Infernal Revolutions (43 page)

‘More books, Parson.'

The young face creased with spiritual pain, as Morality and Cupidity locked horns once more within his breast. There was no real doubt as to the outcome.

‘Cannot you wait until after the war?' he asked in a voice that wavered like a cat on a tightrope. ‘See if you like the girl or not.'

‘I like her. I like her a lot. And in these uncertain times one cannot afford to linger, as these books surely point out.' I picked one up at random and squinted at the title:
Teleology Or Chaos? Internecine Religious Strife in the Outlying Villages Of South-Eastern Connecticut, 1610-1683
. Not germane to my cause after all, I put it back quickly and returned to my theme. ‘Look, Parson, Death is more imminent for me than it is for you – though of course neither of us have long in the wider scheme of things, as a man of your calling knows only too well.'

‘Yes, but is the brevity of life any excuse for foolishness? For acts that jeopardize the integrity of your Eternal Soul?'

‘I don't know about my Eternal Soul – and nor do you, with respect – but there is nothing foolish about marrying the woman you love, surely?'

‘Oh, you love her, do you?' said the Parson in surprise, perhaps spotting an escape clause. ‘That's different, then. I just assumed you were doing it for a lark, as the others do. They use the service merely as an appetizer for the main meal of the day, viz.
sexual nourishment
in the fields afterwards.'

‘No, not I,' I stammered, trying not to blush, ‘I am deadly serious, Parson, I promise.'

‘And is she a good Christian girl?'

‘Yes, of course she is,' I rattled off quickly, to hide my doubts.

There was a pause, in which I could almost hear the gurgle of convictions draining away. He came back to life with a lighter tone in his voice, as though the bleeding had done him good.

‘Then you will want my longest service, perhaps the one I prepared for Alexander Webster, the fourth greatest landowner in the colony of New York. I have it here somewhere.'

‘Oh no, no,' I objected, my heart leaping. ‘Just the truncated one will do. We are not that important, and I do not want to hold anybody up. Besides, this is all the cash I have at the moment, and I presume more minutes mean more pennies?'

‘Alas, yes,' said the parson, making a handwringing gesture of pure humbug. ‘Though I could let you have a discount rate if you can recommend me to anyone of importance.'

‘I'm a sixpence-a-day man, as you know, Parson. Holy as the day is, I cannot afford anything more than the basic ceremony.'

‘Fair enough, Mr Oysterman. Whatever you wish.' The Parson beamed and rubbed his hands together, much happier now that his scruples had been thrown out of the window. ‘Now, where is the blushing bride?'

‘Buying a wedding dress. We have arranged to meet here at one o'clock. Can you marry us then?'

‘Well, that is my dinner hour – but, yes, very well. I will be waiting for you just after one. If for any reason I am not there, just ask for Parson Larsen.'

Delighted with the name and the deal, I settled the bill, shook his hand and strode out into the tiny churchyard. The world had righted itself again, thanks to my fortunate discovery of Parson Larsen, and I felt like jumping over the gravestones in joy. Parading up and down with my hands behind my back, the dead below me groaning in envy, I radiated goodwill to passers-by on the street before sitting down on a bench for a calming ponder. As expected, fleeting fears of Burnley Axelrod kept shooting unbidden through my mind, but I stopped them from taking hold, not with equally negative thoughts of battle, as advocated by Sophie, but with positive thoughts of my own wedding day. This was, after all, one of the holy days of a man's life, up there with his birth and his death, and I was not going to let Captain Fear intrude upon its majesty. Feeling warm and sacred, I tucked into my thoughts as if they were a luscious Christmas dinner. Even the bad memories, which had so tormented me in Hackensack gaol, were now no more than undercooked brussel sprouts, insignificant compared to the gorgeousness of the meal as a whole, and easily pushed aside. Serene beyond belief, I leaned back and watched the drifting white clouds above me, the better to contemplate my place in the universe, and as I did so a line from Spenser's
Epithalamion
insinuated itself into my consciousness:
Let this day, let this one day, be mine
. The words were so appropriate, and so soothing, that I kept on repeating them like an incantation, until the first couples started to arrive for their services.

