Infernal Revolutions (40 page)

This would have been impressive, had Pete's voice not broken at
Hessians
, but the message was conveyed in essence, for Thomas cringed with the aplomb of a family man whose lifetime had been spent in servitude. That the two loitering men were Americans seemed likely by the way they visibly winced at the sight of a grown man abasing himself to anyone, let alone a mere youngster; but as being American in New York was not yet prohibited, I left them to it and went on my troubled way to the Taylor Woodbine Spying Academy a few houses further down the street. As I did so, my eyes darted morbidly amongst the crowds for sightings of either Sophie or Burnley – or, God forbid, both of them together.

Seeing neither, I found the leading if not the only light of the aforementioned establishment engaged upon the training of two more poor boobies, who looked to my unhappy veteran's eye like a couple of lambs to the slaughter. Clearly of inferior mettle to earlier recruits, they were puzzling over their Dolly Potter codebook when Mr Woodbine spied me.

‘Gentlemen!' he yawped. ‘I give you…a Master of the Art under discussion!'

A distinct look of
What, that?
crossed the faces of the two dogs, before Mr Woodbine reminded them of the first rule of spying – Do Not Be Deceived By Appearances. The most unlikely-looking people, he went on, made the best spies, seducers, murderers, etc, simply because they did not conform to the popular image of such rogues, and were thus able to slip under people's defences unnoticed. However, he added, never underestimate the most likely-looking people either, because these were responding to the iron laws of phrenology, and fulfilling the role for which nature had prepared them. With folded arms and an attentive expression – either a tribute to or a condemnation of my upbringing – I stood there and waited for the blathering fool to finish his summation, until even I could stand no more, and interrupted him with the most searing question I could think of.

‘Are you not surprised that I have returned?'

‘I am surprised that you have returned so soon. None of the others I sent out before you have returned yet.'

‘And you know why that is, do ye not?'

‘No.'

‘A word in private then, please, Mr Woodbine.'

The two apprentices were dismissed, and I sat in their place to deliver yet again an account of my adventures in the Hackensack Valley. Taking notes as he drank wine – rather than the other way round – Mr Woodbine appeared to use his skill as a flatulist to pass commentary on my narrative, a technique that was at once both noisy and noisome.

‘So you see,' I concluded, waving the rotting stench away from my nostrils, ‘I have uncovered an American counter-spy network, into whose cavernous maw we have been feeding the lives of some of our bravest men.'

‘A shocker,' agreed Mr Woodbine, ‘I shall order the extermination of the De Witt's immediately.'

‘You mean you didn't know of it?'

‘Certainly not. I am disgusted, revolted, sickened, nauseated and appalled.'

He looked at me as if to say
will that do?
, then belched. Compassion was not his strong point.

‘Then why did General Mercer know you by name, and think you were on his side?'

‘It is called deception, my dear boy,' replied Mr Woodbine, unperturbed, ‘I feed him false information; he swallows it like a gannet. He takes me into his confidence, and lets slip astounding secrets in return.'

‘Such as the fact that Paulus Hook was a Rebel stronghold?'

‘That was hardly astounding, Mr Oysterman. Nor even a secret. Everyone knew.'

‘Dick and I didn't.'

‘Then you were the only ones, Sir.'

He gave me a smarmy, patronising leer which quite infuriated me.

‘You could have prepared us better. Had it not been for our native ability to prevaricate we could have been hung instantly.'

‘I cannot prepare spies for every eventuality, Sir. Sooner or later, preferably sooner, all spies need to develop the art of thinking quickly for themselves. You were lucky, having the opportunity to practise that art immediately. After such a baptism of fire no doubt the whole subsequent anabasis was easy in comparison.'

I didn't know what an anabasis was, but I was not going to give Mr Woodbine the satisfaction of telling me. Making a mental note to look it up later, I returned to my main theme.

‘You are not an American spy then, Mr Woodbine?'

‘Do I look like one?'

‘Looks have nothing to do with it, as you have just told us.'

‘Or then again, perhaps they do, as I have also just told you.'

‘The two views cancel each other out, of course. So we are back where we started. I repeat. Are you an American spy, Sir?'

There was a short lock of eyes, then he lifted his glass and studied his wine appreciatively, a warm glow on his face.

