Infernal Revolutions

by Stephen Woodville

  My stomach lurched instinctively at the thought of having to do anything in battle, but confidential inside information helped me put a brave face on it.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said airily. ‘’Tis all the same to me. Now, is Pete still in the same room?’

  This show of mock bravery genuinely seemed to awe Thomas, for he spluttered rather than stated that aye, he was.

  ‘Then I shall go and see him. Come on, sweetie.’

  ‘He has asked not to be disturbed, but I am sure he will make an exception for you, Harry.’

  Leaving Thomas to mull over his own shameful cowardice, we entered the strangely officer-free hall. Then we ascended the grand staircase to Pete’s door, where the words LT WRIGGLE were less than grandly scrawled in chalk. A knock and a wait eliciting no response, I opened the door and walked in. Fast asleep on a mattress lay Pete, with his jacket unbuttoned and a lurid grin on his face. Beside him on top of the blankets lay Hartley, belly-up, tongue and paws lolling. This perfect Arcadian scene was marred only by six buckets full of filthy water dotted around the room in a most curious manner. Inspecting them after a brief survey of the wondrous room itself, Sophie came up with the only possible explanation – fire precautions. Then she limped over to the bed and peered closely at the duo as they feigned death.

  ‘Why, he is only a boy!’ she whispered up at me.

  ‘He is fifteen, as I told you. But he has the equipment of a man. Look!’

  The little pyramid of blanket halfway down the bed was not the accidental design of folded sheets.

  ‘Yes, but a boy of fifteen in New Jersey looks about twice his age.’

  ‘Now don’t get parochial, Sophie. Pete is a product of elegant breeding. He has been well cosseted. He appreciates the finer things in life.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Sophie contemptuously, as she surveyed his monogrammed silk pillow cases and the dazzling array of wigs on their stands. She was even more contemptuous when she pulled from under the bedclothes an empty madeira bottle.

  ‘Simple solace,’ I said, moving magnetically to the papers strewn on Pete’s desk. Curious to know what had tired the youth so, I lifted the page under his exquisite quill pen and read:

  7.30am…Wake up…Wash…Water to be tepid…(1 part hot/2 parts cold)

  7.45am…Have breakfast…no more than two pieces of toast lightly buttered…DO NOT OVERLOAD YOUR STOMACH…Feed Hartley…

  8.30am…One hour of German…must understand the Hessian dogs…

  9.30am…Rest…

  9.40am…Learn military history…

  10.20am…Rest…

  10.30am…Reply to letters of complaint from looted Tories…

  12.00pm…Dine elegantly…DO NOT OVERLOAD STOMACH…Feed Hartley…

  2.00pm…Attend drill parade…

  3.00pm…Rest…

  4.00pm…Drink port with fellow officers…TRY TO BE HEARTY…

  5.00pm…Study German…

  5.30pm…Write letter to father…

  6.00pm…Rest….

  7.00pm…Dinner with fellow officers…APPEAR TO BE HEARTY…secretly DO NOT OVERLOAD STOMACH…

  9.00pm…Retire for night with improving book…Go through in mind German learnt today…

  ‘No wonder the prodigy is tired and bottled. He has been trying too hard to improve himself – a sure sign of insecurity. He needs reminding that there is more to life than the futile pursuit of perfection. Let us wake him up and set him straight.’

  I proceeded to tease Pete’s nose with the quill of his pen, and watched entranced as he slowly twitched and came snorting back to life. As his head rose from the pillow, I saw that one side of his face was all red and striated with the pattern of the sleeve he had been lying on.

  ‘Why,’ said the tousle-haired youth, after staring up at me vacant-eyed for several moments, ‘’tis Harry.’

  There was a curious catch in his voice, and a look of disapproval in his eye, so that I felt foolish for having overrated my popularity.

  ‘Hartley – wake up. Harry is back to see you.’

  A sharp elbow in the ribs woke Hartley, who grunted, yawned and stretched. Then he saw Sophie and me, drew back his lips, and set up a menacing growl, which lasted until Pete clipped his ear affectionately. Chastened, the hound jumped off the bed and padded placidly to one of the fire buckets, where he proceeded to quench his thirst with loud lappings.

