Infernal Revolutions (44 page)

Sophie clearly approved of the action, which no doubt brought back to mind her glory days with the Belles. Sensing restlessness, I quickly escorted her to a knoll overlooking the farmhouse, where several men of the regiment had gathered.

‘Come, come, sweetness. Let us go and see what big guns we can identify. They say Lord Cornwallis and Earl Percy are here amongst us tonight. Pete himself might be dining with them. If so, and he plucks up the courage to speak to them, we will know someone who has spoken to someone who has spoken to the king. In other words, we will be three rungs from the top of the tallest social ladder in the world.'

I had not expected this to impress Sophie, and it didn't, but it diverted her from dwelling on the past.

‘We may as well be three hundred rungs from it, for all the difference it makes. Anyway, what do you want to be top of that dunghill for? Parasites, the lot of them.'

‘I don't want to be top of it. I am just observing how thrilling it is to be so close, physically, to men whose actions are shaping the world we live in.'

Sophie scowled, unimpressed.

‘They won't be shaping the world
we're
going to be living in.'

This seemed vaguely threatening, as though Sophie had a suicide pact in mind; but though troubled, I said nothing, not wanting to ignite what was possibly red paint. Instead I found a space where we could sit down to observe the comings and goings of the great, pending the return of Sergeant Mycock with more definite orders.

‘Anything happened yet, my good fellow?' I said to the soldier next to me.

‘Earl Percy has just gone in.'

‘Earl Percy? Really? What did he look like?'

‘Looked like he had a broom stuck up his arse. Walked funny anyway. Piles perhaps. Or the pox. Or the gout. Who knows?'

‘Think ‘twas the horn colic, mate,' called another voice helpfully.

‘Not bloody surprised, the state of the women going in.'

I strained my eyes even harder, desperate to get a tantalizing glimpse of a famous courtesan, as the whores of the aristocracy were known.

‘Down, ye dog,' came a cold blast from Sophie. ‘Four weeks married and already I am playing second fiddle to common harlots.'

‘'Tis of academic interest only, my dear. There is a book entitled
Famous Courtesans of the Great Commanders
. I just wondered if I might be able to spot one.'

‘You must think I am stupid. Now pull yourself together or I shall be forced to go out and get rogered by the biggest grenadier I can find.'

‘That's told him,' chuckled someone behind.

‘I'm up for it, love!'

‘How tall are you, Joshua?'

Abashed, hurt that the threatened punishment far outweighed the supposed crime, I sat meek as a mouse, and sulked. Joyful, my fellow soldiers took it in turns to playfully pull my pigtail and tip my hat over my eyes, a naive game which only vexed me more. Swatting at them irritibly, I sank into an even deeper trough of misery, a condition relieved only by the appearance of a suave and elegantly-dressed black man in front of the house.

‘Don't tell me there is a book on the famous negroes of the British army,' said Sophie, in a conciliatory enough mood to note my interest.

‘That is not any old negro,' I said, examining closely the face atop the rigging, ‘that's Elzevir Black, I am sure it is. You know, the one who should have been at the De Witt's the day we shattered it.'

‘I don't know how you can tell – they all look the same to me, especially in this light.'

‘No, I am sure that is him. Elzevir! Hey, Elzevir!'

I waved my hat and shouted his name at the top of my voice, but ‘twas not until Sophie stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled piercingly that he began to look in our direction.

‘I am going down,' I declared excitedly, eliciting a roar of laughter from my simple-minded fellows. ‘Are you coming too, my dear?'

Another roar went up as we picked our way down the crowded hillside, for all the world like two members of the audience being called onto stage at the Haymarket.

‘Who dat?' called Elzevir suspiciously as we approached within spitting distance.

‘'Tis me, Harry Oysterman. Dick Lickley and I stayed with your Mr De Witt about two months ago, if you remember.'

We stared at each other for several tense moments before Elzevir deigned to speak.

‘Never took much notice o' people goin' tru' dat house, man. Too tired.'

‘Well, we were there, I assure you – but you were not when I returned again. Mr De Witt said you had run away.'

