Infernal Revolutions (21 page)

‘From God, Mr Oysterman, God.'

‘Good old God then.'

‘For you see, Mr Oysterman, here in America God watches over everything we do. We are not a trading country like Britain – we cannot import or buy enough of the things we need, so we have to make or grow them ourselves. We are subject to many vagaries; we cannot take anything for granted. We depend for our livelihoods on the beneficence of nature, and of His Holy Providence. Without his Grace, we are nothing. We must be truly humble, and constantly aware of His mercies.'

‘Amen,' I said, opening my eyes, and picking up the knife and fork once more.

‘Mr Oysterman,' came the by-now familiar reproach. ‘We have not yet begun. I was merely explaining the reasons why we pray.'

There was more to this praying business than I'd imagined. No wonder my parents had never gone in for it – it consumed too much valuable gambling and whoring time. Thinking that perhaps it would have been better to say grace while the meal was being cooked – indeed while the
produce
was being sown – I acquiesced with a sigh, and reverted once more to my humble supplicant role, torn between my duty as a British spy and my desire to throw over the table, Jesus-at-the-Temple-like. The hot meal was turning cold before my very eyes.

‘Lord, we thank you for blessing us with Your Grace. We look with wonder – nay, astonishment – on the glorious white potatoes, the ruddy orange sheen of the carrots, the green of the cabbage, the rich golden crust of the pastry…'

I lifted an eyelid to verify these raptures. It seemed to my possibly jaded European eye that he was overdoing it. Either that or he was describing the colours for a later still-life reconstruction by Eloise. I hoped we would not have to wait further while she got her paints and canvases out.

‘…and we can hardly believe that it is all the work of One Hand – Your Hand, O Lord…'

If horses prayed, I could imagine them offering a similar prayer of gratitude to Eloise. Reminded uncomfortably of what I was missing – of what even horses received as a matter of course – I slumped temporarily.

‘…but it is, so we can only be thankful that you have chosen thus to bless us…'

Either Mr De Witt was stretching out the prayer just to antagonize me, or he had never fully understood the concept of editing.

‘…and we call upon you to keep blessing our efforts, our crops, our livestock, our health, and the health of our good visitors today. And finally, O Lord, may we as usual beseech Thee to destroy, completely and utterly, the O'Sullivan gang and their foul offspring. Amen.'

This ending was a surprise, and I was still pondering its relevance to the meal when Mr De Witt nudged me.

‘You can open your eyes now, Mr Oysterman. The rest of us have started.'

Indeed the rascals had, and I set to ferociously in a desperate attempt to catch up. For the next ten minutes I became insensible to my surroundings, as I fed in a frenzy like that fearful fish, the shark. When my eyes rolled back to their normal position, there was the odd crumb of pastry on my plate, and a vast amount of spillage on the tablecloth, almost a meal in itself, reminiscent of a dummy hand at whist. Slowly, I also became aware of tinkling music coming from the harpsichord. ‘Twas light and delicate, which only served to emphasize the general bloatedness I was feeling.

‘A Scarlatti sonata, Mr Oysterman. Is it not exquisite?'

I belched discreetly and looked at the others. Eloise was demurely picking at her food, looking very rococo; Clara, baroque as ever, was scooping up forkfuls of cabbage and tipping them into Dick's mouth, in some sort of role reversal. He was a lucky dog to have found such an easy lover, I reflected, but I had hopes yet that my tougher nut would yield correspondingly higher pleasures.

‘Yes, exquisite,' I said, unbuttoning my breeches surreptitiously. ‘But surely not quite right.'

‘Come, come, Mr Oysterman. Let us not be churlish. You did not expect to find such art and culture in the New World – thinking it was your prerogative – and so you choose to deride perfection. A little mean-spirited, I think.'

‘No, listen…' I tilted my head and lifted a finger up to my ear. ‘…There it is again. A sort of slow, mournful rhythm he breaks into occasionally, with some very strange beats. I'm sure that such oddities are not to be found anywhere in the history of music, let alone in Mr Scarlatti's very classical sonatas. Nor, I think, are words, for that matter.'

