Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  ‘Temporary.’

  ‘You will be staying for the dance though, won’t you? It should be a good one this year, things being as they are.’

  ‘Well, we could do, I suppose. We will see how it goes.’

  ‘That’s cagey spy talk,’ said the fat boy, ‘Wishy-washy, mealy-mouthed, non-committal. Let’s tell the committee.’

  ‘Let’s play football instead,’ suggested another.

  ‘No, let’s chase that skunk over at Marsh’s Farm.’

  ‘If you stay,’ said the serious one, as the others began jumping up at each other like mad frogs, ‘you will need a room for the night. But the tavern is full, what with all these people in town.’

  ‘We will find somewhere, never fear. But thank you for your help. Now, young man, if you will kindly direct us to the tavern.’

  ‘’Tis over there,’ said the boy, pointing to an unadorned building next to the church. Many revellers, I now noticed, were going straight from one to the other.

  ‘Ah, no wonder we couldn’t find it – we were looking for a tavern sign.’

  ‘Why have a sign when you can have the real thing? Look closer. See, at the side of the tavern there, rotting away, is the plow that turned over Hackensack’s first furrow, and alongside it is the ax that decapitated Hackensack’s first Indian.’

  ‘You must be very proud of your history,’ said Dick.

  ‘Bored more like. History’s for worms. That’s why I’m eager for this war to get under way in New Jersey. We all are, aren’t we, boys?’

  The boys huzzahed again.

  ‘That’s why we are getting some bayonet practice in – in case General Washington gets short of men, and has to call up boys of our age. We’ve been refused already by the Continental Recruiting Party, but we’re going to try again later when they’re drunk. Now the harvest is in we’re all free for the winter, and we’ll learn far more with George Washington than with Miss Dimmock, our schoolteacher.’

  ‘You’ll learn that war is not a game,’ I counselled.

  ‘Aye, that’s what they all say – but they say it proudly, as though they are better than you for having experienced it.’

  I smiled at his precociousness, and we admired each other in silence for several moments until the fat boy, puff regained, shouted, ‘Show us your gun, mister!’

  I was about to oblige when the approach of two more strangers made another lad cry out excitedly: ‘Here’s some more! Never seem them before either. Now they do look like spies!’

  ‘Well, they could be,’ said the distracted fat boy dubiously, peering in the direction indicated.

  ‘They are,’ insisted the baggy-breeched one, instantly chivvying his troops into battle formation with commands of extreme seriousness. ‘Bayonets fixed, boys!’ he shouted when all were in line. ‘Ready?’ They eyed their new prey hungrily. ‘Then charge!’

  And away they went, scampering raggedly towards the newcomers. Some fell over their feet before they’d gone ten yards, some veered wildly off course, some collided with dashing pigs or Hackensack worthies and some ploughed straight into cowpats, on which they slid dismally. As in a real charge by their elders, only a small percentage got through to their target, but those that did caused considerable damage and fright.

  ‘What long-term chance do we have, Dick, when boys of that age are keen to do battle with us? Are there boys in England now pretending to bayonet Americans?’

  ‘No, ‘tis bayoneting Frenchmen that is their dream.’

  ‘That’ll be us one day soon,’ said I, ‘though not so eager, nor so easy to repair afterwards.’

  There was a thin line between the poignancy of the Latin Night and gut-wrenching depression, and this throwaway remark instantly plunged us into the latter state. Needing immediate solace for our existence, we turned our horses and headed quickly towards the Ax and Plow Tavern, hoping it could oblige.

  20

  The Ax and Plow Tavern

  The Ax and Plow Tavern (as it was curiously spelt, a sign no doubt of the country’s appalling educational standards) had all the attraction to me of a smoked-out apiary. I sensed angry activity inside, but the two old drones sitting outside on a bench looked drowsy enough.

  ‘Campaignin’ weather,’ I heard one of them say, as he squinted up at the cloudless sky. ‘They’ll be ‘ere afore long, you mark my words. It’ll be all bayonets, bullets and bollocks then.’

  ‘Aye, Luke, it will, but don’t let the ladies hear you talkin’ like that – ye’ll scare ‘em to death.’

