TIME QUAKE (17 page)

Gideon met Peter’s gaze but did not trust himself to reply.

‘I mean,’ said Peter, ‘no one’s going to make you go round to the Tar Man’s house for tea every Sunday or anything.’

Even over Parson Ledbury’s laughter Peter could hear Gideon’s sharp intake of breath.

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Best not to say any more,’ whispered Sir Richard into Peter’s ear.

Peter walked over to look at the boats while Gideon, Sir Richard and the Parson pored over the fortune-teller’s map trying to work out the whereabouts of the Tar Man’s lodgings. He looked down at the river flowing quickly past him. Sometimes this century really got to him. Mostly he avoided thinking in that way because it was pointless, but everything was so
primitive
. Everything took so
long
. How difficult could it be to find the Tar Man, for crying out loud? For a boy born into an age when information travels at the speed of light, it was cruelly hard at times to accept that in this century news could only travel as fast as the fleetest horse. Scotland could have sunk into the sea and all its inhabitants been consumed by
dinosaurs yet it would still be three or four days before anyone in London even heard a whisper of it. Even if someone spotted the Tar Man in the next street, by the time news got back to them he’d be far away. A niggling doubt crept, uninvited, into the back of his mind, as it occasionally did. A persistent, negative voice taunted him: you’re going to be stuck here for ever just like your alternative self and there’s nothing that you or Kate or Gideon or anyone back home can do about it.

A random memory of home – the soft glow of street lamps on Richmond Green, shining through thin, striped curtains – reminded him how badly he missed
electricity
. He closed his eyes and pictured that other, illuminated London,
his
London, ablaze with a million lights, like a gigantic flare sent up from an ocean of darkness, announcing our presence to the universe. Whenever his dad took him into the city they would never take the tube from Waterloo station but would always catch a black cab so they could see his favourite view of the city from the bridge. He could hear his father saying to him – Look, Peter, look around you! Where else in the world would you rather be? Then Peter opened his eyes again. How dark it was in comparison. And yet he knew that this younger, smaller city was the parent of the London that was to come.

Suddenly he became aware of raised voices.

‘Hold the lantern still,’ cried Sir Richard to the driver, trying to marry up the fortune-teller’s map with the rows of neat terraced houses, some whitewashed and some red-brick, that jutted onto the cobbled quayside. He screwed up his eyes. ‘I cannot make it out. What say you, Parson? Has the fortune-teller deceived us?’

‘I pictured some hideous hovel, dripping with slime and damp,’ said Parson Ledbury. ‘These are respectable dwellings . . . I fear that the wretched woman is in the pay of the Tar Man.’

‘What’s to be done?’ exclaimed Sir Richard angrily. ‘Even if the woman did not set out to deceive us her map is useless. The Tar Man could be hiding in any one of these houses!’

‘Ssssshhh!’

Gideon put a finger to his lips. He looked around as if he were listening for something. The Parson took out his pistol and started to tiptoe away from the river and towards the impenetrable black shadows behind them. Gideon, Peter and Sir Richard followed.

It was Peter who spotted it first. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of – it’s a dog! It’s just a little dog!’

‘Peter! Wait!’ shouted Gideon in alarm.

But Peter had already plunged into an alleyway between the rows of houses. A moment later he reappeared carrying a small white dog with a black patch over one eye which he deposited gently onto the cobblestones. The animal stood wagging its stumpy tail and observed the party expectantly. The Parson leaned over, picked up the dog by the scruff of its neck and lifted it up to eye level. The creature let out a strangulated growl while its short legs kicked back and forth in mid-air like a clockwork toy running down.

‘I’ll thank you, gentlemen, to unhand my dog!’ cried a croaky voice from within the shadows.

The Parson dropped the dog like a hot coal and all eyes followed the indistinct white shape as it scampered, whimpering, back into the shadows.

‘Show yourself, sir!’ roared the Parson. ‘I do not care to be addressed by a fellow that cowers up an alley!’