Eyeing them keenly, I was fairly sure that they had not read Spencer, or spent much time contemplating their place in the universe. Nearly all applicants were drunk and foul-mouthed, and most looked like case studies in scrofula or smallpox. The women giggled and the men roared, and I began to feel sorry for Parson Larsen, despite the money he was making. The couples were civil to me though, and I responded in kind by helping them up when they toppled into the bushes on one side of the path, or fell into a badly-placed open grave on the other. As one o'clock approached, however, my mood barometer began to shift to Chronic Fretfulness. I stepped out onto the main thoroughfare and nervously paced up and down, scanning the street corners for signs of my bride. Would Sophie turn up, or had she already run off with someone she had met in Canvas Town? Was that why she had been so strangely confident and happy when we last parted? I began to feel sick with anxiety, and the former serenity of my mind was completely shattered.

‘Here I am, sweetie,' called a voice behind me. ‘Did you think I'd stood you up?'

From around the corner of the church itself appeared a little vision in white, unrecognizable as the leader of a terrorist brigade. Gone, somewhere, was her previous costume, and she stood before me in a white gown and a preposterous blonde wig, on top of which perched a tiny flower-strewn hat. A beauty spot had sprouted on her cheek, and on her arm she carried a wicker basket draped with a white cloth, out of which peeped, like a couple of miniature cannon, the necks of two wine bottles. Had I not known her, I would have taken her for a Covent Garden whore, so much so that I wondered whether she had dressed in this manner in readiness for the first sexual fantasy bout of our married life together.

‘Well?' said Sophie, twirling around. ‘Do you like it?'

‘I like it very well,' I slavered, a curious hotchpotch of relief and lust. ‘Where did you get it?'

‘Kiss me first, then I will tell you.'

I did as I was bidden, putting as much holiness into the act of osculation as my raging gonads would allow.

‘From the girls in Battery Park,' said Sophie, looking at me in puzzlement. ‘At least twenty-first hand, this outfit, I imagine. But it serves the purpose admirably, do you not think?'

I agreed that it did.

‘Harry – was that love that made you tremble as you kissed me, or fear of Burnley Axelrod?'

‘Did I tremble?'

‘Aye, Sir, you did.'

‘Then it must have been pure love, my dear, for I have no fear of Burnley Axelrod or anyone else at this moment.'

‘Then there is no better time to seal our union. Come, sir, take my hand, and let us not tarry further.'

The queue had dwindled, so we entered the church and made our way as slowly as possible down the aisle, partly to appear stately and dignified, partly to ensure that Sophie's wig did not tilt over and obscure her vision. In the distance, looking drained, Parson Larsen waited; around us, soldiers dozed or gambled or smoked in the pews, with only the cynical or the romantic popping their heads up to observe us. I thought again of the wedding I had envisaged in Brighthelmstone, with the music of the sublime Mr Handel roaring away in my ears, but Sophie and I were happy enough, especially when Parson Larsen unexpectedly came out with some fine-sounding phrases which struck awe into us, and put us in mind of our Creator. In fact, not since my contemplative morning on the
Twinkle
had I been so aware of the mystery and therefore the beauty of things, and when I turned to look at Sophie's face in this new light, she did indeed look like something out of the Bible, even if it was more Mary Magdalene than the Virgin Mary. Dazzled, we gazed at each other quite goggle-eyed as the lovely words of the marriage ceremony rolled over us like a protective blanket.

‘…and therefore, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…I now pronounce you…man and wife…'

We kissed to applause from the romantics, and catcalls and cries of
Next!
from the cynics, but being humanists at heart, there was nothing to seriously distract us from sublime contemplation of the moment, and we milked it for all it was worth, until the prolonged clinking of coins in Parson Larsen's pocket invaded even my rarefied consciousness, and broke the spell.

‘Pretty service, Parson, ‘ I complimented. ‘All that reading's done you good. Very ethereal, for the price.'

‘I aim to please.'

‘Ethereal enough for you, sweetie – or shall we pay for another ten minutes' worth?'

‘No, that was lovely just as it was, Harry. Any more religion would begin to cloy. Besides, we must not keep the next couple waiting.'

‘Nor,' I whispered, saucy, firing off a volley of
oeillades
at her, ‘Venus.'

