, I wish to declare that I think you are the loveliest girl I have ever met, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'

I cringed inwardly as I heard myself say these words, so that I wished she would hurry up and put me out of my misery. When she did, after a few moments of wonderment, she did it in a very collected manner, as though such proposals were everyday occurrences.

‘I am flattered that you should think so. But where would we go, and what would we do? I do not want to become a camp follower of the British Army. No, no. You will make someone a lovely husband, Harry, but not me. I am sorry.'

‘Aye, aye, you are right of course,' I blathered, blushing like a cherry, but at the same time vastly relieved. ‘I am sorry too. I do not know what came over me.'

‘Do not worry, Harry. ‘Tis a natural consequence of your youth, your impetuosity and your mettle. As I say, I am flattered.'

I had to look twice to see if I had heard right –
mettle
was not a word I expected a girl of her breeding to use. Perhaps it did not mean in America what it meant in England, in which case she was closer to the truth than she knew, for truly I was full of mettle, and simply could not give the stuff away.

Wondering whether the shock of losing Philpott Hall had played a part in the over-eagerness of my marriage proposal, I stood lost in thought until Eloise gave a theatrical cough. Coming to with a flurry of apologies, I realised it was time to change the subject, and to retreat to the unemotional side of the conversational boundary line. So, exchanging mindless pleasantries, I helped Eloise carry bucketloads of water to a horsetrough several yards away. When it was full I asked Eloise how we were to carry it indoors without incurring hernias.

‘We don't, Harry. We all bathe
al fresco
here, even in winter. But do not worry,

no one will be watching you.'

I looked over at the gawping windows of the house, and gave them a very doubtful look. Unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm, Eloise fussed around busily.

‘Here is your soap and towel…'

She indicated a small grey knobbly lump on a neatly-folded grey cloth, a pitiful reminder of the hardships of colonial life, or perhaps of prolonged British taxation. Either way, ‘twas a far cry from the colourful, sweet-smelling toiletries I was used to in England, and my face muscles must have betrayed as much, for she added: ‘Luxury is relative, Harry. Our comforts may be simple by your standards, but before you get much further up the valley you will be grateful even for this….'

‘Oh no, Eloise,' I protested vigorously, for I noticed she had become strangely agitated, ‘I was not thinking that.'

‘In fact up there…' she waved, I presumed, northwards, ‘…you will be grateful even for your life! Oh!'

Suddenly sobbing, she hitched up her skirts and scurried away, giving me one final glance over her shoulder before disappearing round the corner of the house, her face a crumpled premonition of doom.

Sighing at the hopelessness of it all, no longer bothered who saw me, I took off my clothes and lowered myself limb by limb into the water. ‘Twas far colder than my elbow had suggested, and had I not been so stricken with Melancholy I would have leapt out again with alacrity. As it was I persevered in the hope of a cure, and to prove to Eloise how tough I was. This in practical terms meant that my limbs and body turned blue, my horn shrank to the size of a button, and my tarrywags vanished completely. Even more frighteningly, my heart began to pound furiously – the desperate thrashings of a trapped man in a sinking Arctic ship. Melancholia was put to rout all right, and in its place came the less pleasant sensation of Imminent Death. In an attempt to restart my circulation I bravely splashed a few handfuls of water over my submerged chest, but this simply turned me a deeper shade of blue, until I was pretty much the same colour as the reflected sky.

My head involuntarily rattling from side to side, the shudders of my body whipping up a fair amount of turbulence on the water, I decided enough was enough. I would get the dirt off me and get out as quickly as I could, and pish to the spartan colonial life. Accordingly I reached out for the soap and got rubbing. I was still trying futilely to work up a lather when I heard voices approaching from several directions. Either this was a religious experience induced by the cold, or a recurrent nightmare was about to burst into lurid daylight. Inevitably, ‘twas the latter, so I quickly grabbed my tricorne and held it quivering over what was left of my barber's sign. In an agony of embarrassment, I closed my eyes and waited in trepidation as the voices got louder, grew distinct, and eventually stopped a few feet away from me. A few seconds later I peeped up to see peering down at me Dick, Clara, Mr De Witt and a glistening negro with an iron collar round his neck.

