Infernal Revolutions (49 page)

‘Now it is your turn to be boorish, Harry. I may be young, but you must appreciate that I have had a very privileged upbringing. Expressing surprise that I know a line or two from Virgil is like expressing surprise that a baker's son knows how to bake a penny loaf; especially when I have had the inestimable Dr Witherspoon as a personal tutor.'

I had heard of the scoundrel, a prominent Rebel, and requested verification.

‘What,
the
Dr Witherspoon, of Princeton?'

‘The very one. He and my father are great friends, and the aim is for me to study at the College of New Jersey when the war is over. Indeed, my father is on first name terms with many of the leaders of our revolution…' Timothy's sweetly serious face scrutinized the flow of water from pitcher to bathtub, as if planning a future scientific investigation. ‘…Indeed, several of them have stayed here at one time or another, and dandled me on their knees.'

‘Aye?'

‘Yes. Israel Putnam, Sam Adams, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, Charles Lee, Tom Paine, Paul Revere, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson – to name but several.'

‘Some knees,' I said, in genuine but I hoped not boorish astonishment, ‘some dandlers. So who, may I ask, was your favourite?'

This question, a patronizing sop to the genius's youth, slipped out unintentionally, and I braced myself for a rebuke that never came.

‘Oh, Old Put, without a doubt. He told us some wonderful stories about his life. He once killed a wolf in its den, you know, and survived a shipwreck in Cuba.'

The enthusiasm that shone in Timothy's eyes was delightful to see.

‘And your least favourite?'

‘Charles Lee. A genius, I'm sure – very well read and a wonderful linguist and commander – but so uncouth and dirty as to beggar all belief. And those stinking dogs of his that follow him around everywhere – ugh!'

Here was another slip of the halo – a childish puckering of the nose that connected him to schoolboys everywhere. I began to suspect thin topsoil.

I questioned him on the other worthies mentioned while my hand was in, and received in return very credible thumbnail sketches of them all, useful should I ever meet any of them, though Timothy's description of Benjamin Franklin was almost too naive to bear.

‘Yes,' said the puzzled youngster, as he gestured for me to undress and step into the bathtub, ‘a very curious fellow. Insisted on giving my mother private instruction in the cellar, about some scientific matter, he said. I think he may have been pursuing his investigations into electricity upon her, for she emerged dishevelled and red as a beetroot. They must have been successful though, for he emerged smiling, and had an air of conquest about him.'

This was sad yet familiar stuff, and I lowered myself into the tub with a heavy sigh.

‘I am sorry if I'm boring you, Harry, but I was only answering your question.'

‘No, no. You are not boring me at all. A sudden wave of spiritual weariness came over me, that's all.'

‘Aren't you a little young to be having those?'

‘Some people are prone to them and some aren't. I am.'

‘Never mind. A good scrubbing will soon revive your spirits. Here, give me the brush and the soap.'

Taking off his coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves, Timothy promptly attacked me with great vigour and expertise, so that my skin was soon buffed up to a resplendent, if sore, redness.

‘Yes,' panted Timothy, ‘Mother has an exquisite nose. Not one male visitor has yet managed to escape banishment to this scullery, so don't feel indignant at this treatment. In my opinion, you are one of the sweetest-smelling men I have ever washed. Not like Tom Paine, who was the very Devil to clean. Grime on him like caked porridge. A drunk too, though a surprisingly good-natured one. Also possessor of the largest penis I have ever seen on man or beast.'

Surprised by this
non sequitur
, I instinctively crossed my legs, and wafted some thick soap bubbles over the area referred to. But ‘twas too late….

‘At least twice the size of yours, Harry. Probably three times as big.'

Finding myself unable to share Timothy's evident enthusiasm for the wonders of anatomical mensuration, I quickly diverted the Prodigy's thoughts back to less
Paineful
channels, by asking him what he studied at school.

‘Everything,' said Timothy artlessly.

‘Can one brain take in Everything?'

‘Dr Witherspoon's can, and mine will too, I hope, when I am older.'

‘What are you studying at the moment?'