Snorting occasionally as we fought vainly to suppress our giggles, we thanked the parson before turning around and fairly legging it to the church door. Once outside in the crisp sunlight, we clasped each other joyously, and kissed breathlessly. Then she took my hand and we headed off towards the Elysian Fields, fairly salivating at the thought of the luscious feast to come.

Without the panic of a deadline, it proved easy enough to locate Pete and the boys. They had simply moved a few miles north in readiness for the coming attack on Fort Washington. The thought of deserting did of course cross my mind, but I had just returned from prime deserting country, and New York would not be as easy to get out of as it had been the first time around. Besides which, I felt I would be safer from Burnley Axelrod within the protective bosom of my own regiment, until such time as I could plot a passage back to England for Sophie and I. So, from the dangerous freedom of the spy, ‘twas back once more to the mindless, coglike existence of the clockwork soldier. Rising blisters and aching muscles replaced the emotional and mental anguish of decision-making, and whatever energy I had left at the end of the day was quickly whipped off me by Sophie with a quick yet satisfying movement of her hips over my prone and battered body. I was very depressed after the elation of my wedding day, but ‘twas comforting to be back in the ranks in one way – that of learning I was not the only man with troubles. Everybody had them, most much worse than mine. Thomas Slocombe, for example, had just received a letter from England, which told him that his wife and child had been carried away by the smallpox, so that even as he read about them, they were mouldering away in a grave somewhere. Someone else's mother had died of water in the head. Another's sister had died of tympany. A fearful lowness of spirits prevailed, which not even the fine weather of the Indian summer could dispel. They all, however, stuck at it with admirable doggedness, which in turn strengthened my resolve to be manly too, and to enquire into their affairs as they had enquired into mine, however great the effort. We became confidantes to each other, and it was in this manner that I learned of the high regard in which I was held by my fellows. Astonished at this, I asked why, and they told me that they looked upon me as an adventurer, and a toiler in the petticoats of American women – both ludicrous notions that repeated denials only cemented into fact. Indeed, to signify the end of my perceived Dark Horse period,
Light Horse Harry
became my new epithet, a token of acceptance that gave me a curious pleasure.

Although too tired most of the time to think about Burnley Axelrod, an instinct for survival made me gravitate towards the centre of any parading group, thereby lessening my chances of being ridden down and butchered in a typically bold and unexpected cavalry charge. But the weeks passed without event, and soon I was as dead in body and soul as I had been before my excursion up the Hackensack. Then, gradually, the mood of the camp changed as the prospect of battle neared. The men became even quieter, tempers shortened, and the number of attempted desertions started to increase. Artillerymen began using in earnest the strange vocabulary of their trade, and the air filled with talk of demilunes, fleches, chandeleers, merlons, cheveaux de frise, caltrops, fraises, gabions, abatis, canisters, grape, shrapnel, buck and ball, swanshot, fascines, glacis, grasshoppers, howitzers, mortars, siege mortars, coehorns, linstocks, mattrosses, ravelins, redans, redoubts, saucissons and traverses. In equal and opposite reaction, Parson Blood – once he had recovered from the shock of my marriage – was particularly active with the vocabulary of his trade, to remind people that behind the fascinating words lay a grisly reality. But grisly or not, eventually the fateful day arrived, and the regiment prepared to move up to Fort Washington under the invisible command of Lord Cornwallis and the not-much-more-visible command of Pubescent Pete. I forced Burnley Axelrod into my mind more and more.

‘This is it then, sweetie,' I said to Sophie, as the last of our paltry belongings were thrown onto the supply wagon, and we prepared to part, ‘Let us hope that my first engagement of the war will be my last – for though I may look like a soldier, I cannot admit to feeling like one.'

‘'Twill all be over by Christmas, say the experts,' said Sophie, in a curiously muted voice, as she adjusted the straps of my knapsack.

‘Aye, let's hope so, for then we can get on with our lives.'

‘You are not nervous, I hope?'

‘Nervous, me?' I laughed, quaking with sadness and fear. ‘No, not I.'

‘Because if you are, remember my advice, and think of Burnley Axelrod.'

This was cold comfort, if the intention was warm.

‘Oh, I have been doing; he has been on my mind a great deal.'

Sergeant Mycock began to bawl out urgent commands along the lines, and it was time to move on.