  ‘Excite ‘em to death, more like. I know that lot. Bloody whores the lot of ‘em!’

  Whether Luke’s misogyny had something to do with his toothless gums, I could not say, but in him I saw a flash vision of myself in forty or fifty years’ time, sitting on a similar bench outside a similar tavern in Sussex, crabby and cynical, untouched by Love or Kindness, slobbering on about My Time In America, as if anyone would be interested. I was so shaken by this image that I failed to see a step and would have entered the tavern head-first had I not managed to pull myself upright with much fumbling against the door frame. The drones look up with curiosity.

  ‘Blind, is he?’ the misogynist said.

  ‘Yes, blind,’ said Dick, humouring them for some reason.

  And indeed, this was a most prophetic response, for a moment later I was blind, made so by a pall of tobacco smoke so thick a bayonet could not have penetrated it, and a darkness so profound after the bright sunshine that coloured blobs of light danced around like the Aurora Borealis in my brain. The unevenly flagged floor made matters even worse, so that I swayed and staggered as if back on the night-time deck of the Twinkle. And from every direction came the tremendous noise the Devils were making, holding their conversations with each other at the tops of their voices, in a language so unintelligible it could have been the Babel Debating Society for all I could make of it. Not until we had wormed our way into the core did my ear finally adjust, but even then I was only able to pick out the odd phrase:

  ‘…Eleven shillings a barrel! At times like these! “Toodle-ay,” I told him, “Toodle-ay, Sir!”…’

  ‘…Ezekiel Newbold is the man you want for that job. I’ll have a word with him tomorrow…’

  ‘…What wonderful weather, the best September I can remember…’

  ‘…Yes, ‘tis good indeed to have so many visitors in town, and I am greatly looking forward to the frivolities of the afternoon and evening. Even I may be forced to dance……’

  ‘…I despise the Continental Army rabble, and I don’t care if they do overhear me, Robert. They are not proper soldiers, and there is an end of the matter…’

  ‘…They have more officers than soldiers, ‘tis said…’

  ‘…Damn the Revolution. Before it I paid a shilling in tax to the king and was safe for the year; now I pay nothing to anyone but am not safe ever…’

  ‘…It will be worth it, Martin, just have patience…’

  ‘…Nathaniel Brown’s wife? Nice little piece. Shame I have to hang her husband – a nice fellow if deluded politically. I think I will go round and comfort her when he’s gone…’

  My sight slowly returning, dark shapes starting to reveal themselves, I looked with distaste on this last speaker, and was not surprised to see that he had all the appearances of a justice of the peace – a big, fat, contemptible slob, who would clearly do well out of the war by staying as far away from the fighting as possible, and feeding off the misery of others. Whereas in the past I would have been content to pillory him in a satire, I felt an overwhelming urge to shoot him dead there and then, and trembled with the knowledge that I had the power to do so. This brutalization of my instincts I had no hesitation in laying at the door of sexual frustration.

  ‘What’s it to be then, Harry?’ Dick called, having attracted the attention of a waiter.

  ‘Have they an eggnog?’

  The conversion in the immediate vicinity ceas
ed, and now it was my turn to be examined keenly.

  ‘Spruce beer, metheglin, or cider only.’

  The beer was no good in America, metheglin was vile the world over, so it had to be cider. I was waiting for it to arrive, when one of my scrutinizers stepped forward and addressed me.

  ‘And what, Sir, is your problem?’

  He was a loathsome specimen – mean little eyes, no wig, no lips, smelling strongly of earth, like a newly-risen corpse.

  ‘My problem, Sir?’

  ‘You ordered an eggnog.’

  ‘I did indeed, Sir. An eggnog is a very nourishing drink.’

  ‘Not for Patriots, Sir. Real Patriots do not drink eggnogs.’

  ‘Aye, don’t you know that eggs are needed for the war effort?’ chimed in a second lout.

  ‘Why, have we not enough bullets, gentlemen?’

