Infernal Revolutions (54 page)

‘Sophie!' I cried, when she was near enough to hear me, ‘Are you all right, my dear.'

‘F-f-freezing!' Sophie called back, her cloak and Quick's coat packed tight with compacted snow and hundreds of tiny iceballs. ‘F-f-fucking f-f-freezing!'

Having never heard Sophie swear before, I was duly taken aback. I chose, however, not to show it, in consideration of the ordeal she must have been through.

‘Then come inside, quick.'

I took hold of the reins, and led the brave pair once more into the sanctuary of the church. There I rubbed them down as best I could, and then, while Sophie recovered her powers of speech, I prepared the bread, cheese and salt pork I found in her saddlebag. We ate the resulting sandwiches in shocked, contemplative silence, as befitting a house of God and a pair of starving outcasts.

‘So, my dear,' I asked, when I thought Sophie had recuperated sufficiently, ‘did you obtain any information prejudicial to our position?'

‘I d-did indeed, my d-dear. T-two things have happened. One of which I think is good for us; one of which is very definitely bad. Which would you like first?'

‘The bad,' I said unhesitatingly. ‘Always the bad first.'

‘Our boys are already over the Delaware. They got over last night. That means we are stuck in New Jersey, surrounded by the British. Our getting to Philadelphia now depends upon luck, fate, bribery, or the river itself freezing over so that we may slide across on the horses.'

I pondered this intelligence for a moment, uncertain what it meant. Then, unable to work out all the implications, I asked for the good news.

‘Well, ‘tis perhaps good news for us personally, if not for the prosecution of the war in general. Burnley Axelrod has captured General Charles Lee, and taken him back to New York.'

‘What? Where? When?'

‘Three days ago, in Basking Ridge, where Lee and his entourage were staying for the night with the mistress of the tavern there. Burnley bagged him with the aid of two fellow dragoons, presumably the same rascals who accompanied him at Abigail's.'

‘Then the war is over, surely, if Lee is gone?'

‘That remains to be seen, but ‘tis certainly another major blow for Washington.'

‘And that is good news for us personally?'

‘Well, put yourself in his shoes. If you were him, having done what he has done, would you not head back to New York and spend the winter there
basking
in the acclaim and adulation generally accorded to those who perform audacious military actions? I know I would, and I would lose all interest in the desultory hunting of two poor fugitives. I think we will be far below his attention now; his mind will be on promotion and bigger estates than the likes of Amanda Philpott can provide.'

‘Aye,' I said, with a hint of shame that we were too low to be noticed, ‘I suppose it will.'

‘So, free of that burden, all that need concern us now is how to cross the Delaware now that all the boats have been taken from the New Jersey bank.'

‘Surely in these conditions ‘twill not be long before the river freezes, and then we can slide over, as you say.'

‘'Tis a wide, powerful river though, sweetness. And how much longer can we hold out before freezing over ourselves?'

‘Something will come to our aid, I am sure. It always has done in the past, so there is no reason to suppose that it will not do so in the future. Think back, for example; did I not tell you that the Axelrod affair would blow over, and that temporary evasion was the right course of action?'

‘Aye, you did, but I don't think you truly believed it, given the chronic anxiety that has dogged you from morning till night ever since.'

‘Oh, my dear,' I chortled complacently, ‘that was not anxiety about Burnley, that was just the natural concern of a husband for his wife. I rarely gave Burnley a second thought.'

Sophie looked at me wryly, before stretching out on a pew and drawing a couple of blankets over her.

‘Mmm, well, let's just say we were lucky, and leave it at that. But now, Harry, I must rest. I am exhausted and my leg hurts. We will ride down to the river first thing in the morning, snow permitting, and see what can be done. Will you keep guard?'