Sure enough, as we listened closely, Elzevir was singing something under his breath. We turned to look at him and saw his eyes rolling, as though his mind was lost in a spiritual ecstasy, even while his fingers played, more or less, Scarlatti.

‘Are you sure? But this is how he always plays it.'

‘Trust me,' I said, ‘I know about these things.'

Mr De Witt looked reflective for a moment, then walked over to Elzevir and slammed the harpsichord lid down on his fingers, an act of violence which made us all jump, and aided not a jot our digestion.

‘Shee-it!' howled Elzevir. ‘What dat for, man!?'

‘For not playing
exactly
the notes that are placed in front of you. You've made me look a fool, and you have let down America into the bargain.' He picked up the sheaf of the score and waved it angrily an inch in front of Elzevir's nose. ‘These are not for you to improvise upon. They are there for you to play exactly. Not a note more, not a note less.'

Elzevir tried to focus on them, but only made himself cross-eyed.

‘Ah's do play dem exactly, Mr De Witt!'

Mr De Witt sarcastically peered deep into the score.

‘But I don't see any words there!'

‘No's. Dey my own invention. Get mighty bored udderwise.'

‘You know what a better cure for boredom is, don't you, Elzevir?'

‘Eatin'?' said Elzevir hopefully.

‘Working,' said Mr De Witt, with near inevitability.

‘Seems dats de cure for everytin' round here. But you'll get ‘minishin returns, Mr De Witt, if youm push me too hard. I's drop dead at de harpsichord if you work me harder dan youm do already. Won't get a note of any kind outa me den – dis bird'll be dead.'

‘Oh!' I heard Clara tut behind me, ‘he really is the most melodramatic nigger I have ever met.'

‘'Tis something to bear in mind, though, is it not, Elzevir?' continued Mr De Witt.

‘If yahss say so, Masser.'

‘A little more attention to detail in future then, and no – repeat no – improvisations.'

‘If yahss say so, Masser.'

I now felt damnably guilty for bringing the matter to Mr De Witt's attention, and not at all clever. I considered an apology, but the ones I rehearsed in my mind sounded so mealy-mouthed I decided to remain quiet. I hoped, though, that Elzevir would not bear a grudge against me, as I did not fancy being vengefully throttled by him later. Fearing this, I got a terrible fright when Elzevir turned to stare in my direction, and I began to tremble in a most un-Axelrodian manner. But I need not have worried – he was only looking past me at the dummy hand of food in the middle of the table.

‘Dat mine?' he asked Mr De Witt.

Mr De Witt followed his gaze over.

‘That's your's
gross
; but what you get
net
depends on how hungry the hogs are. You know they always have first pickings.'

I thought for a moment that Mr De Witt was referring to Dick and me, and I prepared to flare indignantly.

Elzevir nodded knowingly.

‘Ever get the feelin' yah well n' truly stitched up, gen'men?'

‘Oh Elzevir – you're such a baby!' exclaimed Clara with delight, ‘Isn't he a baby, Dick?'

Dick, picking his teeth with his thumbnail, belched and said he was.

‘Take no notice of them, Elzevir,' said Eloise, scraping the scraps onto her plate. ‘They just enjoy baiting you. Here, all this is yours. The hogs are fat enough.'

It didn't look very tempting, but Elzevir was overjoyed, and close to tears.

‘Missy Eloise!' he kept saying, ‘Missy Eloise, yahs an angel! Ah's never gonna rape you, ever!'

Clara snorted contempt, and poured back another glass of wine.

‘Very well,' conceded Mr De Witt. ‘Go and eat it in the kitchen though, and try to be a good nigger in future.'

Elzevir did not need telling twice. He reached across the table, scooped up his prize and left us to get on with our dining. Impressed by the humanity of Eloise's intervention, I decided to honour her with a compliment.

‘The pie was delicious, Eloise. What was in it, pray?'

‘Squirrel.'

‘Squirrel!'

‘Yes, one of Dolly Potter's favourite recipes. Take five squirrels, skin them, gut them, and bake them. I kept the eyes, brains and glands in though, just to give the pie an extra bit of moisture.'

I felt my gorge rise, and wished someone would take the plates and the remnants of the food away quick.

