Infernal Revolutions (46 page)

‘Well, I don't like that kind of pessimistic talk. Especially when there are impressionable young soldiers around, like Harry here.'

I looked round in surprise. Did he mean me? He must have done, for he was looking at me with a tender paternal gleam in his eye.

‘Don't worry, lad,' he said, patting me on the shoulder. ‘We'll make it.'

I put on my best little-boy-lost look for him – much to the amusement of the few who knew me – and allowed him to grasp my hand, and shake it emotionally.

‘At Minden, you know, son, before the battle, we shook hands with each other along the whole length of the line, vowing to stand by each other without flinching. Bonded us together for eternity, and made the battle itself a sort of communion. Not possible to shake hands the whole length of the line here, of course – different kind of battle – but we can shake amongst ourselves. So, good luck, son, and God bless!'

He shook my hand with tears in his eyes, then started on the others. Feeling obliged to show fraternity, I turned round, looked solemnly at Roger next to me, and shook his hand in turn. Though bemused, he did the same, until we were all at it, like a party of Bedlamites. At first I was tremendously moved by this show of true comradeship, until it occurred to me that the battles of Minden and Quebec had both taken place in the same year – 1759 – and that it seemed improbable that old Thomas was at both of them. I began to harbour doubts – I did not want to be bonded for eternity with a liar, nor with anyone else for that matter. And even had he not been lying, such gestures as occurred at Minden spontaneously could not be repeated elsewhere without the taint of meretriciousness attaching itself to them. Such doubts meant that my handshake became increasingly floppy, so that by the time orders came to begin the ascent, the Minden Shake had become the Fort Lee Dangle, and I was glad to be done with the whole spurious affair.

I was even gladder halfway up the cliff when news was passed down from the summit that the Rebels had abandoned the camp without a fight, and run off yet again.

‘'Tis all over!' Claude Jepson in front of me cried. And for him it almost was, for seconds later he lost his footing and nearly fell to his death on the bayonet teeth of the men following.

‘Steady, Claude,' said old Thomas, hauling him back up by the shoulders. ‘Don't relax yet.'

‘Twas a timely warning, for that was exactly what I felt like doing upon hearing the unexpected news. My clothes were soaked with sweat and rain, and my chest was heaving up and down like a pair of bellows, bursting with all the gruesome physical effort of defying gravity. I had even acquired a new fear into the bargain – not of falling, but of being crushed to death by a backward-rolling three-pounder, numbers of which were being pushed and hauled up the cliff-face by prodigiously strong sappers with the arms and lungs of bears; indeed, this fear was so great that I flinched dreadfully every time a shower of soil came tumbling down from the rocks above. In short, I was not enjoying the experience at all, but at least before the news of the abandonment there was the prospect of a quick death at the top to keep me going. Now that my life expectancy had suddenly and unexpectedly increased beyond noon, I just wanted to get off the cliff path as soon as possible, and to ponder in private the consequences of the American defeat, and the new slant that this gave to relations between the major participants in this war, viz. Sophie, Burnley and I.

Eventually I made it safely to the top, where I stood and got my breath back for a few moments before being whipped into line and pointed in the direction of Fort Lee. As we marched it suddenly occurred to me that booty would be available when we got there, so – just in case Sophie was in one of the tiny boats that were still coming across the Hudson – I determined to pick up a pleasing souvenir that would both mollify and excite her.

This was clearly not an original idea, however. The fort proved to be maggoty with souvenir hunters, for the Americans had disappeared in such a hurry that they had even left their breakfasts frying on skillets. Things likely to aid the British cause such as muskets, artillery and blankets were being carefully logged and collected by pen-wielding officers; everything else was being joyously appropriated for personal use by the rank and file. Soldiers were walking around with squealing piglets under their arms, fresh pipes in their mouths, and bottles of grog in their hands. Even Hartley was at it, for I caught him with his nose stuck deep in a tuft of grass, feeding on some slimy American horror and trembling with rapture. So, not to be outdone, I set about my own

looting. Keeping a devious eye open for anything I could take without being noticed, I began a long whistling walk around the encampment, pretending all the while to be above the undignified scavenging, but I need not have bothered with this subterfuge: everything worthwhile had long since gone, and I picked up nothing except the odd filthy spoon that someone else had thrown away. However, my peregrinations did eventually bring me to the southern end of the fort, where stood groups of officers chuntering among themselves. I ambled closer and listened.