‘Well, let me see now,' said Timothy, ending the scrubbing and leaving me to soak, ‘there is Descartes and Locke in philosophy; the writings of Dr Priestley in theology; Virgil's Georgics; the tragedies of Euripedes; some parts of Theocritus; as well as the usual things like mathematics, modern languages, astronomy, politics and modern history.'

‘So you are not going to be a farmer when you grow up?'

‘No, Harry. Or at least not before I've been a lawyer, an orator and a politician first.' Timothy dried his hands and arms with a towel, put his coat back on and sat, feet swinging, on a chair. ‘So tell me, Harry, what do you do?'

‘I?' squirmed I, in no mood for a serious examination of my bogus career. ‘Oh, I'm just a bookseller from New York.'

Timothy, however, showed no surprise or contempt. Nor did he patronize me.

‘Oh, have you got the speeches of Demosthenes in the original Greek? Pa has been searching all over the Continent for such a book for me.'

‘I did have, but ‘twas lost in the Fire.'

‘Well damn me!' said Timothy, a charming look of fretfulness on his sweet face. ‘What a high price one has to pay for the defence of civil liberties.'

This was delightful stuff, and I could have listened to the youngster all night, but he had reminded me of the urgent need for defence of my own civil liberties, the price of which I rated much higher than some mouldering old book. I stepped out of the bathtub and quickly dried and dressed myself while Timothy practised his oratory on me.

‘But as a bookseller, Harry – nay, as a
displaced
bookseller, have you enough money to look after Miss Sophie? Do you care for her? Will you look after her when she is old and barren? Can you turn your hand to the plough or the musket as expedience dictates? Can you weather the vicissitudes of life without turning to the solace of drink?' Timothy shuddered dramatically. ‘Do not drink, Harry, I beseech you. It is the ruin of all decent men, one way or another…'

These were the private convictions of Dr Witherspoon coming out, I fancied, making me suspect that the renowned doctor was a prodigious imbiber on the sly. But not one for shattering the illusions of the young before events did it for them, I merely promised not to do so. I was setting off to rejoin the ladies when a shuffle and a clumsy knock was heard at the door.

‘Is that you, Betsy?' called Timothy.

‘Yes!' exclaimed Betsy, struggling with the door knob, before kicking the door open and staring wide-eyed into the room. ‘Mamma says that you are to come with me now….and send
him
…' she pointed at me, ‘back in.'

‘
Harry
, Betsy. Not
him
. That is bad manners. And ‘tis also rude to point.'

Betsy clutched her doll baby tightly, and turned coy.

‘He's a bad man,' she insisted.

Timothy smiled at me, then took Betsy by the hand and led her out.

‘Do not be offended, Harry; she is getting tired. It is time to lead you up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire, is it not, young lady?'

Betsy pouted, and gave me a few valedictory scowls.

‘Oh well, Harry, this looks like the end of our acquaintance for this evening. I will put Betsy to bed and then read in my room until eleven. Mother says reading by candlelight is bad for my eyes, and that Bach and Handel went blind from burning the midnight oil, but only God knows how long I have left on this earth, and how can one sleep when there is so much to learn? One must weigh up the odds and take one's chances. Besides, the autumn nights are long when father is away, so what else is there to do?'

Nothing, I agreed, gazing with admiration at the estimable youngster, who had single-handedly boosted my opinion of America and Americans. His embodiment of learning without arrogance or snobbery implied habitual use of virtues unheard of back home.

‘I will say goodnight now, Harry, and I will see you in the morning. I hope your conversation with mother is enjoyable, and not straitened by the dictates of polite etiquette. Say goodnight, Betsy.'

Betsy frowned at me, then raised a hand and repeatedly brought her four fingers down on her thumb, as though projecting some shadow monster on the candlelit wall.

‘She's young,' explained Timothy needlessly, tenderly guiding her back into the corridor. ‘Now, we go this way, Harry. You know your way back, don't you?'

I thought of ruffling Timothy's hair in a gesture of
bonhomie
, but demurred in favour of something more in keeping with a future lawyer, orator and politician, whose brains and manners were already those of a responsible twenty-year-old. So, after a bow and a handshake, I made my way back to the ladies, pondering all the while whether any offspring of Sophie's and mine would turn out as well.

