Infernal Revolutions (33 page)

‘So, Vanessa, you think you could do all that if the real-life situation arose?'

‘Oh I'll be all right, Captain, don't you worry.'

There was a faint air of boredom about Vanessa's voice, as if she was keen to get back to her dreams of Jonathan Deane.

‘What about the rest of you girls. Could you cope?'

Heads nodded wearily.

‘THEN TRY THIS FOR SIZE!!,' suddenly shouted Sophie, taking a step backwards. There was a strange silence, while all looked at her in puzzlement. ‘THEN LET THE SHOW BEGIN!!' Sophie shouted even louder, tilting her head up in my direction. This, I remembered with a start, was my cue. Grabbing my pistol, I manoeuvred stealthily into a crouching position, then launched myself off the parapet to land flat-footed not an inch away from the unsuspecting Vanessa. As gently as I could given the nature of the exercise, I pointed my unloaded pistol straight between Vanessa's glorious widening eyes, and came out with the lines Sophie had given me: ‘YOUR BODY OR YOUR LIFE, YE DAMNED REBEL WHORE!' Though smiling reassuringly as I loudly declaimed these words, the effect on the Brigade was anything but reassuring. ‘Twas as though a mortar had dropped in their midst, and cut their nerves to shreds. Vanessa passed out first – eyes rolling up, body spiralling languidly to the ground – to be quickly followed by everyone else in the Brigade except Nancy, who clapped and screamed with delight, and Sophie, who sighed with deep despair.

‘Inevitable, I suppose,' said Sophie, as we surveyed the forest of legs sticking up in the air. ‘Hence these.' A pot of smelling salts was produced, and the three of us went round administering to the fallen.

‘Stop looking up their skirts, Harry, there's a good man,' called Sophie, as she cradled Vanessa's lolling head in her arms.

‘I am not, Madam,' I disputed hotly, furious to be accused of voyeurism in front of a stranger. Indeed. I was doubly furious because I had been looking, slyly.

‘Firm and plump their thighs be, ain't they, mister?' called Nancy, who ogled me saucily as I lingered dribbling over Melanie Urquhart's prostrate body. ‘Like mine, see?' Up came her skirt, out came her gartered leg. ‘Twas indeed firm and plump, but ‘twas also cratered with smallpox scars, and I declined the implicit offer to squeeze it.

‘Shy, are we?' said Nancy, unabashed. ‘Pretty.'

So many other comments of a similar nature followed that, for my own protection, I had to abandon my
triage
system and move to the casualties nearer Sophie. Eventually, after much gratuitous face-slapping, consciousness and order were restored amongst the Belles, and I was regarded afresh by faces paler than ever. No-one seemed perturbed that a nasty, even dangerous trick had been played on them, but for my part I felt a tremendous urge to apologize for everything. Indeed I would have done, had not Sophie been busy lauding me to the skies as a Continental Poet, a Continental Bookseller, a Continental Marksman and a Continental Philosopher. Compared to Continental Man, ‘twas implied, Renaissance Man had been a piddling amateur, and I was compared favourably to such European bunglers as Leonardo da Vinci, Michaelangelo, and Galileo. ‘Twas true, Sophie went on with vicarious modesty, that I was not yet in the same league as Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Paine, but I would be one day soon, if British bayonets did not cut me down before my petals had fully opened. Squirming under the weight of the heaped verbiage, I watched horrified as jaws began to drop; it seemed that the girls really thought that they were in the presence of God Almighty. Their susceptibility was appalling, and I was close to storming off in a great huff, but I kept reminding myself that Sophie needed my continued presence there if her girls were to derive any benefit from the day. So, like a true Christian, I endured the prolonged humiliation until it was time for Sophie to put me to a more practical use.

‘Now, my tasty ducks,' announced Sophie, just when I thought the barrel had been scraped of all possible encomiums, ‘Mr Oysterman here, quite apart from having in abundance all of the qualities and talents I have so briefly outlined, is also one of the gamest men in America, quite prepared to sacrifice his dignity for we foot soldiers of the Patriot cause. He has agreed to let us use him,
for this one evening only
, as a human training tool. This enables us to get to grips with an imaginary attacker in the flesh. I know we have practised before on each other, but there is nothing like the feel of hot urgent male flesh pressing down on a girl to get the juices flowing.'

I became aware of an atmosphere change in the barn. Breathing suddenly became raspingly audible.

