Infernal Revolutions (53 page)

‘And are you the next Messiah?'

‘Yes, I am the
next
one, but not
the
one. These fools know no difference.'

Dick beckoned me to sit down with him on the well-used pallet. I did so, and we managed to talk civilly in spite of the pandemonium going on outside.

‘But how did the transformation from spy to charlatan come about?'

‘It is not such a big leap, as you should know yourself, Harry. After I left you in – what was that place called?'

‘Hackensack.'

‘Aye, Hackensack. After I left you there I wandered about aimlessly for a while, doing a bit of this and a bit of that – anything really rather than return to New York and army discipline again. But nothing of note happened until I fell in with an itinerant preacher by the name of Blaze Crabtree. I'd watched him one afternoon, preaching to three old women and a couple of dogs, and noted that two of the women and even one of the dogs seemed immensely excited and grateful that a man – any man – appeared to be talking exclusively to them about matters of cosmic importance. And when Blaze told me that he had slept with several of these women over his ten-year career at it – even though he was the ugliest man and the worst public speaker you could ever imagine – then that was the cue for me to move in and redevelop the whole business.'

I suddenly jumped up from my seat, as someone pounded desperately with their fists on the side of the wagon. Dick laughed and continued.

‘So the Lost Tribe of Walthamstow was born that afternoon. We agreed there and then that I should do the speaking and the acting, while he, having some knowledge of the Bible, should tell me what to say. We have picked up a few acolytes along the way – men and women who act as bodyguards and plants, etcetera – but essentially it is the same small operation as when we started out. All gifts of money, food, drink and women are divided equally between us, and these things amount to a lot, as our followers are increasing in number all the time. In fact, hark! That is one of the boys starting on his share of the takings at this very moment…'

I listened, and in the next wagon I could hear a rough-sounding sexual encounter in progress, all moans, groans, grunts, squeals, oaths and imprecations. It ended, as these things do, in the silence of the grave.

‘He prefers to take them straight away,' explained Dick. ‘Some primitive notion of getting it while he can, in case it is taken off him. Me, I prefer to wait twenty minutes until the little beauties are at room temperature, and their shells open widest.'

‘Entertaining for you, Sir, I see that. But are you not appalled at the cynicism of it all?'

‘'Tis cynical, I agree, but perhaps a bit of cynicism is what this country needs; idealism leads to war. Cynical or not, though, what man does not envy us? I cannot believe that you do not.'

‘I did at first perhaps, when I saw the beauty of some of the girls in the crowd. But surely after the first spattering the full horror of what you are doing is evident.'

‘There is no horror in what I am doing,' retorted hardened Dick. ‘Abandonment is needed at frequent intervals by everyone in order to blast out the accumulated dross of the world.'

‘But what about the damage you are doing to these impressionable young girls?'

‘I am doing them no damage at all as far as I can see. They love it; they go away with relief on their faces and a nice warm glow in their bellies. Only Puritans deny people the things that give them pleasure. And who is servicing who? Are they fulfilling our needs or are we fulfilling theirs? We are all helping each other on the road to self-knowledge. Besides, if it were not us administering to them, ‘twould only be another bunch of scoundrels. As for the consequences, only God – and perhaps not even Him – knows how things will turn out. The experience may even improve them, because let's face it, they're as mad as hatters now, and who knows what damage they might do to themselves and their families if the pressure is left unpricked. Though of course, they may have another sort of pressure building up inside them once they have been to one of our meetings.'

‘Babies?' I ventured.

‘Babies,' Dick confirmed. ‘Believe me, there are plenty of them on the way in 1777. They will calm the girls down on their own, and force them to confront the realities of life.'

I sighed, desperately disappointed in my former bully-companion.

‘You have changed a lot since we shared billets at the
Forgotten Martyr
, Dick.'

‘Aye, well,' was Dick's disappointing answer, ‘we must all move on.'

‘I still think there is a price to be paid for all this. What if the girls don't go away with a nice warm glow, as you call it? What if they go away with a sense of emptiness and despair at being horribly used? I can foresee descents into prostitution, penury and suicide.' This was familiar territory to a Night Poet, and I continued to rattle off a whole list of miseries as if by instinct. ‘And what about their fathers, husbands and brothers?'

‘They are either engaged in the war or busy making money. They could not care less about their womenfolk, which is why we get all this attention. We learned that with the militiamen at Hackensack, when we pretended to sell those books to them.'