  Pete was slower on the uptake, not realizing at first that there was a stranger in the room. When he did, the effect was electrifying. ‘OH MY GOD!’ he squealed, leaping out of bed and frantically buttoning up his jacket. ‘A GIRL!’

  ‘Aye, a girl,’ I confirmed, when he had slapped a wig on and finished fiddling with his breeches. ‘Sophie B. Mecklenburg to be precise. New Jersey born and bred.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Pete, shaking like a leaf, eyes darting everywhere but at her eyes. ‘Though I could have wished for an introduction in more formal circumstances.’

  ‘Informal is fine by me,’ laughed Sophie. ‘After all, I like a man unbraced, don’t I, sweetie?’

  This only made Pete blush more, so to save his further embarrassment I decided to embark upon a monologue of my adventures in the Hackensack Valley, taking care to edit out the slightest sexual referent. Pete, though still on edge, listened dutifully while he made some tea and furtively shuffled his papers into a drawer, which he locked with the deliberation of an old man.

  ‘So you see, Pete,’ I concluded, half an hour later. ‘things turned out well in the end, thanks to Sophie, but it could so easily have ended in disaster. Thank God – Whoever or Whatever He is – that the war is over now for me.’

  ‘Over?’

  ‘Under the terms of our agreement, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes. That.’

  Never before had Oh yes.That sounded so much like that agreement was simply a ruse to get you out of the way. I had to get to the bottom of this new attitude.

  ‘Oh yes, what, Pete?’

  Pete glanced over at Sophie, who was staring down with interest at the street scenes below.

  ‘Harry, can I speak to you alone?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Sophie brightly, as if she had been waiting for just that very question. ‘I will see you boys later.’

  With a radiant smile, she headed quickly for the door, pausing only to pat a suspicious-looking Hartley on the head.

  ‘Wait!’ I said, doubly perplexed. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Just around the town, sweetie. See the sights.’

  I did not want to appear jealous in front of Pete, but I had no choice.

  ‘Why not simply go and talk to Thomas?’

  ‘That bore! I would rather talk to a corpse.’

  She’s blunt, I heard Pete whisper to Hartley. Then I lowered my voice too, in the equally vain hope that Pete would not hear me.

  ‘Look, Sophie, I do not want you wandering the town on your own. There are men around who are not gentlemen.’

  ‘Oh, I will be all right. There are plenty of people walking around. Besides, who would want to rape a cripple when there are women like that on view?’ Sophie pointed down to what were indeed a couple of beauties. ‘Anyway, I can take care of myself, you know I can.’

  ‘All right,’ I said with a heavy heart, knowing that sooner or later I would have to let her out of my sight, ‘but meet me back here at…Pete, what time is it now?’

  ‘Quarter to four.’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘No, say eight o’clock, in that tavern we passed on the way in. The

  one I said looked fun.’

  ‘Eight then,’ I sighed. ‘But don’t go into that area with all the tents and the derelicts.’

  ‘Canvas Town, they call that,’ offered Pete helpfully.

  ‘Whatever it is called, do not go there. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Sophie lightly, and with her captivating Cockney barrerboy wi
nk she was gone, taking my heart and my money with her. With so much emotion invested in her slight frame, I sighed at the potential I had given her to hurt me. Wondering if the benefits of love outweighed the disadvantages, I turned wearily to Pete.

  ‘Spit it out then, Pete. What’s the plot?’

  31

  Intrigue

  Instantly more composed with Sophie gone, the youngster calmly poured out the tea and bade me sit down at his desk. Social niceties out of the way, he did not prevaricate further.

  ‘Tell me, Harry, do you know anyone who wants you dead?’

  Though shocked by the question, I pretended not to be, and waited until I had finished my first luscious sip before replying.

  ‘No-one really, apart from Rebels in general and a defeated love rival by the name of Verne Placquet.’

  ‘What about a dragoon by the name of Burnley Axelrod?’

  I could not feign indifference to this one, for my cup began a violent and prolonged rattle in my saucer that quite gave the game away. ‘Twas all I could do to get them back on the desk in one piece.

  ‘Go on, Pete. Reveal all.’

  Noting my reaction with interest, Pete obliged, with brutal but bracing openness.