‘Now, by rights, I should have you flogged for asking such a question of a superior officer, but as this wine is damned good, and I'm feeling rather mellow, I will simply say that I am as English as roast beef and mustard, and I would do nothing to harm the noble name of Britannia. If you do not believe me, then you must report me to Lord Howe. But bear in mind that one of us, not necessarily me, will have to face the consequences.'

This was gambling of the highest order, but something about the slippery dog made me think he was telling the truth. Perhaps it was the way in which the words were spoken, or the manner in which he now swigged his wine with guiltless satisfaction, or perhaps even the way he slipped out a wet one whilst talking. Whatever it was – and the threat of being flogged for insubordination may even have had some slight effect – I felt no desire to press the charge further. Although made aware that I ought to proceed with more circumspection, I could see nothing wrong with asking for a discharge from spying duties.

‘So you agree that the information I have brought back is valuable to you?'

‘I do indeed, Mr Oysterman. Indeed I do.'

‘How valuable exactly?'

‘Very valuable,' he slurred. ‘Very, very, very valuable.'

‘Could you confirm that in writing?'

‘Oh no – never put anything in writing, Mr Oysterman. First Rule Of Spying, that. What if, for example,
you
are now a double agent? I sign letter. You pass it on to, say, Thomas Jefferson. A bit of trickery with the paper and the next thing you know there is a letter in the press signed by Herod Woodbine authorizing the annihilation of all American children. Or American women. Or American trees. Or any such damned thing.'

Fancying that Mr Woodbine was overrating his importance in the world, I could not help but scoff.

‘A double agent, I? Come, come, Mr Woodbine – being a single agent was more than I could cope with.'

‘You have an American strumpet in tow, you tell me,' said Mr Woodbine, suddenly sly and alert. ‘Therefore your loyalties are now split. The secrets of the pillow.'

‘Oh, Sophie can be trusted,' I said, realizing I was tempting fate even as I said it. ‘She's on our side now.'

Predictably, Mr Woodbine roared with laughter, his sphincter sending off firecrackers.

‘Of course she cannot be trusted, my boy! No woman can. Sexually, she's probably cuckolding you this very minute; politically, she's probably in the employ of some New Jersey Militia Company, spying all over you.'

‘The Militia are not that clever, I can assure you,' I said glumly, ‘however right you may be on the first supposition.'

‘People are clever and devious when they have to be,' said Mr Woodbine sententiously. ‘Never underestimate the dogs.'

The perpetual cynicism was wearing me down, making me feel shop-soiled in body and spirit. I had to get away.

‘So you cannot provide me with the evidence I require?'

‘Not in writing.'

‘Do you know a British dragoon by the name of Burnley Axelrod?'

‘No.'

‘Could you find a British dragoon by the name of Burnley Axelrod, and tell him by word of mouth that the information I have provided to you is valuable to the British cause?'

‘Probably not.'

I looked daggers at him for several tense seconds.

‘Then I will be on my way.'

‘Certainly, certainly. Send the boys back in on your way out.'

‘What about my battalion clothes?'

‘They have been returned to little Lord What's-His-Name.'

‘Wriggle.'

Mr Woodbine laughed.

‘That's him. Teeny weeny little fellow, he is.' He squinted smiling into the little gap he had created between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. ‘However did he get into the army, I wonder? Ever so tiny. Miniature little boy. He could live in a quart mug. Go to Heaven, though, he will. Eye of a needle, and all that.'

Leaving the pathetic sot to his ramblings I made for the door, disgusted that the lives of men were in the hands of this fool, and retrospectively queasy at the thought of having endured hell on his behalf. Perhaps I would risk writing to General Howe after all.

‘Oh, Mr Oysterman.'

I turned back with a sigh, bracing myself for the wounding Parthian shot.

‘Yes, Mr Woodbine?'

Leaning back in his chair, his eyes glittering at me above a snout almost doglike, he looked for all the world like an animated gargoyle.

‘A noise annoys an oyster, but a noisy noise annoys an oyster more.'

I had not heard this for many years, and I was duly surprised by its reappearance now. I wondered what was coming next.

‘I nearly pulled a
mussel
the first time I heard that.'

‘Did you really?' I said coldly, realizing my name was under bombardment, and not liking it when administered by this buffoon. ‘Well at least you are in no danger of pulling a muscle today by escorting me to the door.' I bowed stiffly and walked away again.

‘And if you and your American filly were to have a baby, do you know what he'd be?'