‘I cannot believe that to be true in every case,' I said. ‘And even if it were, there is still no reason to prey on the vulnerable outcasts of society. You are deceiving yourself, Sir, if you think you are doing otherwise.'

Dick, realizing his self-serving prattle was not working with me, turned the tables and put me under the microscope.

‘Look, Harry, there is a price to be paid however you live your life, and from the look of you and the bags under your eyes, you are paying that price now. How do you come to be here, and what have you been up to? You went off with that crippled wench in Hackensack, the last I remember. You had your way with her I trust?'

‘Aye, and we got married in New York a month later.'

Dick was aghast, and spluttered on his brandy.

‘Tragedy! No wonder you look so terrible. What on earth made you do that?'

‘Love.'

Dick laughed out loud, and clapped me on the shoulder.

‘Love! Good man! And where might the lovely Lady Oysterman be at this moment?'

‘She is minding our wagon a couple of miles away,' I lied, remaining calm despite Dick's goading and the terrible thought that suddenly struck me: what if she were one of the women being administered to by the Walthamstow Boys? Just in time, I remembered my vow to kill my imagination. ‘We are on our way to Philadelphia to start a new life.'

Dick laughed again.

‘Just like General Howe then. I, on the other hand, am moving as far away as possible in the opposite direction. My game will be up one day, but I would rather it not be just yet.'

‘I thought Howe had stopped at Fort Lee for the winter.'

‘He was going to, but he intercepted one of Washington's runners, and found out that all the American enlistments expire on the thirty-first of December, and that after that there will be no Continental Army. Even Howe thought that piece of information was worth acting upon, and so he is at this very minute chasing Washington towards Philadelphia, and running him to ground. Another six weeks, Harry, and they will start coming after us, the deserters.'

A shudder went through me at this troubling news, and I felt the need to discuss it with Sophie as soon as possible. Fortunately, Dick was now getting as restless as me; optimum cooking time was almost up, and the girls who were now banging on the wagon crying ‘Gad, Gad, I want your children!' would not have much longer to wait. I got up and made my excuses.

‘Anyway, Dick, I must be getting back; Sophie will be waiting for me. Perhaps we can meet up again when this war is over and analyze our experiences with the benefit of hindsight.'

‘Ah, don't go, Harry. Stay with us and become a Walthamstow Boy. Forget about your wife; she was just a port in a storm. We may be immoral, but we have fun, and the ogre of death will get us all in the end, whether we have fun or not.'

‘No, we are different characters, Dick, with different constitutions. I fear I am subject to frequent bouts of melancholia, which drain words like
fun
of all meaning for me. Also, for whatever reason, I am burdened with morals, so I am not equipped for such a life as this. I have made a commitment to stay with Sophie and I must stick by that. And then there's my poetry.'

Dick sighed.

‘There's more poetry in a young girl's body than in all of Shakespeare.'

I pondered this remark for a few moments, then played a straight literal bat.

‘The two are not comparable, Dick. One is flesh, one is spirit. The two never meet.'

‘So be it, Harry. But I think you have been led up one of Christianity's many garden paths, just as surely as these girls are being led up another. You have become a grim Wesleyan.'

This dig spurred me on to a fit of righteousness.

‘And you, Dick, have become a sensualist, a hedonist, and a corrupter of youth.'

‘I try my best,' Dick smiled, shaking my hand. ‘Tell my boys to send the first girl in on your way out, there's a good man.'

I turned to leave in disgust.

‘And oh, Harry, if they catch you first, be an even better man and tell them I am dead.'

He said this in such a strange manner that I suspected he was aware of the double nature of the remark, but it was too late to discuss his inner demons, and I proceeded on my way without bothering to turn round. But getting out was no easy matter. I could not return the way I came because of the press of female flesh being held in check by the picket line, so I had to sneak out the back way, through the gate of a temporary stockade that had been erected. Even here some of the wilier girls were milling around, trying to seek out a more exclusive entry point, and they looked at me with wild-eyed interest as I was ejected from the temple by a surly Walthamstow Boy.

‘Is Gad in there? Oh please God tell us he is!'

‘Did he touch you?'

‘Are you one of the Lost Tribe?'

‘Look,' I said plainly, ‘you are being used. You are in great danger. Go back to your homes and love your families.'