‘De cat right. Sick o' cookin an' potwashin' an' bein' hounded by dat Clara bitch. So I's packed me some clodes an' some food an' cut loose one night when they were least expectin'. Even stoppin' to burn a few haystacks along de way, still halfway to New York by de mornin'. When I's reaches de big city, I tries to get on a ship to England, dare to meet de great Dr Johnson and begin a new life…' A glimmer of recognition flickered in Elzevir's rolling eyes. ‘Eh, maybe you was de one who mentioned de writer cat.'

‘Er…possibly…' I wanted to hear how the rest of the story turned out before deciding whether to claim credit for introducing Dr Johnson into his fevered imaginative world. ‘What happened next?'

‘Almost starved, white boy, dat's what happened next. No captain would take me – said I would only stir up mutinies. Ended up in Canvas Town with de rest of de vagrans. Terrible time of it till one day dis lady appeared, and got a couple of soldiers to line twenty of us up against a wall. Tought we were all dead meat den, but no, dis lady comes up to us and examines us all one by one. Feels our muscles, looks at our teeth, squeezes our pods, as dough we were cattle. I's about to spit in her face when she points me out to her soldiers. Next ting I know I's whisked away in a carriage, and taken to a big house on Broadway Street. Tort I was gonna end up on a plate, man. But no – who should come down de staircase but some big lord or udder. Says “I'm Lord Percy, and dis my wife, Lady Percy. We want you to be our valet.”‘

I gasped, quite astonished.

‘You lucky devil – that's a job I wouldn't mind.'

‘Gotta be black, man,' said Elzevir complacently. ‘And big too – to please her ladyship.'

Just then a courtesan, being escorted into the house by two soldiers, passed by at close range and drenched us in the most alluring scent imaginable. Inflamed by the smell, the blonde hair, the artfully powdered face, the rouged lips and the luscious cleavage, I instinctively shot her a saucy
oeillade
. Unfortunately for my vanity, my attentions went completely unnoticed because she in turn could not take her lustful eyes off Elzevir. Poutingly jealous, I regretted ever having helped Elzevir take a step up in the world, and I was just turning to leave in dudgeon when Elzevir spoke again.

‘Anyway, who dis?' said Elzevir

‘Dis…this…is my wife, Sophie.'

‘Tort you were gonna marry Eloise, man. She loved you. I could tell by de way she looked at you. First man she ever took into her room.'

Clearing my throat loudly, I quickly changed the subject.

‘So what is life like with the Percy's, Elzevir?'

‘Better dan it was with de De Witt's, dat's for sure. I cook and wash and skivvy just the same, but dis time I get tings in return. New clodes like dese, fine food and wine, but best of all I gets…' Elzevir's eyes went all dreamy, as though describing Paradise, ‘…Education.'

‘Oh aye,' I said suspiciously, ‘what sort of education?'

‘Dis sort, man.' Then, as feared, Elzevir launched into perfect hence hideous French, complete with Gallic gesticulation. ‘Je m'appelle Elzevir. Je suis valet de Monsieur et Madame Percy. Il est nuit. Les étoiles brillent. Une bombe explose. Pouffe!' Elzevir glowed with pride, unaware of the truly abominable spectacle he was making of himself.

‘That's not education, Elzevir, that's decadence.'

‘You'm jealous, whitey, cos' youm ain't cultured.'

‘As an American, you don't understand how disgusting the French language sounds to the average Englishman, and you never will. Something to do with the Battle of Hastings and mother's milk. Very good though, what I heard. You will go far in the salons of the great with performances like that. Anything else they teach you?'

‘Just generally groomin' me to be a great man in London. Dey're gonna take me home to England wid ‘em. Make me a great man over dere.'

‘What about Lady Percy. Is she as wanton as they make out?'

‘Bitch has rubbed mah thigh a few times, always pushin' her tits in mah face – dat kind o ting. Wants me to start bathin' her soon, when de ‘ole man is out. Can't plug her dough, in case de Lord finds out. Never get to London den. Black baby give de game away big time…but hey…quiet…here come de Lord now!'