‘Dammit, Sir, dammit,' one of them was complaining loudly, ‘we could have had the rascals for dinner today.'

‘Indeed, Sir,' said another, ‘And the rest of America for supper!'

‘It's Howe's fault, gentlemen. I have seen more fighting spirit in a slug.'

Craning their necks to look southwards, like wolves straining at the leash, the hotheads were all for chasing down the Rebels, and putting them to the bayonet, but no orders to do so had been received from General Howe, most likely due to the fact that he was still in bed in New York with his American paramour, Mrs Loring. Though in this company I was obliged to spit whenever anyone mentioned General Howe's name, I was secretly in love with the man and his lethargy, for without his sublime inertia I would now be scouring the New Jersey countryside, moving ever further away from my Sophie, and being urged on to a glorious death by the scoundrel Cornwallis. I suspected many others shared my feelings too – not least Thomas Pomeroy, who was breakfasting happily with Thomas Slocombe and Ned Lester.

‘Campaigning season over now, Harry!' he shouted. ‘If not the whole war. Isn't this a glorious day?'

I agreed that it was, and accepted his offer to join them for a celebratory slice of American bacon. Veterans all now, we discussed the crossing, the climb, our marriages and the renewed pain of Thomas's hernia, before moving on to more exciting matters, such as the date of our return to England. Soon I was feeling quite optimistic myself, and to take advantage of the mood I left the boys to their ramblings and sought out for myself a sheltered bower overlooking the Hudson. There, pending further orders to return to New York and Sophie, I took out of my knapsack a pen, some paper, a pipe and some tobacco. Then, shielding myself from the rain as best I could, I set to work on a timeless memorial to Isaac Tetley.

(Epitaph on a Scalped Sailor – 19th November 1776)

Artistically supersatisfied with this, I folded it up and placed it in my jacket pocket, for retrieval and recitation over Isaac's grave, if he had one. Then I lit my pipe and enjoyed a smoke made all the more pleasant by the simple reflection that I was alive, and had genius. I could do things yet, and I owed it to Isaac to do them. And what's more I was now a free live genius – or would be soon when George Washington officially surrendered his futile cause and I resolved like a gentleman the little misunderstandings with Burnley Axelrod. This meant that I could return home to England with my head held high, mull over my experiences, as I had mulled so satisfyingly over Isaac's death, and then whip out the finest poetry of the age in a burst of creative activity not seen since Shakespeare hung up his hose. I could see it all – the house on the Thames, the admiration of royalty, the pension, the fawning of the
bon ton
, the hottest whores in Chelsea, the shattered look on the faces of all those who had ever considered themselves superior to me in any way whatsoever, right down to the state funeral and the best slab in Poet's Corner. What I could not see in the vision, however, gave me even greater pleasure. There was no Sophie punching me senseless in St James's Palace, just as I was about to receive my pension from the king. No Sophie nagging me to be more of a man than I already was. No Sophie carping on about the narrowness of English social life, and the restraints it imposed on those who preferred tarring and feathering to whist. In short, the Sussex Dream was back in its original Sophieless form, and I felt released, and free of caring.

Until, that is, I heard in the distance the sound of what was surely an arriving baggage train, all rattling wheels and shrill cacophony. The girls, it seemed, were back, and try as I might to regain the pristine ferocity of my vision, I could not help wondering whether Sophie was amongst them. I was still vacillating between control and abandon half an hour later, when there was a rustle in the bushes behind me, and out popped The Girl Herself, wet, bedraggled, wide-eyed and utterly captivating.

‘Sweetie!' she cried, and rushed forward to embrace me.

‘Sophie!' I had chance to cry back joyously, before my scrabbling feet told me we were in mortal danger of toppling backwards over the fearful precipice. ‘Sophie!' I repeated, this time sharp and desperate, ‘Steady, girl, or we will be over!'

‘But I'm so happy!'

‘So am I,' I said, clutching desperately at her. ‘But decrease your pressure on me, I beg you.'

My wish was laughingly complied with, foothold and balance was regained, and we stood watching over our shoulders – I in terror, Sophie in delight – as an avalanche of rock and soil roared its way down to the banks of the Hudson far below.

‘Now why did not we think of that?' laughed Sophie, peering over the edge to observe the final impact.

