It was also, from my point of view, a most nerve-wracking one. My imminent meeting with the Revolutionary commanders would surely be the final hurdle before the relative safety of Philadelphia was reached. I hoped I would not fall, but the fear of failure played on my mind as we rode through the camp. One false word and I would envy even the pitiful state of the soldiers around us, whose withered, shivering bodies barely had the strength to look up at us as we passed. Sighing, stroking Easy’s neck for comfort, I wanted the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible, so I was glad when some lighted buildings appeared through the trees in the distance. There, surely, lurked officers who would decide my fate.
My assumption proved correct, for we stopped at one of these buildings and waited outside while the captain went in to speak to someone. Seconds later, in a state of great excitement, emerged three important-looking officers, who, after casting a brief eye over us, examined Mr Axelrod closely. Satisfied with their findings and barely able to contain their joy, they issued orders for his careful removal indoors. Two of the officers helped in the portage, while the third one, a beefy man with a limp, stopped to speak to us.
‘My name is Major-General Nathanael Greene. Please come inside with me. General Washington would like to speak with you.’
‘Oh my God!’ went the girls in unison, expressing what was for them more a statement of fact than an exclamation. They quickly brushed their hair with their hands, and took several deep breaths to calm their nerves. As for me, though considering myself the inferior of no man, I could not help but similarly quake at such a request, and I started to clear my throat in preparation for my entrance into the pages of history. What, I wondered, bringing up the rear as the man Greene led us single file down lantern-lit corridors, would the Stallion of the Potomac be like in the flesh? People who knew – assorted aides, flunkies and whores – began to brush against us in ever thicker numbers, suggesting we were near the centre of the hive, and would soon know for ourselves. At last, we came to a room whose door was ajar. Looking ahead at Sophie, I saw her stop, turn and look into the room. A flood of light lit up her face, and a kind of joyous awe seemed to wash over her, as though she were looking at the Divine Presence. I fully expected her to throw her stick away and dance, but instead she humbly floated in, as though sleepwalking. Then the same thing happened, one by one, to Lucy, Vanessa, and Melanie, until ‘twas my turn to stop, turn, and peer in.
Immediately I gave a start. For there, seated behind a long table covered with documents, swords, pistols, wineglasses and plates of chicken legs, was a Joseph Wright chiaroscuro painting of George Washington and his Generals. The light came primarily from a lusty fire burning opposite them, and it gave to the faces an air of aristocratic unconcern, as if they were waiting patiently for the port to be passed. Guessing which one was Washington, both from the paintings I had seen and the way the others were arranged around him, I stepped in and gave him a bow. Then I stepped to one side and took my place next to the girls, so that we were lined up in front of the blissful fire like a row of errant schoolchildren.
‘I am General Washington,’ the Effigy confirmed, in a commanding voice that nevertheless had something strange about it, ‘and these are my generals Stirling, Sullivan, Knox and Greene.’
We nodded to each other; all except Vanessa, who simply passed out, and fell into the fireplace. While she was being rescued and revived, I was able to study Washington’s features in greater detail. He had a massive smallpox-scarred face, reddish hair and steady grey-blue eyes, and his hair was pulled back tightly in the military manner. I felt nervous in his presence, but I could not decide whether this was his doing or mine. The trouble was, his fame had gone before him and accumulated like a rolling snowball, so that one was not looking at a man any longer, one was looking at a myth, a legend, a symbol, a projection of men’s hopes and fears. One was, indeed, talking to America itself, and I could not wait to hear what it had to say next.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen that are left,’ Washington continued, once the fuss had died down, and Vanessa had been carried away, ‘what a present you have brought us in our time of need. We, and the American people, are immediately in your debt.’ I bowed again, even if the others didn’t, and tried to understand what was causing the faint clacking sound that accompanied his every word. Then I remembered: his famous false teeth. When my head came back up, I looked at his mouth more closely, and saw that there was indeed a strange distended look about the skin and muscles in that area. I was fascinated, and waited for him to speak more.