Presently an old gentleman, thin and bent, shuffled into view. He held a cane in one hand and clamped the dog protectively to his chest with the other.

‘You do not have the look of robbers,’ the old man said, peering out at them.

‘Indeed, we are
not
robbers,’ said Sir Richard stepping forward. ‘And we are gratified to discover that nor are you a member of that profession! May we wish you a good evening, sir.’

Sir Richard went on to introduce himself and the other members of the party, and once the old gentleman had satisfied himself that he had nothing to fear from them, his countenance relaxed. ‘I am your humble servant, my good sirs,’ he said, inclining his head in a small bow. ‘Robbers cause me no anxiety, I assure you. See, I have a fearsome array of weapons with which to defend myself!’

He deposited the dog on the floor in order to open his frayed brocade jacket, revealing two pistols, a piece of rope and a dagger which he pulled out of their respective pockets and replaced one by one.

‘Upon my word,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I pity the villain that attempts to deprive you of your purse. Are you then in the habit of taking the air at this late hour?’

‘I am, good sir, indeed I am. Toby prefers the night to the day and as he is such a remarkable animal I like to humour him.’

The old man scooped up the dog from the ground. ‘I have children and grandchildren aplenty – and a wife besides – but Toby is better company than any of them.’

‘If only we could all be blessed with such an animal,’ said Parson Ledbury, ‘we should be spared the inconvenience of finding human company.’

‘You mock me, sir, I know,’ said the old man good-humouredly, ‘and yet I am not about to deprive myself of diversion and affection because my companion happens to have four legs. He is an admirable singer, don’t you know.’

‘Your dog sings?!’ exclaimed Peter.

‘Faith, Toby sings like an angel in heaven,’ said the old man. ‘I
assure you he needs naught but a little encouragement to set him off. Come, Toby, let us give these gentleman a tune:

The heavy hours are almost past, that part my love and me;

My longing eyes may hope at last their only wish to see
.’

The old gentleman’s voice was dry as dust, but he could hold a tune. As the old gentleman repeated the refrain, the dog, cradled in its owner’s arms, obligingly started to sing. Peter laughed out loud for the voice that came from its white and clean-angled jaws was at once melodious as well as uncannily human.

‘Watch out!’ Peter screamed all at once.

Instinctively Gideon ducked and only just in time. Out of nowhere a tin bucket filled with slops crashed and splattered onto the cobbles at their feet. The impact echoed over the river and caused the dog to bark wildly. All looked up and flickering candlelight appeared in several windows. A dark figure leaned out of a window a couple of houses away.

‘God’s teeth,’ the figure bellowed, his face obscured by the night. ‘Can a man not find repose in his own home without having to listen to such caterwauling? Get you gone before I come down to knock your brains from your heads!’

The window slammed shut and Peter, Gideon, the Parson and Sir Richard exchanged incredulous looks. Large smiles spread over all their faces.

‘Why so cheerful, my good sirs, after such a rude outburst?’ asked the old gentleman.

‘Let us just say,’ said Sir Richard, ‘that your dog appears to have a talent for ferreting out rats. Toby has rendered us a most valuable service: he has found him whom we seek.’

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

These Are the Times that Try Men’s Souls

In which Lord Luxon encounters
George Washington and marvels
at the power of the written word

Lord Luxon contemplated the tall, quiet figure who stood some fifty yards downstream. General Washington wrapped his cloak about him against the savage winter storm, all his energy and all his will focussed on transporting the remnants of his army across the ice-choked river. Unaccustomed to physical discomfort of any kind – other than the consequences of drinking too much wine – Lord Luxon nevertheless willingly endured this icy vigil. His mind and body were on full alert; every nerve tingled with excitement; never had he felt more
alive
, for tonight he would decide the manner in which he would leave his mark on the world.