‘'Tis in the nature of things to learn too late,' I said, assuming
we
to mean
we Rebels
. Palpitating with fear, I averted my eyes from the dizzying sight, and led her by the hand to safer ground. ‘Besides which, I would not be here now had you done so.'

‘What?' said Sophie, shocked. ‘You mean you came up the cliff path with the rest of the common rogues?'

‘Aye,' I said proudly, sniffing in a dewdrop on the end of my nose. ‘Why should I not?'

‘Oh Harry, you rough, tough man. I thought you had come the same way as us.'

‘Not I, Madam.'

I cocked my head and struck a heroic pose, much to Sophie's delight. Unable to resist the irresistable, she pounced on me again, this time safely, and we fell to with a passion, celebrating what seemed like our umpteenth reunion with a
tongue sandwich
, until the self-centred poet in me, and the headstrong Boudicca in Sophie, were completely routed.

‘I suppose I owe you an explanation, my dear,' said Sophie, in soft confessional mood afterwards, ‘unless you have already guessed the real reason for my actions yesterday.'

‘Something to do with what Elzevir said, perchance?'

‘Perceptive Man! But then I suppose that is what Eloise, not to mention hundreds of other duped boobies, have said too, in their time.

I looked at Sophie, Sophie looked at me, and I knew I was in for a weary bout of ratiocination. One of the major fault lines of our short marriage was already well established, and I sighed inwardly at the prospect of having to go through it all again.

‘Sophie, believe me, I am not a rake about his progress. ‘Tis true that I slept in the same bed as Eloise, but there was never any question of real sexual intimacy taking place between us – from my point of view because…' Because I was refused permission would not sound right, ‘…because I was tired after a day's riding…on a horse…with Dick; and from hers because she needed her wits about her to paint me while I was sleeping. Anyway, even if bouts of pleasure had taken place, I fail to see how I can be held accountable for actions carried out before I met you.'

‘I am not holding you accountable. I am simply trying to divine from your past what will happen in your, and therefore my, future. I want to make sure you are not just using me to satisfy your foul lust. But oh, but why am I bothering to ask you? You are, after all, a professional liar, in the employ of the most odious monarch since Herod.'

‘Come, come, my dear, that's a bit strong, however right you may be about Farmer George.'

Sophie ignored the attempt at facetiousness, and ploughed on.

‘If you did not board each other, why did Elzevir say you were the only man she had ever loved?'

‘Just as we would be out of our depth in an African tribe, so Elzevir is out of his depth in white society, and therefore cannot appreciate its finer shades of meaning. Eloise, if I remember rightly, had a melodramatic turn of mind. She might well have told Elzevir that I was the only man she had ever loved, but, undetected by Elzevir,
she would not have meant it
. As soon as his back was turned I could imagine her burying her face in her pillow, and
gagging
.'

Sophie considered this answer, then visibly brightened up, a sure sign that I had escaped yet again.

‘Yes, I can imagine her doing that, the treacherous little blower. Still, I am sure she was not laughing when I buried her pretty face in the wall. No-one makes a monkey of my Harry and gets away with it.'

‘Except you, sweetie.'

‘Aye, but that is my prerogative, as the one who cares for you most in the world.'

We chuckled together at the fond badinage, though I was a little unsettled by the excessive abuse still being meted out to the lovely Eloise, which only confirmed that her continued vilification had less to do with her spying and romantic proclivities, than with unfathomable fears and inadequacies lurking deep within Sophie's psyche. But as Sophie caressed my grateful gonads, I reflected that everyone in the world was a useful whipping boy or girl for others at some point in their life, so perhaps I was taking God's guilt on my shoulders, and should not worry so much about the welfare of others. Good often came of evil, according to Parson Blood, and evil often came of good, though there was no way of knowing in advance which causes had which effects. Eschatology was God's business, not man's.

‘So I have set your fears at rest, I hope.'

‘Oh aye,' Sophie purred, resting her head on my chest. ‘They are sleeping like babies.'

‘Then ‘tis only fair, while we are at it, that you set a fear of mine at rest, sweetness.'

Though this was said as softly as possible, in a mood of tender reconciliation, I felt her body stiffen apprehensively.

‘Proceed then, Sir, if you must.'

I edged my head back slightly, in case she suddenly exploded in another fit of violence.

‘If you feared that I was using you to satisfy my lust, I fear that you are using me as a means of seeing life and the world.'