  ‘I sent you into the Hackensack Valley because I was told to, by Burnley Axelrod, who came to visit me here one afternoon just after our arrival. I thought he looked big in Portsmouth, but without my horse I was dwarfed by him. His swaggering presence was so overpowering that ‘twas all I could do to stop from crying. He said you would enjoy the adventure in the Hackensack, for underneath the docile exterior lurked a skilful and dirty fighter, only too pleased to risk his life.’

  I felt queasy at the ominous build-up of intrigue, and asked to borrow some of Pete’s toilet water, which I dabbed shakily on my brow. Pete went on.

  ‘I must admit it did not sound like the same H. Oysterman I knew, but who was I to argue with so powerful a figure, who claimed to know you and your family intimately, and who said he had your best interests at heart? He also said you would kill yourself out of sheer frustration if you did not see action soon.’

  ‘Apart from the stupefying effect of his sheer presence, presumably he bribed you in some way to keep such an unorthodox request quiet,’ I said, sounding surprisingly collected in spite of myself.

  ‘Well…er…he did say he would pull strings to get me promoted if I complied. As I did not consider the request particularly unusual, I complied; would have done so even without the promotion carrot.’

  ‘Well,’ I said bitterly, ‘I suppose I must thank you for being so honest with me, and drawing my attention to a plot I never knew existed. Forewarned is forearmed.’

  ‘You think he really wants you dead then?’ said Pete matter-of-factly, slurping his tea with relish now that his sins had been confessed.

  ‘Please!’ I recoiled.

  ‘In retrospect – if you did not want glory after all – I cannot think of any other reason for him to want to send you there. ‘Tis the local Valley of Death, by all accounts. You did well to come out alive.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Just were.’

  ‘No, why would he want me…’ I gulped, ‘…dead.’

  ‘Cast your mind back to your meetings with him. What transpired, what did he do?’

  ‘He was the one who roped me into the army, before stealing the girl of my dreams.’

  ‘Then should not you be the one trying to kill him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I exclaimed, my mind in turmoil. ‘But does any of it matter? My spying duties are over, I am not dead, and therefore I will not be staying here much longer, will I?’

  I looked at Pete closely as I said this, to gauge his reaction. The sudden clearing of his throat and the look of seriousness that swept over his face told me all that I needed to know. I went on:

  ‘I’ve always been a forgiving dog, Pete, and lucky for you that I still am, for I presume you are going to tell me, amongst other things, that you have reneged on your word as a gentleman, and that I will not now be returning to England on the next ship home.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pete, lifting a finger, the sudden judicial look on his face indicating that a defence to the accusation had been long prepared. “I have it on high authority that should you come back to us with information valuable to our cause”, I think were my exact words, Harry. Firstly, as you have no doubt guessed by now, that high authority was Mr Burnley Axelrod himself, and secondly, whether the information you have brought back to us is valuable or not is for Mr Woodbine to decide, not I. Subject to the approval of both those gentlemen, the agreement still stands as far as I am aware. So never let it be said that a Wriggle has gone back on his word, or next time I shall be forced to demand satisfaction over pistols.’

  This sort of talk was presumably the salamander in Pete coming out. Goaded, I turned aggressive myself.

  ‘Even though you know I would blow your head off in such a duel?’

  ‘Even though,’ said Pete, his shaking hand reaching out instinctively to Hartley for emotional support.

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry, Pete. ‘Tis just that my mind is in frightful disarray at the moment. I simply do not know what to do for the best.’ I began a serial chewing of my fingernails, arousing much interest in the hungry Hartley. ‘Surely though, the uncovering of a spy death trap is valuable information. How can it not be?’

  ‘’Tis not for me to say,’ said Pete, distancing himself from all involvement. ‘Only Taylor Woodbine, as I said.’

  ‘That fool would not regard George Washington In A Cage valuable. Anyway, I’m not sure that I want to go back to England. Sophie is not keen, and she is my life now, I suppose.’

  ‘So what’s it like then, Harry?’ said Pete, coughing with affected nonchalance, ‘you know, doing it with a, you know, with a girl?’

  ‘’Tis overrated, Pete,’ I lied, wanting to spare the dog’s feelings. ‘Do not fret yourself about it.’

  Pete perked up.

  ‘I knew it was, Harry. I just knew it.’