  This attempt to defuse the situation with classic humour did not go down well, and I was subject to withering Revolutionary scorn, and told with laughable seriousness that eggs were needed to feed the troops of the Flying Camp. They also assured me I would be up before the Revolutionary Committee of Correspondence – whatever that was – if I dared make such a flippant remark again.

  ‘Trouble, Harry?’ said Dick, handing over the drinks and eyeballing the Compost Man.

  ‘Eggnogs are considered treasonable drinks in this part of the country, Dick, ‘tis all.’

  ‘Really? Then why is it that General Washington himself drinks eggnogs?’

  ‘He does not!’ disputed the lout hotly.

  ‘I think you will find, Sir, that he does. One when he wakes up, and one before he goes to bed.’

  ‘Verify your information, Sir!’

  ‘’Tis the stiff of legend, Sir. Verification is not necessary.’

  The Patriots turned their backs on us and debated this revelation amongst themselves. Dick tipped me a wink as we quaffed our cider, which turned out to be worse than metheglin, all gravelly and sour. It was becoming a problem knowing what to drink in this country, and Dick and I were discussing alternatives when the foreman of the jury – a craggyfaced handsome man with a stern bearing – returned with its verdict.

  ‘In the absence of positive proof one way or the other as regards to General Washington’s drinking preferences, we will let the matter rest for the time being. But if our continued enquiries reveal that the General does not indulge in such luxuries, and you are still in town when the confirmation comes through, then we will hang you as a traitor, Sir, to the glorious Patriot cause.’

  I was for hot remonstration at this surly talk, but Dick was on top diplomatic form, and dampened the situation with a mild ‘Fair enough, Squire. You know best.’

  ‘I am glad we agree on that point. Now, gentlemen, if you’d kindly show us your papers.’

  The dog stretched out his hand and gestured imperiously with his fingers.

  ‘May I ask on whose authority?’ I said, acting up the Offended Citizen.

  ‘On the authority of the Hackensack Committee of Internal Danger.’

  My face continuing blank, he showed me his card. I took it and read it with a great show of interest, tilting it at all angles against what slanting sunlight there was. In truth, I could make out little of what was on it, but gave it back to him with a satisfied nod of my head, not wanting to push my luck further.

  ‘That was all I required,’ I said, haughty as a bishop, ‘Now you may have my papers.’

  ‘If ‘tis internal danger you’re on the lookout for,’ piped up Dick, as he handed his papers over too, ‘why don’t you arrest the apples and hang them back on the trees? This cider is abominable, gentlemen; my guts are being griped something rotten.’

  ‘Those, Sir, are the finest Hackensack Valley apples you are damning,’ explained a man with shaggy eyebrows and a squint, who stepped forward as if he was the head of the Apple Committee. ‘You will not find better apples anywhere else in the world.’

  ‘Tell my guts that,’ said Dick. Frowning, tight-lipped, hopping from foot to foot, he did give the appearance of one in remarkable abdominal pain. So polished was his mimicry that for a moment even I was convinced he had swigged his last; indeed, had he not collapsed to his knees in agony, spilling his cider over the floor and hugging his belly, as though bayoneted by a ghost, I would have been mightily concerned. This overegging of the dramatic pudding, however, convinced me that all was well, and made we wonder about the motive behind it. Then, glancing at the distracted reaction of the committee men who were perusing our papers, I remembered Taylor Woodbine’s little aside that our forged papers were not of the best, a top American forger not having been captured yet. He had advised us not to produce them in poor light unless pushed, and never in good light unless we were in the mood for a fight. Although they had passed muster at Paulus Hook, we did not want to push our luck further, especially as the Hackensack Militia seemed much keener than General Mercer in matters of pettifogging officialdom. I was about to sink groaning to my knees to offer a double distraction, when the craggyfaced handsome man folded the papers and handed them back to me.

  ‘Alarm over, gentlemen, ‘tis not our apples that are at fault,’ he announced with smug relish. ‘We have before us two booksellers from New York.’

  There were exhalations of relief all round, combined with much coughing laughter and backslapping. Two men who were about to go to Dick’s assistance stopped in their tracks, and derisively flapped the palms of their hands at him instead. I had the impression from the general tone of amusement that both bookseller and New York were sources of mirth in their own right, which, when used together in the same sentence, gave satisfaction far in excess of the sum of the constituent parts.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ I said, feeling vicariously protective of both trade and city.