I had nearly escaped into the street when the answer
boysterous
came bounding after me, followed by loud laughter and exaggerated table-slapping. Such childish wordplay was perhaps to be expected in one who dealt with codes and the more arcane branches of espionage, but having had my suit rejected I was in no mood for levity. In fact, I was much like the aforementioned oyster, annoyed at Mr Woodbine's noise. Out in the street, I took a few moments to think about my next course of action, then set off indecisively in the direction of King George Street, the last known lodging place of Mr Axelrod. Trying to build up my reserves of bravery as I walked, I had almost reached my destination when a detachment of dragoons emerged from nowhere and suddenly raced down the middle of the street, parting all pedestrians before them in two screaming waves of terrified humanity. Fear seizing me at the sight of the huge roaring monsters, I instantly realized the vanity of the notion that I could go unaided to Mr Axelrod's. My painfully acquired bravery demolished at a stroke, my ear throbbing where a frantically retreating elbow had smashed into it, I veered off quickly in the direction of the tavern that Sophie had mentioned, there to seek candlelit oblivion from the gathering gloom of the day.

Once in the tavern, the
Powder Keg
on Broadway Street, I needed something stronger than eggnogs, so I called for a glass and a bottle of fortified wine, and had them delivered to me at a small corner table which looked especially reserved for the troubled and the lonely. At first I pretended to admire the interior decorations of the tavern – the pots and pans hanging from the wall, the row of miniature barrels on the low crossbeams, the roaring fire with its accompanying bellows and kettles – but soon I ceased to care whether I was being stared at and simply attacked the ruby liquor like any old drunk. The first glass halted my metamorphosis to jelly, the second loosened the knot in my stomach, the third sent up pleasing visions of Axelrodian wilting in the face of Oystermanian aggression.

But instead of acting immediately upon the artificial fire in my belly, I delayed long enough for it to mellow into a warm, contented ember that spread goodwill through every vein in my body. Caressed, in addition, by the heat of the real fire without, I was soon yawning prodigiously, barely able to muster the energy to confront a feeble wasp crawling up my chair leg, let alone a dragoon. Done for as a viable confrontational force, I tried manfully to fight against gravity, but it was no use. Feeling as though I could sleep until Doomsday, I eventually cleared away a headshaped space on the table in front of me, laid my head on it, and capitulated.

I was awakened, I knew not how long after, by the most dreadful stentorian booming of my name, like a rollcall in Hell. For one terrible moment I thought ‘twas Burnley come to get me, and I was about to hurl myself through the window and make my escape, when my ear detected in the voice the faintest of Devon twangs. Defenestration delayed if not averted, I looked up at the Stentor now looming over me, and squinted through the acrid pipesmoke for visual confirmation of suspected identity.

‘The last living thing that looked at me like that was a spaniel that I caught with my lamb chop in its mouth. If you don't change your expression quickly, Oysterman, I shall associate you forever with the same cringing fear.'

Piqued at the remarks yet pleased to see the speaker, I stood up and offered my hand to Isaac Tetley, who crushed it accordingly.

‘Back in one piece then?' he roared. ‘You do surprise me.'

‘Hidden talents, Mr Tetley. Though how much longer I shall remain in one piece is another matter.'

‘Why? Don't tell me you have Rebels on your tail.'

‘Well, not exactly. But before I explain pull up a chair and tell me what you have been up to. Waiter! Another bottle and another glass!'

Isaac looked around but could not find a spare chair, so he pulled a stool from under a rough-looking villain at the next table and sat down on it, oblivious to the cries of outrage and threats to murder him. I watched with a feeling of trepidation as the upended rogue proceeded to pull away a chair from a weaker fellow elsewhere in the tavern. Eventually, it seemed logical to assume, the weakest person in the tavern, perhaps me, would be left standing.

‘Well, Oysterman, there is not much to tell. I cruise up and down the coast of Connecticut and Massachusetts, bombarding the odd village and destroying the odd church, but it is not like fighting the French. When on shore I travel up to Albany, and do some trading with the Indians there. I give them food, rum, pieces of clothing, powder and shot; in return, they give me furs, which I am collecting to fund my retirement in Scotland. Some, of course, I wear now…'

He raised his eyes skyward to indicate his beaverskin hat, a pretty piece of millinery I had been admiring for a while.

‘The rest of the time I spend drinking and fighting, because frankly, Oysterman, there is nothing else to do. I am bored with this war – neither my heart nor my mind is in it, and the sooner it finishes the better as far as I am concerned. Which is why I am more interested in your story. You have someone not exactly a Rebel on your tail, you said. Explain.'