Even as I said it I thought this sounded a bit rich coming from me, but I hoped it might strike a chord with them. It didn't though, and they just repeated their questions with their faces twisted in agonies of desire.

‘They have no special powers at all, and certainly have nothing to do with God,' I persisted. ‘They are just a bunch of louts who are deceiving you so they can roger you free of charge.'

They gasped, and for one moment I thought they had seen the truth. But the gasp was for my blasphemy, not my truth.

‘You are a liar, Sir – a blasphemous liar! We will not allow Gad to be talked about in this way.'

And with that they were after me, forcing me to run faster than I had ever done in my life. When eventually I stopped, gasping for air, I looked around and saw that they had given up the chase, the magnetic pull of Gad and the Walthamstow Boys being

too strong for them. From my new vantage point at the furthest edge of the clearing, I listened to the howling and screaming in the distance, and shuddered with relief that I was free of it. What madman would want to be in the middle of that lot? If that was the price of fame, I would seriously have to abandon my ambition to be a published poet.

After experiencing man- and womankind at their basest, the walk back through the forest was bliss, and I heaved many sighs of gratitude at the beauty and peace of nature. In contrast to the Dionysian madness I had just experienced, every sight and sound was as nectar to my soul. I goggled at the dripping trees with newfound joy, and listened enraptured to the warblings of strange birds. Inhaling deeply of the gorgeous damp pinescented air, I felt cured forever of the fever of lust, and just wanted to dwell on the simple things of life. Even the relationship I had with Sophie, formerly such a source of confusion to me, now seemed charmingly innocent and straightforward in its general outlines. Indeed, as I retraced the route of my crosses, I felt increasingly like a swain returning to his maid, and I almost skipped along until I realized that I would be in trouble if I had not beaten Sophie back to the wagon; then I ran for my very life. But as it happened, I need not have bothered; Sophie had been back for a good twenty minutes, and there was no way to avoid the frigid interrogation.

‘And where have you been?'

‘Just walking, sweetness,' I said, panting. ‘Acquainting myself with the flora and fauna of New Jersey. I found I could not stay cooped up in the wagon all day.'

‘You are covered in mud.'

‘Aye. I slipped at one point.'

‘Why did you not leave me a note to say you had gone?'

‘I expected to return before you.'

Sophie scrutinized me closely. I prayed that the mud stains on the front of my breeches covered the deeper stains that lurked beneath.

‘Well, after what I have found out today in Bound Brook, I think ‘tis best if we part no more, and make our way as fast as we can to Philadelphia, mud or no mud.'

Relieved, I asked why, though knowing full well.

‘General Howe appears to be on the verge of vanquishing our boys. No sooner does our rearguard enter a town than the van of Howe's army is in sight, lobbing shells at them. Already Cornwallis has chased Washington nearly as far as Princeton, which means that both are clearly heading in the general direction of Philadelphia. It seems unlikely, however, that Howe can take Philadelphia before Christmas – his supply line will be too stretched – so that is where we need to be before the winter campaign ends, otherwise we will find ourselves cut off by the British at the Delaware. If that happens, then we are condemned to a winter in New Jersey, being hounded by Burnley Axelrod for sport. So, say I, we abandon the wagon, and continue our journey on horseback for greater speed.'

‘'Tis risky.'

‘'Tis riskier still to dither, and find ourselves unable to reach the Delaware before it is cut off.'

‘Agreed. Though ‘twill be a shame to waste all our provisions.'

‘We have saddlebags; we should be able to carry a sufficient amount for our needs.'

‘That still means we leave enough behind to feed a platoon, if not a regiment.'

‘Then so be it. ‘Twill be an exciting and baffling discovery for someone, be it a bear, a wolf, a trapper or a deserting soldier. But we have the night to sort out what we need to take, because though we should start off immediately, I am too tired from riding today and need a rest. Tomorrow morning at first light, though, we will need to begin the race as though our lives depended on it, which they do.'

This delay was acceptable to me, equally shattered as I was from my own exertions. However, after a brief rest with Sophie in the back of the wagon I felt somewhat restored, and began looking round wistfully at all the barrels we were soon to abandon. Before long an idea had germinated, and this I shared with my dozing wife.

‘My dear, if we are not setting off until first light tomorrow, what do you say to a final night of indulgence? After all, life without joy is only a form of dying. It cannot be all misery and desperation.'

‘No Harry, ‘twill weaken us. Besides, we had a final night of indulgence with all those pancakes at Abigail's.'