‘Certainly, my dear,' I said, bending over and tucking her in solicitously. ‘Rest well.' I then fed the noble Quick and made sure he was comfy next to Easy. Then I wrapped myself up, took my pistol, and went outside to digest the news. The problem of getting across the Delaware, or of coming into contact with ordinary British soldiers, seemed as nothing in comparison to the news that Burnley had been removed as a threat. After all, were not Sophie and I both armed to the teeth with exemptions, passes, recommendations, and permits? I was sure we could succeed on that head. But oh, the news of Burnley was most glorious! Slowly realizing I was free of the problem that had been plaguing me since poor Isaac had delivered me proof of Burnley's enmity, I could restrain my joy and relief no longer. I plunged screaming and whooping into the pristine snow, and frolicked like the schoolboy I thought had gone for good.

Delirious, I scooped up handfuls of snow, compacted them into balls, and hurled them at the protruding trees and gravestones. Then I staggered around alternately laughing and crying until my fit of emotion was out. Pleasantly warmed and calmed by all the exercise, I was able to permit myself the indulgence of reflection, and what better place to turn reflective than a graveyard in the middle of nowhere? Inevitably in such surroundings, with the main burden of my life lifted, my thoughts soon turned to poetry. There was material here aplenty for my
Night Thoughts
, and thus it was that I began to examine the inscriptions on the stones, and ponder the lives of the bodies that were sleeping below. Clearing away the snow, I read as follows:

(Thomas Verity 1667 – 1723)

(Judith Hooker 1659 – 1702)

(Margaret Ashbridge 1711 – 1732)

‘Twas charming stuff, and it filled me with the wildest ambitions to make the most of my life. I wanted my gravestone to be inscribed with the literary equivalent of a satisfied belch. I wanted fame, love and fortune in generous portions, and I started to think on ways to get them. Soon my head was so full of plans and optimism for the future that I wondered if I were in a fever. The world looked too good to be true; surely this mood could not last. And indeed, it didn't.

‘Gathering ideas for your own epitaph, Oysterman?'

For a moment I thought one of the dead had spoken, but then I spun round in a flurry of snow and astonishment, knowing only too well who the voice belonged to. The shock to my system was terrible.

‘B-B-Burnley!'

Burnley, seemingly alone, stood ten yards away, with one hand casually leaning on a headstone. Dressed in a black greatcoat and a familiar beaverskin hat, he looked as though he had come straight out of the ground to claim me. His dragoon's eyes burned directly into my soul, while the rest of his scarred, grizzled face twisted with grim laughter.

‘Just Burnley actually, though more and more people these days refer to me as B-B-Burnley. I don't know why.'

Remembering my resolve not to play the coward again, I struggled to recover from the shock, and regain control of my nerves.

‘Perhaps it has something to do with the cold weather.'

‘No, I think it has more to do with the reputation I am building for myself in this God-forsaken country. I seem to strike fear into people for some reason. Can you believe it, Oysterman? Me?'

‘How did you find me here?'

‘I was looking for you in Pennington when I saw Nancy. I simply followed her tracks out here, suspecting that you might be on the end of the lead. After all, were you not hiding in the house in Paramus when I visited with my friends?'

‘Possibly.'

‘Aye, I thought that afterwards, and have been rueing my unaccustomed lapse of efficiency ever since. Imagine my delight, then, when I discovered Mr O. frolicking like a little lamb in a wintry graveyard. What, I wonder, had tickled his fancy so much?'

‘Nothing that you would understand.'

‘Was it, perhaps, something to do with the fact that he thought Mr Axelrod was no longer interested in him, now that the aforementioned Mr Axelrod had captured the mighty General Charles Lee?'

I swallowed hard, not liking this prising open of my mind.

‘Because if it was, he was badly mistaken. I only captured Lee by mistake: it was you I was after, Oysterman. You all along.'

Ominously, the rogue then smiled and began to advance towards me, leaving me no alternative but to draw my pistol.

‘No further, Sir, or I shall destroy your face!'

‘What!' roared Burnley, looking mildly surprised at the size of my piece. ‘You?'

‘Aye, Sir, me. Now tell me your business, and be gone.'

‘My business, Sir, is the retrieval of the love letters sent to me by Lady Amanda Philpott. I believe that you have them in your possession.'