‘So, one by one, I want you all to come up and be attacked by Mr Oysterman. I want you to remember your training, and I want you to remember that you are Liberty Belles who…what?'

‘RETALIATE LIKE HAMMERS!' they all shouted, vigour renewed by events.

‘Oh, yes indeed we do, my sweet peas. And what's more, Mr Oysterman, like the great man he is, has asked that you do not pull any punches for his benefit.'

Actually, this was true, and I had padded my vulnerable parts accordingly, so that I was looking forward with relish to my fake tussles with these gentle, beautiful, lightweight girls. My only fear was that I should disgrace myself sexually, hence the extra padding in that most vulnerable part of all, the jelly bag.

‘Now, who is to be first?'

Up jumped Nancy, keen as mustard.

‘That's it,' said Sophie sarcastically, ‘don't be reticent. Don't let him think you're a lady.' Then, taking her to one side, she hissed hot private words into Nancy's ear. ‘Charming!' was heard to be Nancy's response, before turning her back on Sophie, and stepping forward to face me, a look of devilment in her eyes.

‘All right, Mr Oysterman,' called Sophie, ‘let her have it good and strong.'

Hotly urgent, or the nearest impression I could give to that condition, I stepped forward with arms outstretched and hands wriggling. Smiling and wiggling my eyebrows – partly to reassure the perfectly composed Nancy, partly to mitigate the embarrassment I was feeling – I advanced with the demand Sophie had fashioned for me.

‘Your body or your life, ye Damned Whore!'

This again shocked some of the Brigade, judging from the gasps that went up, but it did not shock Nancy, who stood her ground with aplomb. Having no alternative but to carry through the charade if I was not to lose all credibility, I grabbed Nancy by the shoulders, shook her gently, then pushed her unresisting body to the floor.

‘You dog!' called out Nancy, as she put her arms round my neck and pulled me into her. ‘You hot, dirty rogue!' If I was not mistaken, Nancy's ample bosom seemed to rise, and squash and wriggle itself against me. ‘Oh God, Oh God, no!'

‘Resist, Damn You!' called Sophie, in a tone of great distress. ‘Resist!'

‘I am resisting, but he is too strong for me!'

‘Try harder!'

With much spurious grunting, Nancy grabbed my hair and pulled my head to one side, so that her mouth was right next to my ear. Then a message was delivered fast, hot and low into it.

‘Come to me tonight in Hazlett's Barn, and I'll make you happier than she can, Big Boy.'

Having imparted this unsolicited information, Nancy proceeded to bash my head on the floor a couple of times, as if to prove to Sophie that she had indeed been trying all along. Then she rolled me off her with a strength she had not hitherto shown. From my supine position I looked up to see Nancy panting and wiping her hands with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Concern for Nancy poured in from all quarters, and I was left to ruminate on the fickleness, lust and treachery of women until the next defender appeared, who just happened to be the divine Melanie Urquhart. Mutually whimpering, but for different reasons, we were soon rolling around the floor in glorious mutual combat, until I was despatched with a ferocious kick in the puddings that quite overwhelmed my soggy defences. Next up leapt Vanessa, and then Dinah, and then the others, and on each occasion I was soundly thrashed. Indeed, I was pummelled, torn and gouged with such ever-increasing violence that I suspected I had tapped a deep well of repressed hatred in the Brigade. Even the hitherto nervous Lucy Weatherall gave me a pasting I shall never forget, perhaps in part due to Sophie's advice to regard me as a giant spider, creeping up on her.

Eventually, all had had their way with me, and I stood before them dishevelled, bruised and bloody, more like an effigy of King George after the Mob had finished with it than the Great White Hope of Continental Man. In contrast, the collective face of the Brigade had a very rosy glow on it, and beamed with the ultimate satisfaction of Fear Overcome. Mercifully, Sophie stepped forward to conclude the session.

‘I'm sure we would all like to thank Mr Oysterman for his help today. We have, I believe, all learned a great deal at his hands. And he, doubtless, has learned a great deal at ours. Not least of which, I'm sure, is that the Liberty Belles are now a force to be reckoned with.'

I groaned agreement, and was politely applauded, though not without, I fancied, an undercurrent of contempt. As the girls filed out, laughing and talking with great animation, I could not decide whether my agreeing to play the stooge was the act of a saint or an idiot. There was no doubting what Dick would have thought, but Sophie took the opposite view.