‘Well I never!' chortled Dick, a cauliflower leaf stuck in his hair. ‘What have we here?'

‘It is your friend,' said Clara, brushing the leaf off. ‘You know it is.' She looked at Dick quizzically, the kitchen games having done nothing to soften her Dutch literalness.

Dick checked to see that he was on the blind side of Mr De Witt, then tweaked her left buttock with sickening familiarity. Smiling now, all clear, she rested her head on his shoulder and gazed down at me with enlightened contempt.

Mr De Witt, red with exertion, looked from Dick to me and back again.

‘So, while I fight off
imaginary
attackers,' he began in a very sneery manner, ‘my two guests lark about and enjoy themselves,
as though they knew the attackers were only imaginary
. This is a very strange war, gentlemen.'

‘I am n-n-not enj-j-joying life, I assure you,' I clattered through rattling teeth.

‘You want to swop places, man?' said the negro in a deep rippling bass, the whites of his eyes flashing in pity as he scanned my cod.

Mr De Witt rattled his chain sharply.

‘Elzevir! How many times have I told you? Do not speak unless you are spoken to. With good behaviour you will be a free man in five years; remember that.'

Elzevir turned his stare slowly on Mr De Witt's balding head, and flared his nostrils.

‘If I decide to run off and fight for de British, I'll be a free man ‘traight away. Den I'll come back and kill you. Remember
dat
.'

‘The British will only use you for their own purposes…' Mr De Witt looked at us knowingly, ‘…they do not have your best interests at heart.'

Elzevir became very animated at this, lifting his chin, grasping hold of his collar and shaking it fiercely, like a madman.

‘And dis is for my best interest, is it?'

‘'Tis like a wedding ring. It symbolizes commitment, mutual fidelity, loyalty, a love that is never ending.'

‘It symbolizes fuck all, Whitey. An' you know it.'

‘Elzevir, calm down,' implored Clara. ‘You have had your chance both to run away and to murder us. If you had wanted to do either you would have done so by now.'

Elzevir turned his steady gaze on Clara, and smouldered at her.

‘I's a gonna rape you an' your sister one o' dese days, Missy Clara. Put some black buns in dem sweet little ovens o' yahs.'

‘Promises, promises,' mocked Clara, unconcerned.

‘So where are you from originally, Elzevir,' asked Dick, ‘New York or somewhere?'

‘Nome, I's from South Carlina, or some such shit. Son of cottonpickers, grandson of a Gold Coast chief. Dis man lucky to have royalty breakin' his back for him. Anyway, who are you, anudder one o' dem British spies?'

‘You need not answer him, Mr Lickley. He knows the rules – Ask No Questions, Get Food.'

‘Call dat shit food, man? Beans an' dried roots are for hogs.'

‘There is a war on,' said Mr De Witt.

‘You can say dat again, brudder. Dough it ain't between who you tink it's between.'

This remark puzzled us all, if the ensuing silence was anything to go on, though I for one was glad of the respite – my head had been swivelling from speaker to speaker in horrified fascination, and my neck was aching like the very devil in consequence. Also, it allowed me to check the workings of my body, and discover that a warm glow had suffused my body. I was pleased with this finding at first, until I remembered that hypothermia victims went warm shortly before they died. Then I cast aside all modesty, shame and embarrassment and shot out of the bath like a scalded cat.

There was a volley of groans, gasps and giggles as I danced flailing for the towel. Daring only to look at my audience once, I saw all eyes – human nature being essentially low – firmly affixed to my poor pickle, as though it were Mr Garrick performing
Macbeth
in the Haymarket. Elzevir's eyes flashed pity; Clara's, amusement; Dick's,
schadenfreude
; and Mr De Witt's Dutch disgust, as though his had long since dropped off through virtuous living.