‘That night was rather ruined, if you remember – at least for me. No, this is different. We are alone here. No-one has ever feasted and celebrated life on this spot of earth before. It may weaken our bodies, but it will strengthen our spirit. Especially if we combine it with a little lovemaking.'

‘Before or after?'

‘Both?'

Sophie looked doubtful.

‘Well, if we do, it must
definitely
be the last time before Philadelphia.'

‘Agreed.'

‘Let us first sort out our provisions for the journey while it is still light, then we can light the candle, Sir, and get on with it.'

And get on with it we did. Excited and surprised by Sophie's capitulation, a fresh surge of vigour welled up inside me, and the night turned into a feast of chaste sexual joy, fuelled by the more luxurious provisions that Abigail had packed for us. Needless to say, we did not see the first light next morning, nor any subsequent ones until ten o'clock, when I was all for setting off immediately to make up for lost time.

‘Come back to bed, Harry,' sighed Sophie, raising a languid hand to my breeches, ‘and entertain me one more time.'

‘No, Madam,' I said sternly. ‘We must be on our way. Now up with you, and let us be gone.'

Brushing away the fingers, I jumped down from the wagon and started preparing Quick and Easy for the journey. ‘Twas raining again, though the rain now felt several degrees colder than it had the day before, and seemed like a prelude to hard frost and snow. I shivered, sneezed and felt decidedly weak and vulnerable, especially in the head and groin area. But not to be defeated, at least until we were safe in some fleapit of a Philadelphia bedroom, where no doubt I would collapse and display all the will to live of a ruptured popinjay, I gamely battled on. Once I was done, and the horses were saddled and laden with maximum oats for them, and minimal subsistence for us, I returned to Sophie and told her that if she was not ready within the next ten minutes I would leave without her.

‘Aye, I bet you would as well, the mood you are in,' she croaked. ‘You are a glorious Bastard at the moment, Sir.'

I permitted myself a small glow of pride, which I concealed from my temporarily conquered wife, and watched with secret delight as Sophie came creakingly to life, all stretching, grimacing, smacking of lips, and the pulling up and on of dishevelled garments. Then she tried to stand upright, but could not.

‘You will have to carry me to Quick, Harry. My legs are still trembling, and will not support me.'

Highly gratified, I did as I was asked, pouring her onto the saddle and passing up her stick before I in turn clambered up onto Easy.

‘Now, have we got everything – maps, stick, rations, knives, pistols, balls, shot, powder, spyglass?'

‘Aye, I think we have,' sighed Sophie, ‘and if we haven't, who cares as long as we have each other?'

For all my hard man pretensions, these were my sentiments exactly, and I reflected how strange it was that on those occasions when she was a woman after my own heart, and I was a man after hers, we really were most compatible. She wanted a hard man, and I wanted a tender woman, but I was too often tender and she was too often hard. ‘Twas all very Jack Sprattish, and the situation between us gave me much food for thought as we set off once more along the miry track towards Philadelphia.

At first we seemed to make good progress, soon reaching the very turbulent Raritan River, but perhaps ‘twas only an illusion after a day of inactivity, for then we found the going as tough as we had with the wagon. The continuing rain, fog and mud meant that we could rarely manage more than five miles a day, whether we stopped at night or not, and what with the continual coughs and sneezes and aches that plagued us, we were not the happiest travellers. No wonder, I often thought, as the now inaptly-named Quick and Easy ploughed on up to their fetlocks in squelching mud, that most people travelled by water in America. Even on good roads, of which this was not one, the sheer distances involved were extremely prohibitive to easy land travel. Sometimes, to break the monotony, I would practise handling my pistols as I rode; sometimes I would get off and squelch a few yards to give Easy and my saddlesore thighs a rest; sometimes I would just feel like crying, as the wilderness of America battered us with its vastness. My whole body ached for a smoky chophouse and a pint of hot bishop in convivial company. But though we sometimes saw farms in the distance, teasing us with visions of rest and shelter, we were determined, after the horror at Abigail's, that no others should be dragged into our messy affairs. Besides which, as Sophie had found out to her disgust, almost all of the locals had returned willingly to the British side following Howe's free pardon, and they would surely inform on me as a deserter as soon as they clapped eyes on me.