‘Harry!' she quivered when we were at last alone, ‘I'm so proud of you. You were superb to demean yourself like that for my sake, and ultimately for theirs – though of course they are too stupid to realize what a service you have done for them. Restraint – that's the real mark of a man, the suppression of small pettinesses for the grand vision. Wonderful, wonderful. They have learnt more today than in the whole of the last four months, no doubt about it. They have their confidence now; no man is safe in their hands any more. So, come on, sweetness – you must be dying to reassert your manhood after an experience like that. I'm all yours…if you want me…'

I didn't really, feeling too battered in mind and body to rise to the occasion, but Sophie cajoled me into the mood with sweet words and even sweeter actions. The usual exchange of compliments, endearments and tears followed, and the night ended as it always did, in deep satisfaction of all the senses. Truly, we felt like the King and Queen of Life Itself, so that I suggested facetiously to Sophie that we needed to make our own entry in the
Crimes Diary
, something along the lines of
Harry Oysterman and Sophie B. Mecklenburg – too happy by half
. I felt sure that Sophie, had she not been asleep and snoring deeply, would have agreed.

The trouble was, this heightening of our regard for each other moved us deeper into those regions of intimacy known only to the Gods. This in turn made my terrible secret more conspicuous than ever – as a balloon, when inflated, will show up with greater prominence the tiniest blemish. As any attempt to remove the blemish risked bursting the balloon, I was in a terrible mental turmoil, and my sexual performances began to suffer accordingly. I lacked vigour, not to mention that other requisite for satisfactory lovemaking, a stargazer. Sophie noticed this, as women do, and reassured me most beautifully, with soothing words and hands, that I was the man for her, whatever the state of my winkle. The yawnings, though, and the sad way she sighed as she idly flicked the inoffending article, made me think otherwise. Ready to explode, torn between duty and the loss of the best thing in life, I became an irritable, moody, querulous dog. Nothing went right. My shins banged against hidden pieces of farm equipment; my fishing net became inexplicably and inextricably entangled in weeds and bushes; my soaring Muse came crashing back down to earth, leaving me face to face once more with my own poetic inadequacies. Even the sweet warblings of birds sounded more like the cackle of grotesque prehistoric monsters. The whole world was off-key and off-putting, as dark and as overrated as a painting by Rembrandt. And all this was because three possibilities lay before me, none of which appealed – Reveal All, Abandon Sophie And Run Back To New York Alone, or Continue With The Lie Until I Was Rumbled. Deciding which was the best course of action lay me prostrate in the barn for most of the day; I simply could not make a decision and stick to it. In short, I became a loathsome spineless wreck, and sank into the same Limboland of Indecision that had resulted in my impressment into the army. Only ill things, I knew, could attend such a disordered attitude of mind.

And I was right to dread it, for in the early hours of Wednesday, October 6th – my twenty-fourth night as a prisoner of love, and some two hours after Sophie had left in a huff after another evening of moodiness – my night thoughts were disturbed by the excessive barking of dogs, which seemed to be getting ever closer. Crawling on hands and knees to my favourite hole in the wall, I saw through my spyglass several pinpoints of light, all flitting in imitation of those remarkable creatures, fireflies. Though I had seen lanterns passing in the distance before, I had never seen so many as these all in one go, and this time, instead of passing, I could clearly see them getting larger and more numerous. Before long, dark shapes began to form around the lights, and these shapes eventually clarified themselves into the outlines of dogs and hunters – hunters, moreover, with blunderbusses lolling in the crooks of their arms.

At the very best, this was a foraging party; at the very worst, a hanging party. I began to panic, especially as I had been somewhat neglectful of my precautionary regimen, and had allowed such essential items of escape as clothes, saddle, horse and pistol to lie scattered in distant corners of the farm. Cursing my stupidity, I scurried to the north side of the barn to take a peek at the terrain, just to convince myself that the notion of running away naked was ridiculous. It was, for coming at me, in mirror image, were the same number of lanterns as from the south. Eastern and western views were equally discouraging, for the same reasons. Having no alternative but to brazen it out, I dressed in what clothes I could find, hid away incriminating evidence, and walked straight towards the mysterious posse with all the self-possession of a Roman bishop. While the mad howling of the dogs was being silenced, however, much of my confidence drained away, for I now saw that the men were either hooded, or had the lower parts of their faces swathed in scarves, giving them a most threatening appearance. Sorely affrighted, my knees fighting a terrible temptation to knock, I nevertheless got in first with a perky ‘Aye, Gentlemen? Can I be of service to you?'

‘You can if your name is Harry Oysterman,' answered one brusquely.