‘I fancy I am being hunted by one of our own Hellhounds; namely, the dragoon we talked about last time, Burnley Axelrod.'

A spark of interest glinted in Isaac's eyes as he threw back his glass and poured himself another drink.

‘Fancy, Oysterman, or know?'

‘Fancy verging on the Know.'

‘Spit it out then. Every last drop.'

Even now I wondered whether I should reveal all, but spit it out I did, every last drop as requested. Isaac watched me coolly as he quaffed his wine, and displayed no surprise at anything; no, not even my close shave with Death, or my ability to capture the heart of a Rebel girl, and though I was vaguely angling for help of some sort, the response when it came was shattering in its simplicity.

‘Right,' he said, taking a final swig and slamming the empty glass down on the table. ‘Wait here. I shall return in two hours with the matter settled once and for all.' ‘Wait! What are you going to do?'

‘I am going to accost this Burnley Axelrod, and shake the truth out of him.'

‘But…he is a dragoon!'

‘Were he a dragon, Mr Oysterman, he would not frighten me. Anyway, in my experience dragoons are no more than glorified milksops, wallowing in the power their family's money has given them. Had you seen them, as I have, collectively vomiting over the poop deck rail, crying for their mothers in the mildest of westerlies, you would not hold them in such awe.'

This was indeed a startling piece of imagery considering the fear the rascals had always induced in me. Emboldened, as one who had survived an Atlantic Crossing without once crying for his mother, I too finished off my glass. Then I wiped my mouth meanly with the cuff of my sleeve, in the manner of a fierce pugilist, and made a determined effort to leave the table.

‘And where do you think you are going?' said Isaac, holding me down with one powerful hand on my shoulder. ‘I told you to wait here.'

‘'Tis for me to confront Mr Axelrod, not you. I cannot allow others to do my dirty work.'

‘A neutral third party is just what is needed in this situation.'

I pondered.

‘At least let me come with you then.'

‘No, your presence will only be a hindrance, calling for more diplomacy than I am willing to bring to talks with a dragoon. I will go alone. Play cards with these dogs if you wish to kill time until my return.'

And with that typically domineering instruction he was gone, leaving me to deal with a situation potentially more dangerous than the one he was bent on exacerbating, bearing in mind the upended card player's frequent scowls in my direction, and the group's refusal to let me join them. Relieved, not in the mood for cards anyway, I nevertheless managed to sooth them with a few well-oiled gestures and words of reconciliation, not to mention two conciliatory bottles of port. For my own part, I ordered a dish of coffee and a fresh pipe, and settled down to my anxious wait.

My cogitations had not progressed far along the usual roads of Regret, Fear and Loneliness, when another voice called me, bearing out the truth of the Chinese observation that if a person could only stay in one place long enough, then all the world would eventually turn up at his door. And sure enough, this was All My World coming to me now, for ‘twas Sophie, looking radiant.

‘Put that pipe out, sweetie. ‘Tis your lover come to see you.'

This remark raised a few eyebrows at the surrounding tables, not least because it issued from a woman missing the usual accoutrements of a tavern whore. Eyebrows were lowered again, however, when Sophie jumped straight into my lap, put her tongue down my ear, and tickled me under the chin in a very saucy manner.

‘Well,' she breathed hotly, with a note of trepidation in her voice, ‘are we on the next ship to England or not?'

‘No,' I said, to her evident pleasure. ‘Not yet anyway.'

‘Oh Harry, I am so relieved. I do not want to go to England yet.'

‘Why are you so relieved? Have you found yourself another lover?'

I did not want to put ideas into her head, but as Taylor Woodbine's cynical laugh was still fresh in my mind I could not help but blurt this out.

‘Why do you say that, sweetie?'

‘Because you are obviously bursting with happiness over something that has happened since we parted not two hours ago.'

‘I am, ‘tis true – but ‘tis not another man that is the cause, you jealous boy.'

‘No?'

‘No, of course not.'

‘Then what is?'

‘I have discovered how easy it is to get married in New York.'

This caught me entirely by surprise, and I could only mumble something about how easy it was to die there too, a sour remark which Sophie thankfully chose to ignore. I was beginning to sense that all my preconceived plans were destined to end up in the ditch as soon as Real Life came swaggering along.

‘Aye,' she went on, bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘I have been talking to the wives that congregate around Battery Park of an evening. Some of them have been married eight or nine times in as many weeks.'

