Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘New York’s gone then?’ Mr De Witt began chattily, as he tinkled with a decanter and glasses.

  ‘Up in smoke,’ Dick confirmed. ‘We saw it, did we not, Harry?’

  ‘We did, Dick. History in the unmaking.’

  ‘We saw the smoke from here, of course. Made for a very dramatic sunrise, which Eloise captured most exquisitely with her oils. She is quite an accomplished painter, you know.’

  ‘I can well imagine, Mr De Witt,’ I replied, taking the offered glass of spirits. I could also well imagine her elegant hands gently soaping my bucking cock, but I did not tell Mr De Witt this. Really, what better companion could there be for an accomplished poet than an accomplished painter? The sex would be sensational.

  ‘So what is to be done now?’ said Mr De Witt, sitting at the harpsichord and performing an absentminded little run.

  ‘Ah yes, what now is to be done?’ I sighed, so relaxed I could barely get the words out. Legs stretched out, one hand in pocket, one hand holding my glass on my belly, it suddenly occurred to me that I resembled the new husband in Mr Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode. This added even more relish to my luscious inner visions.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ mumbled Dick, starting to nod off. ‘To be done what is now to be?’

  I looked over at him indulgently. He was staring at his glass like a drunken baby. The good man!

  ‘About New York I mean,’ persisted Mr De Witt.

  ‘They’ll rebuild it better than ever,’ I guessed languidly.

  ‘Berrerthaneverr,’ Dick echoed from the chambers of sleep.

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘Oh…they…’ I waved him aside with some irritation. ‘The builders…someone will…perhaps us. Don’t worry about it. Towns have been burnt down before. London was, you know. We did not make a bad job of rebuilding that.’

  ‘Tell me about England, Mr Oysterman.’

  ‘What, all of it?’ I groaned, feeling like a fat comfortable sausage being pricked by a fork of vague and irrelevant questions. I fear I squirmed visibly.

  ‘Just the parts you know will do. If, of course, ‘tis not too much trouble.’

  Mr De Witt played a threatening little tune reminiscent of Bach’s Toccata.

  I looked at Dick with hatred; the bastard, leaving me to this bore. I tried to kick him awake, but I only succeeded in modulating the tone of his snores.

  ‘Well,’ I said, rising with effort and moving towards the window doors, ‘’tis a long story. I live on the edge of what are called the Sussex Downs…sheep are plentiful there, as are cows, and the bullocks are the biggest in the…Good God! What is that black thing moving about on the hillside?’

  ‘That’ll be Elzevir, our nigger slave.’

  ‘No, this really is a thing, not human. Look, quick, over there!’

  I beckoned him over and stood as though terrified with one finger pointing shakily at a ridge of pine trees.

  ‘What was it? What did it look like?’ he said excitedly.

  ‘Like a…like a…like an enormous great cannon…facing this way.’

  ‘What!? Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Between those trees on the ridge.’

  ‘I’m going out to investigate. It could be the O’Sullivan gang up to their old tricks. They might even have captured Elzevir. You two stay here to protect my daughters. If I’m not back in thirty minutes come and look for me. Get ready for action in any case.’ He threw off his wig and raced for the hall, from which came the sound of much clattering, as if a musket were being loaded.

  ‘Has he gone?’ said Dick, raising an eyelid as soon as the front door had slammed.

  ‘In body and in mind. Fancy falling for the old Quaker gun trick. The man’s a bag of nerves. I should not have done that really.’

  ‘Well, he did provoke you.’

  ‘You were awake all the time, I suppose.’

  ‘Half and half. I was tired, and I knew we would get lumbered; ‘tis in his eyes, that pedantic look. Decided I was better off out of it. Besides, you seemed to be enjoying your role as special ambassador to His Majesty’s Government.’

  ‘There he goes, look.’

  Tipping back our drinks, we watched the Dutchman stealthily crouch his way up the hillside, the tails of his brown morning coat flapping, his musket jerking rhythmically up and down.

  ‘I feel guilty now. I think I shall call him back and beg his apology.’

  I was physically prevented from opening the window door.

  ‘Don’t be such a blockhead, Harry. ‘Tis too late for that now. Besides which, you do realize that we are alone in the house with two fine-looking wenches – admittedly only one of which has the disposition to go with the looks.’