After a few wrong turnings, I found Sophie and Abigail in an exquisite high-ceilinged drawing room, which was decorated in the colonial style with fashionable spindle-backed chairs. They were seated in front of a fire, with a bottle of wine placed between them on a small table. Wiping away the image of a smirking Benjamin Franklin, I stepped forward and addressed to Abigail a sincere eulogy of her children, nevertheless hoping that a pint of wine and a warm early bed would be my reward.

‘Well, I must say, Mrs Bush, those are the most exquisite children I have ever seen in my life. What a credit they are to yourself and Mr Bush. Betsy is charming but Timothy is charming and astounding – such knowledge, such politeness, such wisdom. Not one of my associates in the New York bookselling fraternity can hold a candle to him, and I thought them men of high culture. ‘Tis strange, because only last week I was at a trade meeting where the speaker was a relative of the great if lamentably Tory James Rivington, and he was saying how much this country needs a nursery of young geniuses who can show the Europeans where the true future of mankind lies; youngsters who are adornments to our nation, and advertisements for our country's physical, political and social superiority over the Europeans.'

‘Only last week, Mr Oysterman?' said Abigail, looking at me very coldly.

Irritated that my Timothy-inspired eloquence had not brought the house down, I responded very testily.

‘Aye, only last week. Tuesday, to be precise. Around half past seven in the evening. Or was it quarter to eight…?'

‘Or was it never?'

Outraged that my lying should be disbelieved, I shot daggers at her, before turning a look of entreaty on Sophie.

‘She knows about us,' said Sophie, seemingly having difficulty in keeping a straight face. ‘I told her everything.'

Though not ashamed of what I'd done, I could not help blushing at the ridiculousness of my situation. Equally, I was annoyed with Sophie for not giving me some sign of warning that my secret was out.

‘Ah, how whimsical. How capricious. How rug-pulling. A sudden access of guilt, was it, dearest?'

‘No, ‘twas the sudden access of your army jacket, with Betsy somewhere inside it. Not hidden well enough in the wagon. Letters stuffed in pockets. Gave the game away good and proper. ‘Twas not easy to continue the charade after that; had I lied further, simple cross-examination of you would have revealed the truth.'

I sighed with disappointment at the ease of Sophie's capitulation. A redcoat's jacket was not the most difficult thing in the world to explain away. Personally I would have lied on, and brazened it out, but what was done was done. So, proved to be a liar, I took a seat and poured myself a glass of wine without waiting to be asked. There was no further point in behaving like a gentleman now that the dangerous roads beckoned once more.

‘So what is the result of all the truth-letting?'

‘The result, Harry, is that we must be on our way first thing in the morning.'

‘I thought as much, but that was our plan anyway.'

You Liar!
was the look that Abigail shot me. I sighed and swigged some more wine, waiting for the inevitable lecture on Puritan morality. It came after several minutes of the most awkward silence, during which the formerly unnoticed ticking of a grandfather clock seemed to get louder and more threatening by the second.

‘If you had only told the truth to me when you arrived, I would have been happy to help you. But I cannot abide lying: it demeans the speaker and the listener equally. The children whom you
profess
to so much admire are brought up never to lie.'

‘Quite right when they are children, but when they are adults they will have to lie like troopers or be locked up. The adult world is never black and white at the best of times, is it?'

‘It may not be in decadent England, Mr Oysterman, but it is here.'

‘Sometimes loyalty comes before truth.'

‘Oh, and what would
you
know about loyalty?'

‘At least as much as you know about telling the truth.'

‘Oh, and what does that mean?'

Whipping Benjamin Franklin's name out would have been a low and dirty blow, so instead I said: ‘I don't know. I am merely trying to say that our circumstances are more desperate than yours. Truth is a luxury we cannot afford.'

‘Do you think our situation is not desperate, Mr Oysterman? Do you think that all my husband and I have worked for is not about to be wiped out by the vengeful Tories? Because I can assure you that it is, Sir, on both counts.'