‘Well what do you expect!' I felt like blurting out, not taking kindly to this scrutiny. Instead I bent down, snatched up the towel and wrapped it round my loins. I resembled, I fancied, John the Baptist – if not actually Jesus himself – proud and baptized before his mockers.

‘You look like a big baby in a nappy,' laughed Clara, crushing the image. ‘Let Eloise powder baby's bottom!'

‘No, no, a candle, surely,' said Dick, playing his part in the tiresome Mocking Lovers ritual. ‘See…' he pointed, as though I were a sculpture, ‘…the drops of water could be melted wax, and the twist of his hair sticking up could be the wick.'

They laughed riotously, and I distinctly felt my New Testament serenity turn Old and vindictive.

‘Well, we shall see what you look like after a few minutes in there, Dick. I have warmed the water for you, so I suggest you get in quick before the night comes on.'

Crafty, I planned to get dressed quickly, run and fetch Eloise, then stand entwined with her, mocking Dick's discomfiture in thrilling role-reversal.

‘And what makes you think I am getting in there?'

I felt the increasingly familiar stirrings of treachery.

‘You said you were going to take one,' I said, looking down sadly at the bath. ‘And besides, you are dirty.'

‘That was what you said, was it not, love?' he said to Clara, as the two of them dripped smarm, smugness and self-worth over each other. Then I saw Dick's hand descend once more to her Infernal Regions. By the time he spoke again, he looked like he was working her like a glove puppet.

‘Too many baths weaken the spine,' he asserted, with dubious medical authority. ‘Which is why I prefer to stand upright when I am being washed.'

He was a crude rascal when he wanted to be, but Clara did not seem to mind, busy as she was deciding which hair to pluck out of his chest as a keepsake. I looked to see what Mr De Witt was making of this sickening behaviour, but he was preoccupied with the task of tightening the screws on Elzevir's collar. Eventually Clara selected a hair by Dick's nipple, and tugged viciously.

‘A lover's pinch,' I heard Clara whisper romantically, ‘which hurts and is desired.'

From the expression of agony on Dick's face, the quotation seemed only half correct, and from the similar look on Elzevir's face I suspected that there was a streak of latent cruelty in the De Witt family; indeed, I could not help but wonder what Eloise's party trick was in the cruelty line. Hiding behind a tree to dry off and dress, I kept peeking out to watch as Mr De Witt and Clara repeatedly dunked Elzevir's head in my bathwater for minutes at a time. Then, the sound of Dutch laughter ringing in my ears, I made my way indoors to search for Eloise. I found her coming down the staircase.

‘What is this, Harry?' she said, just stopping and standing there with one hand on the banister.

‘What?'

‘This.'

I looked at her blankly, thinking she had gone mad. I could detect nothing at all.

‘Give up?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘De Witt of the Staircase! ‘Tis a household joke.'

I laughed politely, having no idea what she was talking about. Vaguely troubled by the strange atmosphere of the house, I was glad when Eloise suggested that I have a rest in the study until dinner was ready. The less I had to do with these people, I concluded, the better it would be for me.

I awoke so refreshed that for several minutes I was incapable of thought. Then, slowly, I pieced together the events of the forenoon, and found to my delight that the memory of them caused me no anguish whatsoever – sleep had wiped away all shame. This discovery, coupled with the delicious smell coming from the kitchen, quite invigorated me, and I almost bounded through the house in search of companionship and conversation.

Drawn to the dining room by voices, I entered to find everyone there except Eloise. All were milling around Elzevir, who was looking as dandy as a Buff Orpington in a gorgeous Forties courtier's outfit. Some sort of oil had been rubbed in his face, so that it gleamed prodigiously, and his usual iron neck collar had been replaced by an enormous gorget. Mr De Witt was fussing over a powdered white bag wig on his head, while down below Clara was attaching bows to the buckles of his shoes. The contrast of his black skin to his scarlet jacket lent him a sublime aspect, but Elzevir himself, however, did not look happy.