‘Oh Harry!' suddenly burst out Sophie, to my great surprise. ‘How I wish you were fighting on the right side!'

‘I suspect my contribution to the battle will make little difference to the outcome one way or the other, no matter whose side I am on.'

‘Perhaps not, but it would be very good if you were on the side of Liberty and Truth.'

‘Nobody is ever free,' I said, quite doomladen, ‘and what is Truth? as Pontius Pilate once asked.'

Whatever it was, Sophie said no more, and we parted with many tender looks, and a great burden of sadness. All around us similar partings were taking place, so that the whole scene was a most melancholy and affecting one, which quite subdued us.

So, an unhappy band of brothers, we began our march northwards at four o'clock on the afternoon of 18th November, 1776. The sun was setting most beautifully over the huge sky of New Jersey, meaning that for once our red coats provided camouflage, even if it was only from Rebels lurking in the east. A little band of roguish boys ran alongside us, shouting and squealing with excitement, and this set me thinking of my own childhood, and my parents, and Brighthelmstone, and – Sophie notwithstanding – how it had all Gone Wrong, so that soon I was in a fearful vapour, and quite distraught. In an effort to relieve my symptoms I sought solace in the bold, manly faces of my fellow soldiers, only to find that they too seemed sunk in their own private thoughts and miseries, so that by the time we were over Harlem Creek, and out into the countryside, many seemed on the verge of tears. ‘Twas a truly grotesque troop, and it took me a long time to realize what the problem was.

‘Pete!' I hissed out of the corner of my mouth, when Lieutenant Wriggle eventually trotted up alongside me, accompanied by his faithful hound. ‘Pete!'

Though Hartley's ears pricked up, there was no reply from the Pocket Tempest himself, so I hissed again.

‘I cannot speak to you, Harry,' he eventually hissed back without looking down from his horse. ‘I thought we had established that.'

‘Yes, we had, but I must just inform you that the men's spirits are drooping back here. We are all sunk in misery. And you know why that is, do ye not?'

The only reply this time came from Pete's cheeks, which began to glow redder than the sky. Nevertheless, I felt ‘twas necessary to pursue my point, so at the risk of inducing apoplexy, and ending our friendship forever, I pushed on.

‘Sunset and birdsong is a killing combination at the best of times for lost and lonely men. And, let's face it, Pete, this is not the best of times. We need something to stir our blood, and drive away the melancholy vapours, or we shall not see the enemy for tears.'

‘You'll get something to stir your blood in a moment, Harry,' hissed Pete in a fearful temper, ‘By God ye will, Sir.'

‘Don't be like that, Pete. I'm only trying to help. Get Little Bob drumming, and Billy Corden fifing, and you watch the change come over the men; they will be ready for anything that the scoundrel Washington can throw at them. ‘Tis an observation only.'

‘According to the maps I have, we will soon be marching through woods so dense they are dark in daytime. Do you think it would be a good idea to announce our presence to every rebel for miles around?'

‘All the local rebels are bottled up in Fort Washington waiting to be slaughtered. Everyone knows that.'

‘You are not privy to the same higher information as me then,' said Pete, in such a haughty manner that I suspected he was privy to nothing, and had simply forgotten to order the musicians to play.

‘So you are leading us into a possible ambush, is that what you are saying?'

‘No!' said Pete, turning round to me at last, his face the colour of a giant blackcurrant, ‘I am not saying that. And I would rather you did not use words like…' he mouthed the word
ambush
silently, and made furtive gestures towards the men behind us.

But ‘twas too late. Next to me Jacob Wilkinson, a former shepherd from Devizes, – who had hitherto shown no interest in the conversation – turned to Roger Masson next to him, and said with perfect acceptance, ‘We be walkin' into a hambush, Roger.' Roger repeated the words to Laurence East, and within seconds the word was out, and the regiment had put itself onto a battle footing of its own volition. Instinctively, Little Bob loosed off a superb drumroll that tingled everyone's spine but Pete's, before settling into a rhythmic tattoo that provided a perfect bass for Billy to tootle inspirational tunes over. Regimental backbones straightened like the spines of a threatened hedgehog, and animation returned to the men's faces. ‘Twas a wondrous transformation, and I hoped Sophie and the drabs were getting distant vibrations of it at the rear end of the baggage train, if only as proof of the bravery of their menfolk in the face of Death.