I laughed, the very word
love
sounding ridiculous in Burnley's mouth.

‘Aha, Lady Amanda Philpott. Now we near the crux of our contention.'

‘Your meaning, Sir?'

My blood being up, ‘twas time to go on the offensive, and resolve everything.

‘Big bad dragoons like you, Sir, are not known for their supplications at

the temple of love. They are known, however, for their love of rapine, extortion, money, murder, drink, land and power. And as we both know how rich Amanda is, and gullible, and unattractive, the odds are that your intentions regarding that lady are somewhat less than honourable.'

‘These sound like the carpings of a bitter man, Sir. You have been defeated in love, and you cannot take it. ‘Tis as simple as that.'

‘You paid court to her – if that is not too ludicrous a euphemism – after getting me drunk in the
Ship
, pressing me into the Army, and getting all the information about her that you could. That was a roguish day's work, Sir.'

‘All is fair in love and war, Oysterman; you should know that by now. And did it not benefit everybody? You have experienced a great deal of life in a short time, Amanda has the sort of lover she always wanted, and…..'

‘And my friend Isaac Tetley is dead.'

‘If that is the name of the rogue who stole my letters, then so be it. He deserved all he got. No-one treats me like that and lives to brag about it.'

‘They were
my
letters, let me remind you.'

‘Some of them were – delivered to me because you were unreachable, off spying somewhere for our not-so-glorious cause. The majority, however, were mine.'

‘You scalped Isaac Tetley, and now you want to decapitate me.'

‘Decapitate you?'

Burnley roared again with laughter.

‘You refer, I presume, to the letter in which Amanda requests proof of your death; but to the observant reader she is clearly just being facetious, writing in such a style because of the contempt in which she holds you. Even it was meant to be literal, why should I go to all the trouble of getting your head? Any head lying around a battlefield would fit the purpose – they all look the same after two months at sea.'

‘You would go to all the trouble because while I was alive I would always be a threat to you.'

‘
You
, a threat to
me
?'

‘I know that you scalped Isaac Tetley, and I am always likely to inform your commanding officers of the fact, as well as anyone else who might be interested.'

‘And do you also know I started the New York fire?'

‘What?'

‘See – I can tell you all my little secrets, because no-one will believe your word against mine.'

‘No-one in the army perhaps. But I have other associates who will be happy, on my behalf, to execute summary justice upon you.'

I doubted whether Burnley would have laughed so loudly had he known I had the Liberty Belles in mind.

‘Now you have gone too far into the realms of fantasy, Oysterman. So let me bring the conversation back to earth and tell you the real reason I have come after you.' He started to unbutton his greatcoat, perhaps in order to retrieve more revelatory paperwork; I braced myself for unpleasant enlightenment. ‘Fun,' he said, in a voice pared down to the bare bones of business. ‘Fun, pure and simple. The thrill of the chase. The pleasure, at the end of it, of a job well done. The ridding from the earth of an

odious, prissy little piece of vermin.'

A shudder went through me, and it was noticed. I fingered my trigger.

‘You look at me with revulsion, Oysterman, so perhaps the sooner we part the better. Now, I presume the letters are in the church along with Nancy, so I will go in now and take them both. Immediately, that is, after I have decapitated you.'

This was said in such a conversational tone as he began to advance towards me that at first I did not fully comprehend what had been said. When I did I was thrown into confusion.

‘Stay, Sir, stay!' I cried nervously.

But he did not stay, he kept on coming, gathering momentum by the second, until he was in full floundering charge towards me, snow flying everywhere. No time to think any more, I lifted my pistol, aimed at his head, and fired.