‘You could make a bob or two dressed like that in England,' I said to him, trying to cheer him up. ‘Sam Johnson has a servant very much like you. Wouldn't part with him for the world apparently. Takes great pains over his education and welfare.'

‘I'll thank you not to put ideas like that into his head, Mr Oysterman,' said Mr De Witt. ‘They won't inspire him, they will only serve to make him even more resentful of the excellent treatment he already receives here.' Elzevir peered sideways at him. ‘I mean,' Mr De Witt continued, taking hold of his coattail and fingering its texture, ‘look at this. Genuine Indian silk. I bet even Dr Johnson's servant doesn't get to wear finery like this.'

‘Who is dis Sam Johnson cat anyway?' Elzevir enquired.

‘He's the famous writer, moralist and lexicographer, noted also for his prodigious appetites. A great eccentric, and one of the greatest minds in Britain.'

‘Not a farmer den?'

I confirmed not, which seemed to send Elzevir into a wish-fulfilment trance, illuminated no doubt by visions of idle days in cool rooms, relaxing amidst plump pillows and poodles, not a ray of sunlight or drop of sweat in sight, serving tea, sharpening quills, and grinding nothing more strenuous than ink and the odd complaisant chambermaid.

‘You leave me Sam Johnson's address before youm go, Pinky. I write to de cat.'

‘See,' said Mr De Witt. ‘Now look what you've done!'

He turned to Elzevir, still lost in fieldless London visions, and addressed him severely.

‘Now look here, Elzevir. I keep telling you – the British are no friends of yours. Who was it do you think who shipped your grandfather from Africa in the first place? It wasn't us.'

‘Nome. You're as white as de snow, you are.'

‘It wasn't us, I say. It was the British. To go and live in Britain now would be an insult to the millions of your fellow-countrymen who suffered agony and torment and death in the crossing.'

‘It would be an insult to dem if I didn't try to make de best of de situation. Why not play whitey at his own game, den beat him at it? Anyways, what difference it make wedder I live here or dare? Same country, ain't it? Same language, same people, mo' o' less.'

‘Yes, but for how much longer?'

‘Oh, de revolution ting. Americans say dey don't want to be slaves of de British, and dey revolt; we don't want to be slaves of de Americans, but we too
damn tired
to revolt. But we will one day, Masser, ahs promise. Takes mo' dan a li'l revolution to change de spots of you whiteys. Anyways, if you so concerned about us slave-boys, why you employ us in de first place? Why not you wash your hands of de ol' affair, and employ only whiteys?'

‘Because I wanted to save you from the hands of the evil men in the south. I wanted…'

‘Oh tell him the truth, father,' interrupted Clara impatiently. ‘Tell him that land is so cheap in this country, and labour so dear, that we can only survive by employing blacks and indentured servants. No-one with freedom and sense undertakes menial work for others when he can buy cheap land of his own to work.'

Elzevir looked down at the top of Clara's head.

‘I's still gonna rape you one o dese days, Missy Clara.'

Clara, her work done, got to her feet and squeezed Elzevir's puddings through his breeches.

‘I's a-waitin', Big Boy!'

Elzevir flared his nostrils indignantly.

‘There was no need for that,' said Mr De Witt, though which
that
he was alluding to was not made clear, because after a pause for final adjustments to Elzevir's wig, he astonished us all by continuing in some outlandish garbled tongue that sounded vaguely German but was probably Dutch. From intonation and body language, I could only assume that he was saying something that might have incited Elzevir had it been in English, though the language itself incited him enough.

‘Dey doin' it again, Man!' he cried in exasperation. ‘I's-a just knows dey talkin' bout me. Hey, English boys, you any idea what language dey're speakin'?'

Thankfully, the question was rhetorical, for he quickly went on.