Can it really be true, he thought, that here, in this place, the future of America is balanced on a knife-edge? All at once Lord Luxon questioned Alice’s counterfactual advice, for how could the fate of such a powerful nation hinge on the outcome of one reckless attempt to cross a river? What unique circumstances had contrived to bring history to its tipping point on the banks of the Delaware on
Christmas night, 1776? Looking out at the desperate scene playing out before him, Lord Luxon was struck by the yawning gap between Alice’s bare description of the event and the urgent, chaotic reality. He even felt a twinge of compassion for the ragged American Patriots who swarmed over the riverbanks, battling with frightened horses, heavy artillery and rampaging nature. But how could he be
certain
that a military failure would ensure that Britain retained control of America? And, just supposing that Alice’s hypothesis
were
true, did the Commander-in-Chief of this struggling army have any notion of the significance of this night? Could Washington feel the weight of history on his shoulders, as he did? There was something about the General’s demeanour that made Lord Luxon suspect that he did. Besides, to cross the Delaware on a night such as this was nothing if not an act of desperation, a last-ditch attempt to snatch at least one victory from the British redcoats and their mercenaries.

Lord Luxon brushed away the ice that was forming on his greatcoat as he contemplated how best to make a well-placed incision in the fabric of time. Nothing was certain in life but this game was surely worth the candle. In his mind’s eye, he saw his prize: a glorious vision of New York rose into a blue sky from the harbour, and he recalled Alice’s story of how the people of that city had melted down the statue of George III for bullets. Let General Washington beware, thought Lord Luxon, for he has a new enemy, whose very presence, here on this battlefield, he cannot begin to comprehend, and whose most dangerous weapon is undoubtedly history itself.

And so, from his vantage point, wedged halfway up the largest tree on the riverbank, Lord Luxon observed General Washington and his troops brave the ice floes, and the snow, and the biting north-easterly wind, in order to cross the Delaware River from
Pennsylvania to New Jersey. He watched a flotilla of assorted civilian boats that had been commandeered into service. He counted more than twenty of them. Some were small but others, like the Durham barges, were very long. Indeed, the largest must have been close to sixty feet in length. The river was alive with the sound of ice – it creaked and groaned and rumbled as giant slabs of it were carried downstream.

The open boats were quickly awash with icy water so that the passengers mostly stood for the duration of the crossing. The tortuous process had started at nightfall. Now it was past one o’clock and there was still much work to be done. Through his night-vision binoculars Lord Luxon watched one boat, crammed with a dozen soldiers, crash into a block of ice big enough to pitch a tent on. The boat would have capsized but for the efforts of two of the men, who dug into the riverbed with their long poles and blindly, inch by painful inch, forced the boat to the bank. What a pity, thought Lord Luxon with a smile, that the Americans are so poorly equipped. How much better they would fare with a twenty-first-century spyglass which allowed one to see in the dark – though he wasn’t about to lend them his own.

Gradually the determined Patriots began to make some headway. The patience of vast crowds of soldiers waiting for passage was rewarded as they disembarked gratefully at Johnson’s Ferry. The number of bonfires, twinkling like stars, on the far Pennsylvania side began to diminish, while the number of bonfires blazing on the New Jersey bank began to increase. Sentries were sent out to guard the landing place and hundreds of men stood in front of the bonfires while they waited for the rest of the horses and the artillery to be brought over. They all turned like meat on spits, for no sooner had they warmed one side than the other was already frozen again.

Lord Luxon had never experienced such cold, although his earliest memory was of clinging on to his mother’s hand during a frost fair when, unusually, the Thames had completely frozen over. Whilst they had stood marvelling at the sight of a whole ox roasting on a large fire built on the thick ice, a thief had stolen his mother’s purse. He remembered watching gleefully as all their servants gave chase, slipping and falling and crashing into stalls as they did so. To his disappointment the Thames had not frozen since, but if one had to endure cold like this in order to have a frost fair, he would rather do without.

In any case, one could hardly compare the Thames with the Delaware. If the former ran through one of Europe’s great cities, the latter appeared to flow through the middle of a windswept and inhospitable wilderness. The powerful, glacial winds made it feel even colder, slicing through his greatcoat and making his hands numb and his feet throb painfully despite the layers of warm clothing that William had provided for him and Sergeant Thomas.