‘Well? Is it?' demanded another, as I dithered in answering.

‘Aye, it is,' I gambled. ‘Harry Oysterman, bookseller of New York and Philadelphia. Here is my card.'

‘Keep your card, Mr Oysterman. We will not be buying any books from you.'

‘Then what is your purpose in coming here at this time of night?'

‘To hang you, while nobody is looking.'

This was a fearful remark, yet to my immense surprise I did not fall to the floor blubbering. Instead, I listened to my voice in gratitude as it calmly conversed on, words just words to it.

‘Come, come, gentlemen, do I look black? Why hang me for no reason?'

‘You call spying for King George no reason?'

The accuser removed his hood, and there before me stood Verne Placquet, looking even more weaselly in close-up. My voice turned hot and angry in excess of the facts.

‘Why, you damned Scoundrel, I shall knock your block off for that accusation!'

There was a moment's delay while my brain registered what my voice had said, after which I had no choice but to step forward and hit out at the rascal.

‘Protect me, Major, protect me!' squealed Verne, as the rogue's wig came off in my hand. ‘He is maddened, and more dangerous than he looks.'

‘Aye, he is,' said a figure whose voice I vaguely recognized, coming forward to stop the womanly brawling. ‘With a musket anyway.'

The speaker proceeded, with some difficulty, to remove his hood singlehandedly. As I watched in trepidation for the complete picture to emerge, Verne continued to flap at me over the major's shoulder.

‘Why, ‘tis Major Thunders!' I exclaimed.

‘Indeed it is, Sir,' said the man himself, sweeping his disordered hair into some sort of shape. ‘Boys, come forward! It is the same Mr Oysterman after all.'

My courtier's hand roll was reproduced with such accuracy that there were several cheers of affection. Some – Terence Deeps, Half-Cock Henderson, and Destiny Looms amongst others – stepped forward to shake hands with me, and enquire after my health. I was damnably relieved, and my voice, now that the danger was over, began to pipe and squeak with delayed emotion. I flapped my hand against my cheek and blew heavily, in standard stage cipher of relief.

‘Close shave,' I panted. ‘But why the need to scare me so? Practice night for the Militia?'

Before Major Thunders could reply, we were rudely interrupted by Verne Placquet, whose ugly face had undergone a remarkable transformation since I had last looked at it. It had become even uglier, and bore a comical look of utter incredulity.

‘Don't just stand there chatting, man! Arrest him, damn ye!'

‘We need proof before we can arrest a man,' said Major Thunders, with the even manner of one under no threat.

‘Look in the barn then! Ye'll find proof enough there!'

‘We know this man,' said Half-Cock Henderson. ‘He's too good to be a spy.'

‘He did tell you that lie about General Washington drinking eggnogs though, Captain,' piped up a well-concealed critic in a giveaway squeaky voice.

‘Forgivable,' said Major Thunders. ‘High spirits. General Washington himself found it amusing, and suggested we take no further action on the matter.'

A little thrill went through me to know that my name was being bandied about in high places, and I smiled in triumph at Verne, who in return threw me, and then the Militia members individually, looks of utter contempt and hatred. Then he threw up his hands, muttered unintelligible curses, and barged past us on his way to the barn.

‘I'll find you proof, you Damned Fools, by God I will! Out of my way!'

This development was worrying, and my nerves started jangling again.

‘Let him have his little pique out, Harry. Then we will get off home. We know all about Mr Summer Patriot Placquet, and the real reason for this storm in a teacup, but if a citizen of America reports a British spy or a Tory in his barn, then we have to investigate, for the sake of committee records.'

‘The real reason?'

‘Your, er, association – if that is the right word – with Miss Mecklenburg.'

‘He knows about that? You know about that?'

‘There have been rumours for a while about a hidden man in Sophie's barn, but until word of them reached Mr Placquet's ears, no-one saw fit to lodge an official complaint. How he acquired your name I do not know, but no doubt he will tell us when his passion has cooled, for though he does not care about Sophie, he does care about his reputation as a ladies' man, hence the fabrication of this witch-hunt to avenge his injured vanity. Personally, I am glad to see someone take Sophie off him after the way he has treated her over the years. She's a game little girl, and a good Patriot. I need not ask whether your intentions towards her are honourable?'

‘You need not, Sir.'

‘Good man. Now, Sir, while we wait for the inevitable conclusion, how about a swig of liquor to keep out the night chills?'