  ‘The small intimacies are nice, though. You know – the caring, the sharing…’

  ‘I’ll bet they are,’ said Pete, wistful again. ‘Still, Hartley supplies me with those, don’t you, Hartley?’

  Hartley barked joyously.

  ‘But if I stay,’ I went on, thinking aloud, ‘then I will be thrown either on the redoubts of Fort Washington, of less importance than a sack of potatoes, or on the uncertain mercies of Burnley Axelrod. I will be either in a fool’s or a lout’s hands, and I don’t know which is worse.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry, I shall remember that.’

  ‘No, not you, Pete. I mean Howe or Cornwallis or whoever is in overall command.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you ask him outright what his game is? Why don’t you find Axelrod and confront him direct. He is not going to murder you in cold blood, now is he?’

  ‘He might. He is the sort.’

  I continued to fret silently. Pete tried another tack.

  ‘All this worrying is probably for nothing, you know. I might have got the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps he really does have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘No, there is something afoot, Pete, I can feel it.’

  Pete bestowed on me a lovely look of concern, then grew visibly impatient and shot a glance at his clock.

  ‘Look, Harry, I know you are somewhat troubled, but I need to be at a meeting with my fellow officers now, discussing the conduct of the war and so on. May I suggest that you go to Taylor Woodbine’s and see what he has to say. If nothing, then pluck up courage and go to Axelrod’s. See what he has to say. If nothing, come back to me, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that your duties in the attack on Fort Washington are of the lightest possible, as a sort of non-prejudice peace offering. I’m a tender dog, Harry, as you know, and I could not bear to see young what’s-her-name weeping over your mangled corpse. I would feel h
ideously responsible.’

  ‘Sophie,’ I sighed. ‘But no, Pete, thank you. I want no special favours from anyone. If I am to go into battle, then it will be on the same footing as everyone else.’

  ‘Noble man!’

  ‘Which reminds me – if we do have to stay presumably Sophie and I are to have the same sleeping quarters as everyone else?’

  ‘Sadly, Harry, yes. I will make arrangements with Sergeant Mycock this afternoon. But ‘tis nothing to be worried about. I understand quite a few of the men have picked up common American drabs since your departure, and they sleep with them quite openly amongst the rest of the men. Not, of course, that I am implying that Sophie is a Common American Drab. No-one bothers them, is all I’m saying, though I understand that the Overrated Thing, if it is done at all, is done discreetly whilst the rest are asleep. Any sign of feigned enjoyment by either drab or soldier exacerbates the frustration of the single men, and fights ensue, as they did when Thomas Yarborough broke all the rules of probability and managed to bring home Molasses Mo, the beautiful black slave of a local Anglican minister. Unbridled copulation has to be carried out in alleyways or fields, unsatisfactory though those locations are in times of war. One wouldn’t, for example, wish to be caught in flagrante delicto by a regiment of Hessians on their way to battle, unless one wanted to be spitted to one’s Love for eternity.’

  Pete snorted dirtily at the image.

  ‘You seem to have carried out a lot of research on the subject, Pete. Business or pure enjoyment?’

  ‘Oh, business, of course. The more an officer knows about his men the better. My reading of Marlborough taught me that. Anyway, sex doesn’t interest me in that way. I am like you when it comes to the Temple of Eros, Harry – manfully indifferent, if not actually bored by the whole thing.’

  Had there not been more worrying things on my mind, I would have been forced here to replace kindness with truth, for I could see that the word overrated had taken a hold on the youngster’s mind, and I could imagine it popping up again during the officers’ dinner that night. ‘Who said sex was overrated?’ I could hear the assembled rakes leaning in to ask, scorn loaded. Thus would my name be dragged through the mud yet again, this time as traitor to another cause. In peacetime I would be sought out and ridiculed, and sporting attempts would be made to cuckold me. Thank God there was a war on. But I realized I was worrying needlessly: by the time word got around that I was a nancy boy I would probably be dead anyway, lying crumpled at the foot of a redoubt with a smoking ball in my brain. I therefore let the matter drop, and continued with the contemplative sipping of my tea. All was quiet until Pete’s own thought processes reached a critical stage, and he suddenly cried out as though stabbed with a toasting fork.