There was an explosion, a billow of smoke, a cry, and a crash in the snow. From what I could see of him through the acrid smoke, Burnley was down and writhing. Heart pounding like mad, I stepped closer to the wounded beast and braced myself to be physically sick when he turned what was left of his face towards me. In the meantime, appalled at what I had done, or been made to do, I dithered ineffectually, half-stretching out a helping hand in his direction, and retracting it quickly again when he moaned too violently. Then came the moment of truth as he started to lift his head up slowly towards me. I tugged out my handkerchief and put it to my mouth, in readiness for the heave of my life. The head came up and up by degrees, and then I saw, to my utmost horror, that the face was still intact! Indeed, ‘twas totally unmarked, except where snow had stuck to it. All that was new was the awful glint of pain and hatred in his eyes – a look I could not bear for long.

‘T-tell me where you are hit, Sir,' I stammered, as much for my edification as his, being curious to know how good my marksmanship had been, ‘and I will try to assist you.' I had visions of stuffing his intestines back into his gaping abdomen, and blocking them up with ice.

‘I am hit, Sir, in my left arm,' panted Burnley, stretching out the bloody limb for my inspection, and trying to scramble to his feet, ‘which is unfortunate.'

Tremendously disappointed at the unimportance of the limb shattered, I asked why, hoping perhaps he had some fatal weakness in his left side.

‘Because, Sir,' he said, looking at me in a very determined manner, ‘I am right-handed.'

Then he began to rummage inside his greatcoat for what I could only assume would be a pistol. Panicking, with no time to reload my own piece, I instinctively stepped forward and kicked Burnley as hard as I could in the face. He groaned and fell back in the snow. Then I turned and tried to scamper back to the church, where Sophie and the second pistol waited. But, like the rabbit I had seen through my spyglass, the faster I tried to run the slower I seemed to go. The snow was as prohibitive to progress as treacle, and I was in a fearful state as I tried vainly to get out of range of Burnley's fire. The roar of blood pounding through my head drowned out all external noise except the one I dreaded most.

‘Sleep well, punk,' called Burnley's composed voice behind me. ‘Tis back to the oysterbeds for you!'

I screwed myself up to maximum tension, shut my eyes tight, and floundered on desperately, hoping against hope that he was as bad a shot as me. Then, after the most awful seconds of absolute terror, the pistol fired, and I was thrown spreadeagled into the snow.

I fancied, as I was going down, that I heard a cry more of pain than joy from Burnley, as though he'd suffered an immediate pang of guilt for what he'd done, but I could not investigate this phenomenon until I was sure I had not been hit myself. Realizing I hadn't, and that it had been panic that had thrown me to the ground, I was about to scramble to my feet and look around when urgent shouts beckoned me to keep down. I did as I was told, and immediately there was another shot, followed by a very definite cry of pain. There was one more shot and one more cry, and then silence descended. I got up and looked around.

Burnley was back in his horizontal position, with just the soles of his boots visible. He was twitching occasionally, so that at first I thought his pistol had misfired and blown up in his face, thereby inflicting the damage I had so signally failed to do myself; but then I saw first one, then two, then three whitecowled figures emerge from behind different gravestones and make their way cautiously, pistols smoking, to the prone dragoon. It was, I was convinced, a Rebel ambush, and I did not know whether to thank them or keep running. I was about to embark on the second course of action when one of the figures called to me.

‘Harry, are you all right?'

‘Twas a female voice, but not Sophie's, and though it was vaguely familiar I could not immediately place it. After the strains and excitements of the last few minutes, this further surprise was almost too much to bear. I felt like crying.

‘Yes, are you?' I mumbled stupidly.

‘Aye. A good job we received Sophie's letter when we did, though. Another day, another hour even, and ‘twould have been too late.'

‘Not necessarily,' called another voice, ‘Harry and Sophie between them would have despatched him from the church.'

‘Only if Axelrod had missed Harry,' said a third voice.

‘He would have done,' said the second voice again, ‘Axelrod was not balanced properly when he was about to fire. But best not take any chances, eh, Mister?'

A moan was the answer, as Burnley was peremptorily clonked on the head with the butt of a pistol.

I was about to ask the girls to put me out of my misery and reveal who they were when the job was done for me.

‘Whoah!' they exclaimed in unison, pushing back their hoods and shaking loose their familiar hair, ‘There's Captain Sophie!'