I glugged gratefully from the proffered flask, terribly afeared that the spurned Verne would turn up something to besmirch my spotless reputation. I hoped I had used sufficient guile in the concealment of incriminating papers, but the horribly determined look on Verne's face as he entered the barn did not inspire optimism on this point. I had reckoned on a lax Militia hunt and the odd prod in the hay with a bayonet, not a personal vendetta. Clearly, if I wanted to escape hanging, ‘twas time to get blustering.

‘Look, Shrimpton,' I laughed, slapping Major Thunders heartily on the back, hoping my voice would take the strain again, ‘I'm damnably sorry to have been the cause of all this trouble, especially at this time of night. But now that I know the real reason, why don't you let your boys get back to their beds? There's no point waiting for Verne, he'll be in there all night. You know what cuckolds are like; they can never get enough evidence of infidelity. Leave us to have it out man-to-man.'

Major Thunders rubbed his chin, seemingly pondering the reaction of the Committee of Safety to this irregular but tempting course of action. He glanced alternately at his pocket watch, the barn and his yawning men.

‘Well…'tis certainly a possibility…'

Liking the sight and sound of Major Thunders' response, I began to plan for life after the Militia's departure. In my imagination I could see it all clearly: I would assault Verne, tie him up, retrieve Sophie and my horse from wherever they were, and then ride like the wind back to Hoboken or Paulus Hook. ‘Twas all so simple, and I was just starting to shepherd Major Thunders away, when a whoop of delight rent the night air. Major Thunders stopped, turned, and gave me a look of disappointment that I shall never forget. Shortly afterwards came another whoop. Then another. Then Verne emerged at the barn door, triumphant, waving a thick wad of papers in his right hand, and making throat-slitting gestures with his left. Instinctively I turned to run, but though my legs pistoned furiously, my body made no progress whatsoever, clamped as it was in the horny hands of Terence Deeps and Half-Cock Henderson.

‘Oh dear,' said Major Thunders, in a tone of appalling disillusionment, as though I had just convinced him that God did not exist, ‘What have we found?'

The question was rhetorical, but Verne was only too happy to share the details of his discovery with all and sundry. First – and I was getting heartily sick of this – he ridiculed my poetry, reading aloud a section of my
Night Thoughts
in a voice of great derision. When, satisfyingly, not one of the Militia found it amusing, he moved on to surer ground.

‘Now who could these be to?' he sneered sarcastically, before reading out a couple of my love odes to Sophie. Admittedly they did sound puerile out of context, but still the Militia were not induced to laugh, although there were several shuffles and coughs of embarrassment.

‘Why did you start to run, Mr Oysterman?' said Major Thunders, before assuming easily the mantle of literary critic. ‘These are bad poems without a doubt, but they are hardly hanging offences.'

I stared intently at Verne; could it be that he had found only my poems? He stared back at me, and for several moments we were like two brag players locked in battle. I began to twitch. Then, slowly, with relish, as if turning up the winning jack, Verne spoke.

‘No, but these papers are.'

And there they were, held aloft for all to see and shocking in their nakedness – the unintelligible papers, even to me, of a right couple of rogues.

‘Coded, Sir?' called Major Thunders, who knew what unintelligible papers meant.

‘Coded,' confirmed Verne. ‘The work of a spy.'

‘There is nothing on this earth more despicable than a spy,' opined Destiny Looms, perking up now that someone else had a bigger burden than him. ‘Someone who deceives his fellow-man is good for nothing except the gaol, the gibbet and the dunghill.'

There were further outbreaks of righteous anger amongst the Militia, interspersed with exclamations of surprise that they had caught someone at last.

Heavily, wearily sighing, Major Thunders spoke:

‘Say goodbye, Mr Oysterman, to the hospitality of the American people, and start putting your worldly house in order. The game is up for you, my boy, and the long night looms.'

This unnecessarily poetic turn of phrase quite undid me, and I started to weep shamefully, much to the glee of the others.

‘Serves you right, you Dog!' said the squeaky-voiced Ganymede, flapping a glove at me, ‘How dare you take us Americans for a bunch of monkeys!'

‘Let's torture him to find out where his friend is!' cried Half-Cock Henderson.

‘No need for that,' said Major Thunders, ‘the Court of Enquiry in Hackensack will take care of him now.'

‘Then there are no such things as erotic books?' I heard Saul Pipe say, as I was led away to the farmhouse.

‘No, Saul,' said Terence Deeps, ‘everything he said was a pack of lies. So you can go back to treating your wife how you used to.'