‘Now look what you've done,' said Pete, tears welling in his eyes. ‘I've a good mind to have you court-martialled for this.'

Hitherto, any threat of Pete's had had little effect on me, not caring much if I lived or died anyway, but now that I was a married man with hideous responsibilities – even if at this stage they were mainly of a metaphysical order – I was vaguely alarmed by this remark, and quickly sought ways to repair the damage.

‘What's that, Pete?' I shouted out at the top of my voice. ‘No hambush after all? False alarm?'

As hoped, there was no reply from sullen Pete, so I nudged Jacob Wilkinson with my elbow, and winked hard.

‘Hear that, Jacob? No hambush after all. False alarm.'

Jacob digested this information for several minutes, then sighed the sigh of one condemned to live, and passed it on to Roger Masson. Roger fed it through the slow-turning seasons of his mind, and passed it on to Laurence East. Within fifteen minutes the regiment was silent again, though not as dispirited as before, having proved that it could flex its collective muscle when it wanted to.

Mightily relieved, I resolved to risk no more banter with my superiors until the war was over, when – if I ever met them again – I would lay into them with all the verve of acquired-by-marriage republicanism. Or so I consoled myself as I submitted without demur to one ludicrous command after another, until we arrived around seven o'clock at the meeting point of McGown's Pass.

Here the scene was one of high excitement, rather like a military version of the Vauxhall Gardens, as under flaring flambeaux we rendezvoused with other silent regiments arriving from different parts of the country. Officers departed to consult with each other in a commandeered farmhouse, and we were left once more in the sensitive hands of Sergeant Mycock. Ignoring his continual stream of tedious obscenities, we threw down our packs, stacked our muskets, tried not to think about the sounds of gunfire in the north, and waited for the comforts of the baggage train to arrive.

‘Sweetie – there you are!' came the hoped-for call, twenty minutes or so after the babble of rough female voices had first reached our ears. ‘Had the very devil's job to find you. So dark – yet so exciting!'

As if on cue, a loud explosion rocked the ground to the east, causing horses to dance and whinny, and men to wonder where the boundary line lay between excitement and panic.

‘Just a stray one, girls,' bawled out Sergeant Mycock, trying to have us believe that he could tell a stray one by the sound and smell it made. ‘So you can put that drum down, Bob.'

Stray one it might have been, but ‘twas close enough to get me thinking hard on the whereabouts of Burnley Axelrod.

‘No sighting of him yet then?' I babbled, throwing fearful glances at the smoke and flames rising from the treetops.

‘Who?' said Sophie, almost laughing with delight, as at a firework display.

‘B-Burnley Axelrod?'

‘I wouldn't recognize him if….' Then the penny dropped, and my remark was quickly deciphered. ‘Oh, I see…quick, quick, sit on the ground and put your head between your knees.'

Not so shocked that I felt no shame, I sneaked a quick glance at my fellow soldiers to see how they were coping with the rigours of combat, and saw that many of them were already being administered to by their floozies, some horizontally. Reassured, I did as I was bidden, and received for my complacency a thrilling neck massage – first with fingers, then with bubs – which quite restored my nerve and spirit, so that for the first time I could look upon the twin horrors of Fort Washington and Burnley Axelrod with equal equanimity, at least until the next stray mortar exploded.

‘Oh my poor babies,' came a sarcastic Yorkshire voice, ‘My poor, poor FUCKIN BABIES!! WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON HERE!!'

We all turned to see Sergeant Mycock glowering at us. Standing foursquare, fists on hips, cat o' nine tails dangling ominously from his right hand, he made many of us squeak involuntarily.

‘We're resting, Sergeant,' said the impressively unperturbed Roger Masson. ‘As commanded.'

‘Rest, yes. Actively seek to catch pox, no. Now get those whores back in the wagons. Immediately.'

These words showed a poor understanding of the type of wench that the Glorious 85th Foot attracted, for no sooner were they out than a shrill ululation of outrage went up, and Sergeant Mycock had to scamper for his very life as a female horde advanced upon him, talons outstretched.

‘Good girls,' laughed Sophie, admirably restrained as befitted her new matrimonial status. ‘A bit raw, but the spirit's certainly there. I could do a lot with them.'