‘But before we show our gratitude, perhaps you would care to tell us something about yourselves, and how you managed to accomplish something the entire Continental Army has been unable to achieve for months; viz. a morale-boosting victory?’
Not wanting to go through all that again, I was glad and grateful when Sophie stepped forward to do the honours. With admirable aplomb and clarity in the face of the Gods, she proceeded to relate our separate lives virtually ab ovo. How we grew up, where we grew up, who we loved, who we hated, what we did, how we did it, when we did it, what we did it for; how, when, where and why we met; how the Brigade was formed; our marriage; our Love; our escape from the British; our meeting with Burnley; our shooting of Burnley; our arrival here. Much, certainly as regards to me, was a pack of lies, but ‘twas so admirably presented that I came to believe I was the most revolutionary fellow since Satan. Grateful for the opportunity to study next year’s gibbet-danglers free of charge, I watched absorbed as their initially attentive faces began slowly to glaze over. Major-General Greene early whispered his excuses to Washington and left the room, but the rest writhed around in an agony of boredom that was broken only when aides entered and gave Washington notes to read. These notes Washington would scan, scribble on, and return with an impatient ‘Yes, yes, go on, my dear. And then?’ But there was one message that came in that I did not like the look of, mainly because the aide glared at me even as he handed it to Washington. Sure enough, Washington looked up after reading it and gave me a very dirty stare of his own. All, I feared, was not well.
‘…and so, Sir,’ said Sophie, bringing her history of New Jersey to a timely end, ‘we were picked up by a captain of the 2nd Continental Regiment, and brought here.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ sighed General Washington. ‘I am sure I could not have wished for a more comprehensive answer than that. But if all you say is true, how do you account for what these fellows here have to say?’
Washington gave a signal to an aide at the door, and in shuffled, to my absolute horror, emaciated snow-topped versions of Shrimpton Thunders, Destiny Looms, Saul Pipe and Half-Cock Henderson. Each regarded me with the burning hatred of outwitted authority.
‘Aye, that’s him,’ each of them said to their escort, Major-General Greene. Major Thunders – though I suspected he was a major no more – clarified further: ‘Harry Oysterman, British spy. Rescued from the condemned cell at Hackensack by a gang of unidentified Tories. We thought it was him when he rode past us accompanied by Captain Flood. We never forget a treacherous face. Caught him through the usual channels of De Witt over at Hoboken. He’s as guilty as sin; we have already proved as much before a court-martial. No need to try him again, your Honour, just hang him. Save time.’
I began to shake as the fear of imminent death returned once more with a vengeance, and I cursed myself for not anticipating this obvious scenario.
‘And did you know your husband was a British spy, Miss Mecklenburg?’ the cunning Washington asked Sophie.
I looked at Sophie and implored her with my eyes to say No, as a Yes would clearly damn her as a Liar. She did not need much imploring.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it!’ she shrieked, turning on me with most plausible hatred. ‘Harry, is this true?’
‘Alas, my dear,’ I said, drooping my head in mock shame, ‘’tis true.’
‘Then take that, you treacherous cur, and that, and that!’
Then the girls joined in, equally aghast at the snake in their midst, and I was given a sound thrashing for disgracing myself and them in the very Temple Of Liberty. In no time I was on the floor being very authentically kicked to death, until a voice roared, and the beating stopped.
‘Enough, enough. Take him away. Put him in a room upstairs. Keep him locked up and under guard until I decide what to do with him.’
‘You mean you are not going to hang him immediately?’ said the astonished Major Thunders, as I was picked up roughly from the floor by a couple of soldiers. ‘He is a spy, Sir. We have proved it and he has admitted it.’
Washington stood up, revealing a great height that was most imposing. Thunders and his friends seemed to shrink back into insignificance.