‘Well, what's wrong with that?' said Sophie, genuinely astonished, and not at all offended.

‘Nothing, while I am seeing life and the world too, but I fear that when the time comes for poetic incarceration in Sussex – which is probably not far away now that it looks as if this war is as good as over – you will start to chafe at the bit, and begin eyeing up every passing clod in breeches, much to the detriment of my composure and our marriage.'

‘And your poetry, don't forget that. As if you ever could.'

‘What is that supposed to mean?'

‘Oh Harry, Sussex has all the appeal to me of a dead baby.'

‘But you have never been there.'

‘No, but how many people go backwards? A move from west to east is always a retrograde step. And besides, I am torn, Harry. Torn between love of you and love of my country – as you are torn between love of me and love of your poetry. Surely the solution is simple – we live here and you write here.'

I had to think about this for a few moments.

‘Aye, that's all very well, but the literary honours and the patronage are all in London.'

‘If you were a real poet you would not care about honours or patronage.'

Stung, I whipped out my new composition, and thrust it in her face.

‘The work of a real poet, Madam. Tossed off in ten minutes. Why not use such God given talent to make a living for us both on the hallowed shores of Albion, or even – if it would excite you more – on the banks of the fabled Thames?'

Sophie scanned it, and handed it back with a frown.

‘Oh, let us not argue about this now. We will sort something out, my dear. The main thing is that we are together again. Let us celebrate the moment, and promise that misunderstandings will not come between us again.'

‘Very well,' I said, vaguely unsettled by the inconclusive outcome to my enquiries, ‘I promise.' I returned my poem to its nesting place inside my pocket.

‘If this is the end of the war,' said Sophie, briskly changing the subject, ‘- though I doubt that it is – then I am glad that it is over without too much American suffering, at least here at Fort Lee. I dread to think, however, what has happened over there.'

I followed Sophie's concerned gaze over to the smoking ruin of Fort Washington, and tried to work myself up into a similar pitch of caring, but without visible or audible evidence of suffering, the grim beauty of the scene only added to the wellbeing of my aesthetic senses. They were there, and I was here, after all. It could easily have been the other way around. The most I could do was sympathize with Sophie's sympathizing.

‘There, there, my dear. Do not think about it. ‘Tis over now. What is done is done.'

‘Harry, do you still have your spyglass, pray?'

‘Aye, my dear. I have it in my knapsack somewhere.'

‘Then hand it to me, sweetness. If I am fated never to experience war at first hand, then at least I may be able to report upon it from a distance. Perhaps I can observe some Hessian atrocity in progress, and report it to the Continental Congress.'

‘What good would that do?' I asked.

‘Lots, if it gets us a letter of commendation for our services to America. And if we are to settle here, then we need as many letters of commendation as we can get, from as many different sources. Ideally, one or two from your side would be beneficial too, just in case we find ourselves in a Tory town by mistake.'

I had to smile at the girl's curious mix of compassion, hard-headed opportunism and naivety.

‘If that is the aim, then surely there is no need to actually observe an atrocity in progress. Simply make one up. No-one will ever know.'

‘Oh no, I could not do that.
I'd know
, and the knowledge would forever haunt me.'

Nevertheless, I could see Sophie's mind ticking over as she scanned the New York shore of the Hudson river.

‘Ooooh, look at that!' she would exclaim at regular intervals, though maddeningly ignoring my pleas to explicate further.

‘What?' I would plead, staring desperately at the barrel of the telescope, ‘What? What?'

Chuckling, Sophie kept the spyglass to her eye, and pushed away my clutching hands.

‘British troops on their way over. Lots of them. And my, are they handsome! Just look at the juicy thighs on that one!'

Feeling keen pangs of jealousy, my heart sank, taking every poetic sensibility with it. My decline from Godlike poet to whipped dog was complete. I pouted, sulked, and felt like crying. Eventually, goaded beyond even a gentleman's limit, I could play the forbearing husband no more, and snatched the spyglass from her in an energetic fit of pique.

‘Pah!' I sneered, scanning wildly the blur of soldiery on the opposite shore, ‘call those thighs? I've seen better legs hanging out of a sparrow's nest.'

‘You poor sap!' laughed Sophie, ‘I was only teasing.' Adding, ‘But see! See how it feels, not being the only one in your lover's life. Now you know how I felt when I heard about Eloise.'