‘But I do not want to be married eight or nine times. Even to you. I just want to get married once. Forever.'

‘Aye, me too – I was merely illustrating how easy it is. All you have to do is contact your regimental parson and he does the business, no questions asked. There are no banns, no frowning authorities, no disapproving elders. ‘Tis all a wonderful lark.'

I had vaguely imagined my wedding, if it ever came, to be a cool, elegant affair at St Nicholas' in Brighthelmstone, not a hot, hurried and larkish one in the fleshpots of sleazy New York; but the more I thought about the idea the more I liked it. It would certainly be cheap, and the happy glow in Sophe's eyes made even my spirits lift. But not wishing to be an easy touch in the marriage market, I threw myself into the role of Devil's Advocate with great verve.

‘So are you proposing marriage to me, Madam?'

‘Indeed I am, Sir.'

‘And if I accept –
if
, I say – are you prepared, following the hellish battle at Fort Washington, to spend your honeymoon tending my grave?'

‘All unions are temporary, sweetie. Even the longest marriage is still a temporary affair, given the Dominion of Death and Eternity. Cowering away from it will not do any good.'

‘Then what if I am blinded, or horribly mutilated by grapeshot, or have my manhood blown away. Will you still care for me then?'

‘Ah well, I might have to go elsewhere to satisfy my sexual needs then; though of course I will still tend to you the rest of the time.'

‘Aye, I thought as much.'

‘But on the other hand, what if, assuming you survive long enough to give me a baby, my womb drops out in the very dangerous act of childbirth, and sexual congress is no longer possible – will you not be off in a flash?'

Before I had chance to say no, I would not, Sophie chipped in again.

‘So you see, Harry, we can all play the What If? game. But instead of fearing the worst all the time, why not look on the bright side, which is equally possible? What if, for example, an end to the war is declared tomorrow, and we become free to start our life together wherever we choose? What if everything turns out beautifully? What then?'

‘Then that would be the end of me as a serious poet.'

‘Nonsense. You will pick up more original material out here, where new life is, than the greatest poet could in shopsoiled London.'

‘But I
am
the greatest poet, can't you see that?' I cried out, in great distress at being so underrated.

‘Yes, of course you are, sweetie. I know that. Those poems you courted me with were absolutely divine.'

‘Pah! Those were nothing,' I sneered, before adding quickly, ‘technically, I mean', when I realized the snobbish insensitivity of the remark. It did not matter though; Sophie was too busy cueing off in a game of pocket billiards to notice.

Quivering with pleasure and happy that all the objections I could think of had been overcome, I prepared my acceptance of Sophie's offer. First, however, for better recall on my deathbed, I impregnated all the sights, sounds and smells of the magical moment in my brain. The smoky interior, the cardplaying drinkers seen through a haze, the roar of conversation, the smell of mutton fat and tallow candles – all would remind me of the most romantic day of my life. And Sophie was right, there was a sense of being slap-bang in the middle of Life here, and I felt it with an intensity that I had never experienced before. Feeling a very lucky man in one sense, and a very doomed one in another, I pulled my ear off Sophie's tongue, looked deep into her lovely eyes, and uttered the fateful words:

‘I accept your proposal of marriage, Madam. And I declare my undying love. As long as we are together, that is all that matters.'

‘Whooo, sweetie!' was Sophie's response to this. Then she threw her arms around me and kissed me. Just by the thrilled look that swept over her face I knew I had done the right thing; if nothing else, for perhaps the first time in my life I had made another person deliriously happy. The smiles did not last long, however – Sophie's face soon crumpled, and tears began to flow.

‘Sophie – what is it?'

‘I never thought anybody would want me, Harry. What with my leg and everything. But you want me, don't you, you sweet man?'

This in turn set me off, and soon we were the dampest, happiest couple in America, a condition not to everyone's taste, judging by the remarks around us.

‘There's something odd about him,' said one. ‘Knew it as soon as he came in. First that tar comes to talk to him, and goes off in a hurry, then she arrives, and now look at ‘em. I've a good mind to ask him what his business is.'

Elated far beyond my normal limits of reticence, I stood up and addressed the speaker of this last remark, as well as anyone else who cared to listen.

‘My business, Sir, is Love,' I declared, with a wave of my bottle in the air, and cheeks still wet with tears. ‘I have agreed to become this young lady's husband. And tomorrow this young lady becomes my wife.'