  ‘Eloise, you mean?’

  ‘Eloise? That drip? No, Clara.’

  ‘Drip?’ I exclaimed, astonished. ‘Why, she is the most beautiful girl I have ever met.’

  ‘Well, that she may be, but ‘tis obvious that she will not perform a dive in the dark; unlike Clara, who looks as though she could take on regiments and still have energy left to peel potatoes. That is a real woman for you – vivacious, unruly and hot as a priming pan. Forget Eloise, and come hunting Clara with me if ‘tis your virginity you want to lose.’

  ‘I am not a virgin,’ I blushed ashamedly. ‘There was Nutmeg Nell, if you remember.’

  ‘Oh, that was true, was it? We thought you were making it up.’

  ‘Well, parts of it I was, but…’

  ‘But nothing, come with me.’

  Emotionally unsettled, I stepped over to the harpsichord and tinkled out a tune of grisly dissonance. If Dick’s prognosis of the situation was correct, ‘twas a straight choice between chaste love and messy but invigorating sex.

  ‘No good thinking about it, Harry, you just have to go with your instincts in a case like this.’ There was a pause. ‘And I know where my instincts are taking me. I wonder how my dinner is getting on.’

  With that Dick gave me a manly wink, plucked and waggled my cheek, and headed off to the kitchen very cocky. A few seconds later came the expected shriek, followed by an imprecation and the sound of a plate smashing. I did, I admit, toy with the idea of joining Dick for a piece of Clara’s pie, but I knew I could not go through with it; I feared I would merely end up making tea for them after a permitted grope or two. Besides, after the Nutmeg Nell debacle, I found the prospect of a cool, nunlike kiss from Eloise infinitely more attractive than a full-blown roust from Clara – though admittedly I would not refuse a lower body wash if Eloise offered. So, mind made up, a kiss my sole ambition, I terminated my artistry mid-fugue and set out to find Eloise. As I could not avoid passing the kitchen on my way out I stomped loudly to warn of my approach, but the silence was so cryptlike that I assumed Dick and Clara had moved on. Peering in just to check, I was immediately confronted by the error of my assumption, for there, a King among the cabbages, carrots and onions, was Dick, sitting on the kitchen table being enthusiastically spigotlicked by Clara.

  ‘Come to join us, mate?’ asked Dick in short gasps, all sorts of strange twitchings going on in his facial muscles. ‘Wondrous, this,’ he averred.

  And indeed it did seem wondrous, for Clara’s bonnet was off and her long blonde hair was cascading all over his groin. For a moment my jaw dropped and my mouth went dry, but I managed to work up some saliva by repeated swallowings, and thereby regain the gift of speech.

  ‘Yes, good,’ I croaked, ‘But I must go and see Eloise. I will come back later.’

  ‘Whatever,’ panted Dick, too absorbed in his ecstasy to care what happened. ‘Whatever, man. Up to you. Up to…up to…ahh God.’

  Knotted and gnarled that I was missing out a lot in life, I hurried outside. Had I done the right thing after all?

  Until I saw Eloise I thought not; indeed, had I not found her quickly I would have been forced to rut the stable door off its hinges. But
the sight of her soothed me, and immediately I felt like a guilty sinner advancing towards a church, the sanctuary of peace imminent. Rebecca-like, she was bending over, drawing water from a well; un-Rebecca-like, I noticed as I got closer, she had a fine pair of dairies on display, from which I had to avert my eyes if I was to retain the purity of my intentions.

  ‘Yo, Eloise,’ I called, a looselimbed and bouncy schoolboy again. ‘How is the waterbearer doing?’

  ‘Bearing up, Harry, thank you.’

  She unbent and turned round to look at me, scooping a stray strand of hair over her ear so as to see me the better.

  ‘Have you come to help me?’

  ‘Can I?’ I gushed, perhaps overplaying the innocence card.

  ‘I’d love you too.’

  For one palpitating moment I thought she said she loved me too, and I was close to executing a jeté leap to her breast which would have toppled us both into the well, there to be comically drowned in the midst of plenty. Comprehension arrived just in time, however, and I was able to abort my take-off and cringe up to her to accept the proffered bucket.

  ‘Did I see Papa go out earlier?’