‘I's gonna learn me dat language before I'm outa here. Gonna break dat code widout dem a-knowin,' he confided to us with loud candour, as if under the delusion that because he couldn't understand them, they couldn't understand him. ‘Den dey'll be for it.'

His agitation increased, until suddenly the conversation between Mr De Witt and his daughter reverted back to English.

‘Even if we haven't?'

‘Especially then.'

‘I despise you, father.'

The final remark, whatever it referred back to, seemed to come as no surprise to Mr De Witt, for he took it with the smug it-had-to-be-done-my-dear smile of the knowing cynic, before diverting the conversation outwards once more.

‘Now where were we?' he said, looking around at us all as though for the first time. ‘Ah yes, attempting to make Elzevir look civilized.' Carrying on where he left off, he picked up a little pink bladder and squirted its rosewater contents over his creation's head.

‘Difference between lookin' civilized and bein' civilized,' retorted Elzevir, grimacing as though it was liquid manure being sprayed over him.

‘No, no, ‘tis much the same thing,' Mr De Witt insisted. ‘As a man dresses, so he is.'

‘Den if de Rebels catch me like dis, dey'll tink I'm a Lobsterback, and shoot me. Or dey'll tink I'm a molly-boy, and prig me over a barrel.'

‘Nobody's going to harm you, Elzevir,' assured Mr De Witt, with an ironic play of the eyebrows for our benefit, ‘Trust me.'

‘I'd radder trust a…' Elzevir began to spit out, before Mr De Witt cut him short with a clap of his hands and a spuriously cheery, ‘Now, what's happening with our dinner? I'm surprised Eloise hasn't announced its imminent arrival.'

‘Coming father!' came a shout from the kitchen.

‘Come on then, Elzevir,' said Clara, who had since returned to Dick's side, where they had been rubbing each others' backs like a pair of amorous crickets, ‘Let's go and tote dem plates.'

‘Youm teach me how to speak, den you mock it,' said Elzevir, glaring at Clara as she took him by the arm and led him, buckles tinkling, to the kitchen. ‘It makes no sense.'

Turning to view the elegantly set table, I rubbed my hands and pondered over where to sit. Feeling roguish after my rest, and aware that I would never see Eloise again after tonight, I desired a seat next to her, so that I could engage in covert play if the opportunity arose. Choosing a chair at random, I settled myself in, before watching in horror as Dick and Mr Witt sat down on either side of me, leaving two empty seats opposite, well out of thigh-dalliance range.

‘Surely we need to space out,' I protested, squirming at being hemmed-in. ‘Gentleman – Lady – Gentleman – Lady. This seating arrangement is barbaric. Dick, move up a seat, there's a good man.'

‘I'm all right, mate,' said Dick, chin in one hand, pipe in the other, satisfied with life, let alone the seating arrangement.

‘Come, come, Mr Oysterman,' said Mr De Witt, shaking out a napkin before spreading it over his lap, ‘There's no need to be so formal. You're not at the court of Louis XIV now, you know. Relax, my friend, relax. You're in the democratic New World, remember. Anything goes…'

‘Then you will not mind if I change my seat.'

I made preparations to move, but just then the girls and Elzevir entered bearing food, which forced me to abort my plans. I had no choice but to remain sullenly in my place, feeling damnably constricted both mentally and physically. The girls did not evince any suprise at the seating arrangements – no doubt by now being thoroughly democratized – but Elzevir did a comic turn, counting the seats wide-eyed.

‘Where's I sittin', Mr De Witt?'

‘At the harpsichord, Elzevir. Where you usually do when we dine formally.'

‘Can't play an' eat at the same time, Masser!'

‘See the effect of your Sam Johnson talk, Mr Oysterman? This is all for your benefit. He regards you as his patrons now.'

He gave me a dirty look – fully reciprocated – before swivelling his attention back and up to Elzevir.

‘No-one's asking you to. You play first, and you eat later. Provided. of course, that there's anything left, and you don't…'

‘Miss a note – yahs, yahs, I knows de score.'