‘Aye, Sir, but he is a spy who helps to bring in bigger catches than the rest of the army put together. In principle, people who do good work deserve rewards, not punishment. I may yet hang him, but there is a case for leniency here that I do not have time now to consider. So gentlemen, take a glass of wine and a leg of chicken as tokens of my gratitude for your assistance, then please be so good as to return to your positions.’
There was much suppressed outrage at the injustice of this decision, exacerbated by the foreknowledge of the types of beds we could each expect for the night, and this resulted in some scuffling between us as we were severally led away. In the corridor, as soldiers tried to separate us, hissed threats abounded to the effect that if that old fool Washington didn’t hang me, they would. But I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me quake, and taunted them back with hypothermia facts until I was disengaged and marched upstairs.
There I found myself once more in a condemned cell, only this time the cell was exceedingly warm and comfortable, and exquisitely furnished with books, easy chairs, damask curtains, and a big plump bed. A fire was burning, which cast a delicious red glow over the room, and my sleeping attire for the night lay neatly folded on a cardtable, next to a washstand with towel and soap. I was a veritable pig in clover, and not an unduly worried one, because there was something reassuring in Washington’s words and demeanour that suggested he would not hang a man without good reason. At least now he knew the worst of me, which meant I did not have to worry about Burnley informing on me any more. The only thing that slightly concerned me, as I draped my wet clothes on a chair in front of the fire and dried myself with the towel, was the authenticity of the Belles’ attack on me. Were they acting solely to protect the brigade’s image, or did they also want me out of the way so they could continue their sycophancy uninterrupted? Either way, I could not see them coming to my rescue this time, but then I was sure I would not need them. Washington, I sensed, was that rare thing – a man you could trust. He was also, I discovered with delight after I had donned my nightclothes, a man who put warming pans in the beds of his favourite spies. I slept like a baby.
46
The Deal
Yawning and stretching my limbs luxuriously under the blankets next morning, I revelled in the simple pleasure of being alive and well. The room still had a lovely warmth about it, thanks to the embers of the fire glowing in the grate, so I took advantage of the fact to nip naked first to the chamber pot, and then to the bookcase, there to select a volume of essays and take it back to bed with me. Whilst I was reading an essay on loyalty, it did vaguely occur to me to wonder what was happening to Sophie and the girls, but having reached the limit of my concern for other people, especially them, I decided I was not that bothered, and read on. I was still at it, now with a smoking pipe in my hand, when the door was unlocked and in strode one of Washington’s giant life guards, carrying a tray of odoriferous delights.
‘Good morning, Sir. Breakfast is served. Hot rolls, hot coffee, hot milk, warm spreadable butter, and half a pint of finest Jamaica rum. Just the thing on these cold mornings. Shall I put them down over here?’
‘Please do,’ I said, loving this. Then a cloud scudded across an otherwise brilliant sky: there was no sugar.
‘Soon rectified,’ said the guard, when I brought the subject up. ‘Brown or white?’
‘Brown, I think,’ I said, smacking my lips. ‘’Twill go better with my coffee.’
‘Straight back, Sir.’
Straight back it came, and then I was left alone to get on with the feast in peace. Shaking my head in disbelief at the standard of service, I got out of bed, put on a robe that had been specially laid out for me, and padded over to the breakfast tray to commence gorging. This, I mused, buttering a roll and stuffing it in my mouth, was the sort of gentleman’s life I had always aspired to – elegant, restrained, refined, comme il faut. What a surprise then to find it in the middle of the Pennsylvanian wilderness, in the middle of a starving, desperate army! If this was typical, I was all for asking Washington if he had any available positions on his staff. I also thought about asking, a sudden urge having struck me, whether a hot American whore could be sent up to my room. Still pondering the propriety of this request, I wandered over to the window and distractedly drew apart the curtains.