  ‘Yes, he thought he saw something on the hillside.’

  ‘He is always seeing things; ‘tis the strain of this horrible war. Everything was so lovely before it began. Now we are all suffering because of the actions of a few hotheads. Is it not always the same, Harry?’

  It was, I agreed. Always.

  ‘My father emigrated from Europe to avoid war and build a good life for us after Momma died, but he finds himself embroiled once more in the same old thing. I guess some people are just plum unlucky.’

  Plum unlucky was a phrase I had not heard before, and my intellect noted it coolly for later discussion with Dick. Meanwhile, my emotions urged me to dump all buckets, take this poor careworn girl in my arms, and heal her with holy-modulating-to-sensual kisses.

  ‘So now we find ourselves in a vulnerable position. Papa’s too old to fight even if he wanted to, so all he can do is co-operate at not too great a cost with whoever passes through. We call this – in the cant phrase of the day – common sense; our enemies – that is, evil neighbours who want our land – call it treachery to the Rebel cause, and accuse us of being Loyalists, which is a funny thing to be accused of when you think about it. In reality, need I add, these neighbours no more care who wins the war than my father, so long as their own economic interests are served – their Revolutionary fervour is a sham. ‘Tis just dog eat dog, Harry; they are pitiless out here.’

  As an aid to detumescence, this lament had much going for it, and my stalk was now slack with the vicarious burdens of colonial life. What, I struggled to formulate while my facial expressions went through the usual diplomatic motions, was Eloise saying here? Did she want me to ride out with Dick and slay the neighbours? Did she want us to stay and protect them until the war was over? Did she want to cut her losses and elope with me? Was she merely relating events as she saw them, as though dictating to an invisible historian, without any ulterior motives? I sought clarification.

  ‘Then the sooner we get this war over with, the better,’ I said, as though I had some say in its outcome.

  ‘I do not think it matters when the war finishes, or who wins it,’ she said bleakly. ‘The bad blood has been stirred up irrevocably. Greed is the motivating force of this land, and the war has left us as exposed as worms in a newly-ploughed field, whereas before people hardly knew of our existence. Our neighbours see an old man without a male heir, and they cannot stop salivating. They know British protection, assuming you win, will not last forever; indeed, ‘twill not be very effective while it does last. Therefore Clara and I have agreed that we need good strong husbands to help us fight for our land. Selling up and moving, either westwards or back to Europe, has no honour in it, while a lifetime of backbreaking work and spinsterhood does nothing but delay the fateful day when the land passes from the De Witt family forever. No, ‘tis husbands and babies we need, Harry, and preferably before Pappa dies so that his final years can be happy ones, safe in the knowledge that his blood if not his name will be passed on through the generations. Oh, how dreadful it is to look reality full in the face!’

  How dreadful it was to look at Eloise’s face looking reality in the face. I had to try and cheer her up.

  ‘Is honour everything?’ I said. ‘Is not happiness at least as important? Are you not making a martyr of yourself by vowing to stay here no matter how bad things get? You have to drift with the tide, Eloise, because you are human. Why, even buildings are not permanent these days, as New York has proved. If buildings had any sense, and legs, they would have walked off up the Hudson as soon as the war broke out. They had no choice but to stay where they were and look at the price they have paid. Cremated. They can be rebuilt, though; you cannot.’

  At least the argument made her smile, if leaving her unconvinced.

  ‘Fancy like that is the sweetest topping I can think of in a man, but it can only be acquired as a result of economic and physical security; here we have barely reached the meat and potato course. You are too advanced and refined for life here. Indeed, I do not know what you are doing in the army in the first place; you should be out hunting with your hounds in one of those idyllic English counties I have heard so much about.’

  I laughed ironically at this, though I was in no mood at the moment to tell her why. In addition, I was discouraged by Dick’s prior deeming of my personal misfortune to be nothing out of the ordinary; which, compared to the imminent snuffing out of Eloise’s American home, I supposed it wasn’t.

  ‘So ‘tis shaggy, brutish frontiersmen for you, then?’ I said, saddened by the turn of the conversation.

  ‘Shaggy perhaps, Harry, but not brutish. I could not marry a man with no tenderness in him.’

  ‘Even if the alternative is hardworking, dangerous, ultimately futile spinsterhood?’

