‘Oh no, of course not. ‘Tis a fine thing to have company, what with my husband being away in Philadelphia so much of the time.’
‘Oh, so the villagers who gave us directions to your house were right: he is a Congressman then?’
‘Yes, he is, the Darling. And a very clever and hardworking one, too.’
Immediately my low view of humanity shot into my brain a vision of Congressman Bush reeling drunkenly from whorehouse to well-lit whorehouse, begetting Pennsylvanian bastards by the score; but I kept on smiling.
‘As of course he needs to be in times like these,’ went on Abigail, tragically besotted.
‘Indeed,’ I murmured, ‘indeed.’
‘But let’s not talk about the war. It will come and it will go. It is not important in the wider scheme of things. Marriages and babies and books – they are the important things in life, as I am sure you will agree, Mr Oysterman.’
Feeling a literary quiz coming on, I wondered whether I should show off my knowledge by making reference to Dr Johnson’s asservation that drinking and fucking were the most important things in life – but decided against it on grounds of decorum.
‘You are probably right, Madam, all things considered.’
‘Good. That’s agreed then. Now come through into the drawing room and let me arrange for a pot of tea to be brought in.’
I turned to thank her as we passed her in the hallway, and caught a nose-crinkled look of agony on her face.
‘…unless, of course,’ she panted blindly, staggering back against the wainscoted wall, ‘you would care for a bath first, Harry?’
I looked away quickly before she opened her eyes, so as not to embarrass either of us, and mellifluously agreed that, yes, that might be a good idea, in the circumstances – though for all my early-morning exertion climbing the Palisades, and the sweat-inducing fear of seeing Burnley Axelrod, I liked to think it was Doll’s clothes rather than my body that was causing offence. Before further instructions could be issued to the unknown servant, however, there was a rising clatter of tiny feet, first on the gravel outside the house, then on the stone floor of the hallway behind us.
‘Is it Daddy, is it Daddy?’ came shrill, excited cries in unison.
‘No, my dears, ‘tis my cousin Sophie and her husband from New York.’
‘WHO?’ demanded one of the voices incredulously, before its owner appeared as a spruce little boy in a blue frockcoat.
‘Cousin Sophie and her husband, Deafhead,’ came a smaller voice behind, belonging to a younger girl, who peeped her head round her brother’s waist, and stared at us wide-eyed. ‘That’s them there, look.’
Sophie and I were regarded wonderingly for several seconds, before the boy stepped forward without the slightest prompting from his mother and introduced himself to us with great self-possession.
‘Pleased to meet you Cousin Sophie and Husband Harry. I am Timothy Bush and this is my little sister Betsy Bush. Betsy, step forward and greet our guests.’
Betsy slowly did as bidden, and we solemnly shook hands with each other, until Betsy broke away and buried her head in her mother’s dress.
‘I was just about to call Martha to run Harry a bath, dear. But perhaps you would like to do it for him?’
‘Yes, most certainly, Mother, I would. Come this way, Harry.’
I accepted the outstretched hand, and, smiling back at the proud smiles of his mother, I allowed myself to be led away down a dark portrait-lined corridor into a scullery, where a bathtub loomed centre-stage in the fading daylight.
‘It is good to be away from the company of women at times, I find, Harry. They are divine creatures in their way, of course, but my do they squawk a lot of hot air about nothing. I have spent the afternoon pushing Betsy around in a little cart that Father built for us before he went away. Her childish prattlings about clothes and love and toys are charming and perfectly normal, even for a girl older than her, but after ten minutes of it I am ready to immure myself in a monastery forever.’
As someone whose opinion of children was at best low, I found myself stunned at this revelation. The elegant force of his expressions, the clean arrangements of his arguments, the melody of his voice and the ease and grace of his gestures all impressed themselves most forcibly on my mind. I eyed askance the Phenomenon as he reached up and drew the curtains, lit some candles, and began heating a pitcher of water over a stove. Asking his age seemed an impertinence, as did any other question, so I was glad when he spoke again.
‘Shut the door, Harry, there’s a good fellow. We don’t want Martha bursting in, now do we?’
I did as I was told, and waited for my next instructions.
‘So, while we wait for the water to heat up, tell me a little about yourself, Harry. And about Cousin Sophie while you’re at it; I’ve never heard of her, which is why I behaved rather boorishly upon our first meeting. Boorishness is a fault I am trying to eradicate in my nature, by the way.’
‘I did not think you were boorish at all, er….may I call you Timothy?’
‘Of course you can, Harry. There was a time when mother insisted that I be addressed as Master Bush by strangers, but I soon put a stop to that. What chance is there of universal brotherhood when artificial barriers of social standing are erected?’
‘You must despise the British and their ways then?’ I said, glad of the opportunity to deflect the conversation away from all talk of Sophie and myself.
‘Not at all. I despise no nation or person’s ways. In Great Britain’s case – indeed in the case of all European countries – the class system is a natural consequence of the feudal system, which prospered between the fourth and the tenth centuries. Though, if I remember rightly, in Britain there was no stress laid on social status until around 1350, when an outbreak of the Black Death made the rich want to cut their social ties with the poor. Understandably, neither countries nor people can throw off such an ancient heritage overnight – but here in America we have no heritage to throw off, the slate is clean, as it were. We have no tradition of anything, so we owe it to the rest of the civilized world to experiment with ideas and forms of government that our friends in the Old World have dreamed about for centuries. That is why it is so important to get the foundations right. If we succeed, they can come and join us or they can implement the same changes in their own countries. If we fail, then they will be more content with their lot, and are free to dream other dreams. Either way, humankind is the benefactor in the long run.’
‘Indians do not benefit now, though, do they? Nor Negroes.’ Then I thought of Elzevir and amended this to, ‘Well, not unless they make the long run to freedom.’
A dark cloud swept over the youngster’s face.
‘No, they do not, Harry, that is true. But there must be ways to circumvent the problems of mixed races and creeds. We must strive to integrate all disparate elements into one united whole. We need to live up to the motto adopted by the Continental Congress in the Declaration of Independence – Virgil’s E Pluribus Unum, or One From Many. Indeed, I think that would do very well as a motto for our country when it is finally united, as it inevitably will be. I am glad I suggested it to my father, because he in turn suggested it to Congress.’
‘You suggested it?’ I said, amazed.
‘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…?’
Infernal Revolutions Page 51