Laid out below me, suffering in the snow worse than beasts of the field, were the bare bones of the Continental Army. Evidence of distress and misery was everywhere: some men were trying to keep warm by stamping their feet and blowing their fingers; others were at their business on privies dug into the snow; yet others were breakfasting on what looked like burnt shoe leather. All faces were white, drawn and haunted. Truly, ‘twas a pitiful sight, but I simply could not decide whether I wanted a blonde or a redhead. I was still deliberating when a snowball thudded against my window, and startled me out of my reverie. I looked down and saw the loathed Hackensack Militia shaking their collective fist at me, whilst simultaneously making faces and gestures representative of hanging. Instinctively retaliating, I performed a mime representative of warming my hands on a hot fire. This, to my delight, quite incensed them, and I laughed as they scrabbled in the snow to make more balls to throw at me. I laughed even louder when the resulting missiles, propelled by arms whose strength was ebbing quickly away, fell short of my window. Then I turned to them in profile, luxuriously drew in the smoke of my pipe, and swigged from my bottle of rum. They went wild, and such was their anger that the odd snowball did actually reach my windowsill; a feat which I sarcastically applauded. Hugely enjoying this unexpected entertainment, I ran to fetch a hot buttered roll. I was performing some mouthwatering mimes with it when a knock came at the door. Reluctantly, I delivered one last taunt, dragged myself away from the window and composed myself to receive my visitor.
‘Come in!’
The lock rattled, the door opened, and in stepped General Washington, bowing his great head as he did so.
‘Before I enter further, Mr Oysterman, please draw the curtains. I do not wish the men to see us together.’
Aye, aye, I thought, was I to be buggered for breakfast by the legendary Stallion of the Potomac? Suddenly fearing his further entry I did as bidden and drew the curtains, much to the delight of the militia, who thereby assumed they had won the taunting contest. Then Washington stepped fully into the room and gave me a very doubtful handshake, all sly tickles and rubs inside the main grasp. Simultaneously, he looked deep into my eyes, as if searching for signs of complicity.
‘You slept well, I trust.’
‘Like a log, your worship. Thank you.’
He motioned me to take the seat opposite him at the card table.
‘Good. I want us both to have clear heads for what we are about to discuss.’
I cocked my head like a little bird, all attention.
‘Now, Sir, I have been thinking much on your situation, and….I assume, by the way, that you do not retract your admission that you are a British spy?’
‘No, Sir, I do not. I am a British spy through and through. A product of the Taylor Woodbine School in New York.’
‘An admission I find refreshing, I must admit. It saves much time. Most
of the scoundrels deny the accusation for as long as possible; some do not confess even when they are seconds away from dropping into eternity.’
‘Shocking,’ I commiserated.
‘And be under no illusions: I would hang you too without compunction if our situation were more favourable; but desperate times call for desperate measures. I am prepared to gamble on you.’
Careful not to disclose the joy that surged through me at this news, I simply bowed my head humbly, and waited for Washington to continue.
‘So, we have established that you are a British spy, and proud of it, yet you bring in the notorious captor of General Lee. Explain.’
‘Cross loyalties, your worship. I love my country, and I love my wife, who is an ardent rebel, as you saw for yourself. I also love my friends, and I discovered that Burnley Axelrod killed one of them in cold blood. Scalped him, to be precise. So my part in his downfall had something of the feud about it. He is a brute, Sir, pure and simple.’
‘Aye, we know; we have had many similar reports of his antics against our own troops, which is why, with great reluctance, I have written to General Howe demanding that Mr Axelrod is stripped of his commission and returned to England. I say with great reluctance because I would rather use Axelrod as a negotiating tool to get some of our generals back, but as he is badly injured it is only right that humanitarian principles take precedence in this instance. If General Howe does not accede to my suggestion within one month, however, I will simply hang Axelrod myself, and be done with it.’
Feeling my spirits soar even higher at this piece of news, I dissembled instinctively.
‘Will he not die naturally of his wounds before then?’
‘No, according to our doctor he will live. He managed to clean the wounds and pack them with snow before bandaging him up. His recovery, however, will only be partial.’
Infernal Revolutions Page 59