  ‘It means, Sir, weak stomachs not used to manly fare.’

  ‘It might also mean Tories,’ piped up someone else.

  ‘Effete eggnoggers,’ came in another accusation.

  ‘The Devil’s Men,’ rumbled an unseen religious crackpot.

  It seemed likely the whole tavern would chip in with some derogatory comment or other, given time to think, so after helping Dick to his feet I hastened to put a spoke in their slowly grinding brains by offering them a challenge.

  ‘Can I presume, in that case, that all you men are drinking cider?’

  They all looked in their pots, and were silent.

  ‘Metheglin?’

  The guilt increased.

  ‘Beer?’

  There was a lusty chorus of affirmation, and much splashy potwaving.

  ‘Then, to ensure a level playing field, I suggest we try the beer.’

  ‘Are you challenging us to a drinking contest?’ said a little rat of a man with a sly gleam in his eye, his head bending towards me ready to pick up the faintest yes. In fact, I was very tempted to say yes, for although my experience with Burnley Axelrod had not been a good one, these men did not look in his class, nor was American beer much more intoxicating than water. I agonized for several seconds, as the man’s right ear came ever nearer my lips, but eventually I said no, afraid of what monster specially reserved for the occasion might be wheeled out of a back room. I was able to rationalize my decision by telling myself that I needed to be upright if success with the ladies was to be achieved later, as well as compos mentis if spying secrets were not to be spilled all over Hackensack. At heart, however, I knew shame when I felt it stab, and I began to realize that the art of spying provided a convenient umbrella for cowardice and the evasion of moral duties. Stung, I launched into justification by words alone.

  ‘There is no need for that. I simply feel that we have a right to be judged under the same criteria as everyone else, before sweeping metaphysical judgements are extrapolated from the bare facts of our occupations, our hometowns, and the conditions of our stomachs.’

  There was wonder at this remark, and rightl
y so in my opinion. Rarely, even in my finest poetry, had such fluency come out unbidden. It would be many a century, I imagined, before New Jersey would be witness to such panting eloquence again. Indeed, from the way everyone looked at me I could tell what they were thinking – that I was Thomas Jefferson’s right-hand man, the real framer of their slippery misguided Declaration. I watched without surprise therefore as a silverhaired ruddycheeked old gentleman detached himself from his colleagues and approached me. I put on a modest demeanour and bowed to him as he came up close and took the pipe out of his mouth to speak.

  ‘I knew a lad like you once.’

  ‘Aye?’ I said pleasantly, waiting for the eulogy. ‘And what happened to him?’

  ‘We ‘ung ‘im for a sodomite.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said the craggy-jawed leader, ‘Hosea is not known for his appreciation of art and eloquence. However, to prove that we are not all of the same philistinian bent, the rest of us are pleased to make your acquaintance. Let me introduce my boys – Terence Deeps, a veteran of the French and Indian War…’ The Apple Committee man stepped forward. ‘…Saul Pipe, carpenter…’ The Compost Man raised his pot slightly. ‘…Destiny Looms, weaver…’ The round-shouldered man winced in apparent agony of spirit. ‘…Half-Cock Henderson, baker…’ The ratty one’s eyes gleamed. ‘…and I – if you cannot read well – Major Shrimpton Thunders. Together we form part of the Hackensack Militia, which is not to be confused under any circumstances with the Continental Army, representatives of which you will see in town today. They are mercenaries, as often as not from other colonies, and they are rogues and rascals, pure and simple.’ Mr Thunders paused to scowl into the gloom at the far side of the tavern, from whence emanated Bad Vibrations, presumably generated by the rascals alluded to. ‘But I digress. Gentlemen, we have before us Harry…what was it now?…Harry Oysterman Esquire, and Richard, er…don’t tell me, don’t tell me, let me try and remember…er…Richard Lickley, Esquire…’

  Honoured that he had remembered my name easily enough, I bowed and flourished my hand Macaroni-style. Immediately they all backed away, as if I had the plague.