My legs went weak and my heart raced as a gaggle of flambeaux-lit adjutants appeared around the corner of the house. In their midst was someone they were all deferring to, but before I could make my escape back into obscurity the adjutants parted and out popped, like a pearl, the resplendent figure of, presumably, Lord Percy himself. Whether his reputation was doing all the work for him, or he was naturally superior in breeding, I could not deduce in that instant, but I was aware in myself of a raging sense of inferiority and humbleness as the gloves, medals and gold epaulettes advanced towards me. As contemporary generals occupied the same pages as classical ones in my books, seeing Percy in the flesh was like seeing Hannibal or Caesar come to life, and I was temporarily awed out of my composure. I was awed out of this world when the dog stopped and began talking to Elzevir.

‘Found a little friend, Elzevir?'

‘Dis is…er…what's your name again, man?'

‘Oysterman,' I croaked, hardly able to speak for nerves. ‘Harry Oysterman.'

Aristocratic eyes scrutinized me, while the adjutants looked on with contempt.

‘Of what regiment, Mr Oysterman?'

‘Battalion Company, 85th Foot, Sir.'

‘A crack company. Lord Packham's, if I am not mistaken. And who's this?'

Collectively, the adjutants sighed and pulled out their fob watches.

‘This is my wife, Sophie Oysterman.'

‘Pleased to meet you, my dear. Bearing up in these unpleasant circumstances, I trust?'

‘Spewing up,' I'm sure Sophie said in reply, though the mumbled answer could not be made out distinctly.

‘Splendid, though I'm sure we'll all feel better when this dreadful war is over. Won't be long now – we have the rascals on the run. A few more damned crushes like the one they got at Long Island and it will be all over bar the inevitable whining. Then we can all go back to England and get on with our lives. Isn't that so, Elzevir?'

‘Dat so, Mister Percy. Can't wait.'

‘Good man.' He paused to look with pride at his acquisition, then turned back to me. ‘Anyway goodbye, Mr Oysterman. Fight well.'

With a pat on my shoulder, off he went to his inevitable wining, with Elzevir in close attendance.

‘Now you're two rungs from the top of the ladder,' snarled Sophie, ‘Big deal.'

‘What a great man,' I swooned. ‘How can we fail to win with heroes like that in charge?'

‘Harry, I am disgusted with you. He is a man – no more, no less. A patronizing one at that.'

‘But I
want
to be patronized.'

‘As a poet you do, but not as a man. Had you not known who he was, would you have acted the way you did, like a fool?'

‘I was just being polite.'

‘Which plays right into the hands of these people. Smarming the oil around is the way they keep power. He is killing you with politeness. He won't shed any tears when you're lying mangled in a field somewhere.'

‘Ah, well, there you are wrong. He is well known as a benevolent man. After the battle of Bunker Hill, for example, he paid for the widows of his men to return home to England. Then he maintained them when they got there.
All out of his own pocket
.'

‘He can afford it,' said Sophie sourly, though I fancied I saw the ghost of a dollar sign dance in her eyes at this disclosure.

‘Anyway,' I added weakly, perceiving that I had perhaps transgressed the thin line between politeness and grovelling, ‘somebody's got to lead.'

‘And why shouldn't that leader be you? Why should he not be going weak at the knees when he meets you? Why should you not be sending him into battle?'

‘Sweetie, I do not understand what you are saying. He is an aristocrat, so ‘tis only natural that he leads.'

‘'Tis obscenely unnatural, Sir – as Thomas Paine would explain to you.'

At the airing of the hallowed name, I sensed a way of deflecting some of the remorseless attack back to Sophie. I waded into the storm.

‘But supposing you were to meet Thomas Paine in the flesh, or George Washington, or Thomas Jefferson, or any of your heroes. Are you telling me that you would not be flustered by their very presence?'

Sophie snorted indignantly.

‘I would be perfectly composed, as is proper in a democratic society. There would just be a meeting of calm, rational minds, because all levels of society meet on equal terms here. There is no sycophancy in America, Sir.'

‘Oh my dear,' I scoffed, ‘Come, come, face reality. Human nature is the same the world over. Sycophancy is a human trait, therefore it must exist in America in some form or other.'

‘It does NOT!' shouted Sophie, angry far in excess of the facts. Then, to my utmost amazement, she punched me squarely on the chin with great power. With shock as much as anything else, I collapsed to the ground, from whose ungainly vantage point I saw Sophie stomping off into the woods.

‘Shrew-ish!' came the first comment from the interested onlookers.