A sort of purring noise came from Mr De Witt's throat as he turned round to address us again, indicative perhaps of a pun on its way.

‘In fact – he knows six!' he said, what seemed like days later, wrapping the remark in loud laughter.

‘Twas tiresome stuff, and I could not be bothered even to feign politeness any more. Leaving Dick with the hollow-laugh duties, I tried to catch Eloise's eye as she laid a dish of potatoes before us. Had my earlier
faux pas
been forgiven? Or was I still down there in the
loving friend
category, the romantic equivalent of banishment? ‘Twas hard to tell, for she looked at everyone except me; though I interpreted this as a good sign – she would not ignore me unless I was preying on her mind. Perhaps my
faux pas
had planted a seed there which was growing prodigiously. Whatever the reason, I determined to settle back and enjoy whatever meal was laid before me, in order to build up my strength in case I was capriciously called upon to satisfy her later, or whatever the verb was in America these days. I determined also to show off and whip out witticisms when the occasion arose – or talk for victory, as Sam Johnson had it – to show Eloise just how mean, moody and unignorable I could be when I put my mind to it. Yes, love like war was a wonderful game, and for a moment I was back in the
Old Ship Inn
, carousing with Burnley Axelrod. I suddenly wished the man were here with me now, so I could put my arm around him and thank him for pointing me in the right direction. This was living, all right.

Cranked up on Axelrod power, all my finer poetic feelings discarded, I beamed beatifically at the food as Elzevir piled it up on my plate. There was such a vast array of pies, roasted beef and vegetables that I could not wait to get stuck in.

‘Is that it then?' I said at last, Elzevir having taken his seat at the harpsichord and cracked his knuckles. ‘Can we start?'

I took the coughs and awkward shuffling for a
yes
, and prepared to set to with relish. A clammy hand on my forearm restrained me.

‘Aren't we forgetting something, Mr Oysterman?' said Mr De Witt.

‘Are we, Mr De Witt?' I sighed, putting my knife down with very heavy emphasis, ‘What, pray?'

‘Don't you know?' he said, removing his hand suddenly, as if remembering that I was a soldier after all, for all appearances to the contrary.

Frowning, I cast my eyes around the table. As far as I could see, he could only be referring to the salt or the pepper. Though having had enough salt to last me a lifetime, I sighed and compromised so far as to sprinkle a grain or two at the side of my plate, comparable in volume to bee dandruff.

‘Thank you for reminding me,' I said acidly, preparing to set to again.

Clara giggled, and I looked up, catching Eloise's eyes in frantic escape from my magnetic presence. They rested eventually on something behind my left shoulder, but I was convinced they had been feasting on me, in thoughtful admiration.

‘I did not mean the salt, Mr Oysterman.'

I smiled and shook my head in pity. These people were condiment mad. I picked up the pepperpot, waggled it slowly and deliberately in front of his stupid face, then sprinkled an equally miniscule amount on top of my salt, resisting the roguish temptation to dash a cloud in his face. I was about to set to again when Mr De Witt had the audacity to touch my arm once more.

‘For God's sake!' I snapped, slamming my knife and fork down on the table. ‘What is it now? There are no condiments left, man!'

‘My dear boy,' he said quietly, with maddening self-righteousness, ‘You have forgotten to pray.'

‘Pray for what!?' I shouted, almost crying with rage and hunger.

‘Why, for this meal.'

‘Didn't Eloise cook it?'

‘Yes, but where do you think the produce came from?'

Produce
, with its overtones of cant and humbug, was a word that made me want to spit.

‘From your farm.'

‘Yes, but who put those goodly seeds there in the first place?'

‘Elzevir, I shouldn't wonder.'

‘And where did Elzevir come from?'

God
, I realized belatedly, was the word he was trying to eke out of me, but be damned if I was going to lose face by saying it now.

‘Africa.'

‘And where did Africa come from?'

‘You tell me.'