But as the weary days passed the weather slowly changed. The rains at last stopped, and were replaced with bleak cold winds from the north-east. Mud, puddles and lakes all froze over, as did our lungs, which made our breathing very stertorous. Still we pushed on, thinking progress might be quicker on hard surfaces, but strain as we might, the moment came when we could go on no more, and were forced, through lack of sleep, warmth and food, to look around for shelter. So when the spire of an isolated Dutch church loomed in the distance, the invitation was too great to refuse, particularly as, according to our map, we were near the town of Pennington, which Sophie wanted to visit to buy food and find out whether Washington and his troops were over the Delaware yet. If any further incentive were needed to halt, the look of the sky and the stillness of the air suggested that heavy snow was imminent.

‘A pleasant place to spend a white Christmas,' I said, coughing badly, as we rode up to the church and checked that it was as deserted as it looked.

Sophie looked at me pityingly.

‘I suppose you have never experienced a true snowstorm, have you?'

‘Of course I have,' I said hotly, ‘we have them every winter in England.'

‘Well, they cannot be the same as ours, or you would not talk about them with such relish. Continental ones are howling, scarifying monsters.'

I chuckled derisively, which brought on another coughing fit.

‘Serves you right,' said Sophie, investigating the hidden interiors of the church, which like most American buildings was light, spacious and elegant. ‘Now, make yourself comfortable and wait here until I get back. Keep as warm as you can.
Do not
go off exploring this time. I will be as quick as I can. I will have to be, if I am to beat the storm.'

‘Twas high melodrama, and gave a much-needed boost to my spirits.

‘The storm!
' I could not help but wail facetiously, as I waved my arms around wildly.
‘The storm!!
'

‘Well, at least you will have your words to eat if you are buried alive in the snow.'

Chastened a little by this remark, and the look of worry on Sophie's face, I modulated my mirth to the level of concerned amusement, then shut up.

‘But I hope there will be no such disasters, especially now that we are so near to our destination. So come, give me a kiss, and I will be gone.'

I did as bidden, then followed Sophie outside and helped her to mount Quick. Wishing her Godspeed, whatever that was, I watched as she was swallowed up by a giant purple sky on the northern horizon. As I returned shivering and coughing inside, I could not help but keep glancing up at the lowering clouds, which seemed to be getting darker and heavier before my eyes. Sophie was right, they did not look English, being bigger and far more bruised-looking, and I felt the first twinge of apprehension.

I settled down Easy in the corner of the church, and then thought of ways to settle myself. To alert me in case of unwanted intruders, I placed a bench behind the door, and put clattery collecting trays on top. Then I chose a pew, covered myself with a blanket, and tried to get to sleep in spite of the cold. I must have been successful, for I awoke into a strange stillness that was even more dreamlike than dreams themselves. Everywhere was silent and muffled, and I realized gradually that the snow had arrived before Sophie. Hoping she had not been defeated by the barricade I had erected, I quickly removed all the obstacles and opened the door. Instantly a hellish, howling wind plastered my face with dense wet snow and obliterated my vision. While I stood there scraping away the snow from my eyes, another gust clawed at me and pulled me screaming into the void. Disorientated immediately, I tried to battle my way back to where I thought the church had been, but my outstretched groping hands touched nothing. Panic overwhelming me, I staggered in all directions, frantically trying to find the church until another violent gust of wind twirled me around and smacked me against it a few times. Bruised and battered, I felt for the door with my fingers, then dived back in to contemplate this phenomenon of Nature from a safer perspective. Winds increasing in ferocity all around me, there was nothing I could do but fret until the storm abated sufficiently for me to venture outside again. At last, about an hour later, I made a tentative reappearance at the church door, and saw that the only features still visible in a sea of white were the tops of trees and the taller gravestones; everything else had been obliterated. Duly awestruck, I stepped out and went in search of a buried wife, but even simple walking proved difficult. I had to lift my legs to a great height to make any progress at all, but by using my arms as counterweights I managed to crunch my way around the church listening and looking for signs of life. Finding nothing, I then used my spyglass to scour the various horizons in search of even the most sluggish movement, but making out nothing at all apart from the floundering leap of the odd rabbit, I soon made my way back into the church to warm up and fret afresh. This pattern repeated itself several times, until on the fourth occasion, when the snow had almost stopped, I managed to make out a moving dot on the northern horizon. Soon I was able to distinguish it as Sophie and Quick, picking their way towards me. Elated, I made my way towards them as best I could.