  ‘Someone will turn up.’

  I felt a rush of blood course through my head.

  ‘Someone has turned up – here, now, right in front of you. Aye, come away with me and be done with this foolish talk.’

  ‘What?’

  What indeed; what was I saying? I had not known her ten minutes and here I was proposing marriage. I listened to myself with a mix of fascination and horror, wondering what words would come out next.

  ‘You are a girl, and…er…I am a boy, or a man rather. We can have a most excellent life together…but only by moving on, spiritually and physically. Sticking here in…what’s this place called again?’

  ‘Hoboken.’

  ‘Aye…sticking here in Hoboken is the same as sticking at fifteen in a game of pontoon. There is a small chance you are going to win, but a much bigger chance you are going to lose, so I could rest my case on mere statistics alone. Also, and more importantly, I wish to declare that I think you are the loveliest girl I have ever met, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’

  I cringed inwardly as I heard myself say these words, so that I wished she would hurry up and put me out of my misery. When she did, after a few moments of wonderment, she did it in a very collected manner, as though such proposals were everyday occurrences.

  ‘I am flattered that you should think so. But where would we go, and what would we do? I do not want to become a camp follower of the British Army. No, no. You will make someone a lovely husband, Harry, but not me. I am sorry.’

  ‘Aye, aye, you are right of course,’ I blathered, blushing like a cherry, but at the same time vastly relieved. ‘I am sorry too. I do not know what came over me.’

  ‘Do not worry, Harry. ‘Tis a natural consequence of your youth, your impetuosity and your mettle. As I say, I am flattered.’

  I had to look twice to see if I had heard right – mettle was not a word I expected a girl of her breeding to use. Perhaps it did not mean in America what it meant in England, in which case she was closer to the truth than she knew
, for truly I was full of mettle, and simply could not give the stuff away.

  Wondering whether the shock of losing Philpott Hall had played a part in the over-eagerness of my marriage proposal, I stood lost in thought until Eloise gave a theatrical cough. Coming to with a flurry of apologies, I realised it was time to change the subject, and to retreat to the unemotional side of the conversational boundary line. So, exchanging mindless pleasantries, I helped Eloise carry bucketloads of water to a horsetrough several yards away. When it was full I asked Eloise how we were to carry it indoors without incurring hernias.

  ‘We don’t, Harry. We all bathe al fresco here, even in winter. But do not worry,

  no one will be watching you.’

  I looked over at the gawping windows of the house, and gave them a very doubtful look. Unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm, Eloise fussed around busily.

  ‘Here is your soap and towel…’

  She indicated a small grey knobbly lump on a neatly-folded grey cloth, a pitiful reminder of the hardships of colonial life, or perhaps of prolonged British taxation. Either way, ‘twas a far cry from the colourful, sweet-smelling toiletries I was used to in England, and my face muscles must have betrayed as much, for she added: ‘Luxury is relative, Harry. Our comforts may be simple by your standards, but before you get much further up the valley you will be grateful even for this….’

  ‘Oh no, Eloise,’ I protested vigorously, for I noticed she had become strangely agitated, ‘I was not thinking that.’

  ‘In fact up there…’ she waved, I presumed, northwards, ‘…you will be grateful even for your life! Oh!’

  Suddenly sobbing, she hitched up her skirts and scurried away, giving me one final glance over her shoulder before disappearing round the corner of the house, her face a crumpled premonition of doom.

  Sighing at the hopelessness of it all, no longer bothered who saw me, I took off my clothes and lowered myself limb by limb into the water. ‘Twas far colder than my elbow had suggested, and had I not been so stricken with Melancholy I would have leapt out again with alacrity. As it was I persevered in the hope of a cure, and to prove to Eloise how tough I was. This in practical terms meant that my limbs and body turned blue, my horn shrank to the size of a button, and my tarrywags vanished completely. Even more frighteningly, my heart began to pound furiously – the desperate thrashings of a trapped man in a sinking Arctic ship. Melancholia was put to rout all right, and in its place came the less pleasant sensation of Imminent Death. In an attempt to restart my circulation I bravely splashed a few handfuls of water over my submerged chest, but this simply turned me a deeper shade of blue, until I was pretty much the same colour as the reflected sky.