‘No one has ever liked that before,' said Eloise brightly, buoyed up by the praise, ‘See, father, I can cook in a way that pleases our guests.'

Mr De Witt studied my face dolefully, and remained enigmatically silent.

‘Now, anyone for dessert?' said Eloise perkily.

‘What's in it?' I mumbled through my handkerchief. ‘I mean – what is it?'

‘Cranberry pie, with larks' tongues and custard.'

I let out an involuntary groan of disgust, and heaved discreetly.

‘Perhaps just some brandy for our guests,' said Mr De Witt, coming unexpectedly to my aid. ‘I do not want them on the chamberpot when we need to be discussing business.'

‘Very well, Papa,' said Eloise, only slightly disappointed. ‘Perhaps Clara will help me to clear the dishes away. Then we can all relax, and talk most civilly.'

Watching in relief as the table was cleared, I leaned back in my chair and sweated while the eyes, brains and glands settled in my stomach. Then, replete with the knowledge that Eloise was a true De Witt, I waited with trepidation for the joys of civilized conversation to begin.

‘So what do you know about our little revolution, gentlemen?'

‘About as much as you know about England, Sir,' I replied, recovered from my queasiness and eager to impress Eloise with the sharpness of my drawing-room repartee.

‘And your friend?'

‘He knows even less than that.'

‘Well,' he sneered, ‘they say ignorance is bliss.'

‘We are not ignorant of life in general, Sir,' I snorted. ‘Merely of the political, social, and economic causes of this war, which, let's face it, only a madman or a bore can make head or tail of.'

This riled him, as I had intended it to.

‘I am not a madman or a bore, Sir!' he exploded.

A little catch of breath, as of a daughter about to speak, came from my left.

‘Yes you are, father. You're both.'

The wine seemed to have gone to Clara's head. She was giggling stupidly now, and hiccups looked on the way.

‘And you're a pervert!'

‘Clara, I won't tolerate this behaviour. Why do you always act like this when we have visitors? You're perfectly civil the rest of the time. Why do you take delight in showing me up?'

‘Old fart!'

‘Go up to your room! Now!'

‘Fuck if I will,' slurred Clara, her head lolling around as if her neck had turned to rubber. ‘I want to stay and hear about the…' First mighty hiccup, almost jolting her off her chair, ‘..what was it?….the moral, social and eco…eco…' Second hiccup, righting her again. ‘..nomic whatever it was….And all the rest of that
ordure
.'

She stretched out this word in a most comic manner, as though she were actually chewing and smelling the word described. I had to smile in spite of myself.

‘Come on, Clara, I'll take you up to your bedroom,' said Dick, rising and rubbing her forearm, before bending down and whispering something in her ear that made her lips curl up at the corners.

‘Sit down you!' thundered Mr De Witt, rising himself and thumping his fists down on the table as he did so, making knives, forks and spoons leap up like silver salmon. I managed to grab my fork mid-air.

‘Clara knows where her own room is. Besides, you're going to stay and learn about the war, Sir, God damn you are! I will not have my country and my daughters trampled on by ignoramuses.'

‘Papa, desist,' said Eloise.

‘Me desist? Why don't you tell that sister of yours to desist?'

‘Clara, desist.'

‘
Clara desist
,' mocked Clara, sneering at her sister. ‘Desist. Yes, you know all about that word, don't you, sister of mine? Know all about
desisting
, don't we, Miss Prissy Drawers? Desist, sounds like resist.'

Eloise blushed, but she was spared further attack. Mr De Witt was the main target for the night.

‘He molested me as a baby, you know.'

We all looked aghast at Mr De Witt.

‘Oh yes,' said Clara. ‘Oh yes. Come on, father, tell everybody how you used to spank me for crying, and then a few moments later make me laugh by tickling me, so that I did not know whether I was coming or going. No wonder I have problems when a humorous brute makes overtures to me.'

A hideously embarrassing silence ensued. Mr De Witt seemed to consider the best course of action to take, while the rest of us twirled the stems of our wine glasses, and coughed or cleared our throats for the sake of it. Only Clara was in the mood to break the ice.

‘I'm pursuing happiness, I am,' she shouted happily, ‘as Mr Jefferson advised.' She raised the nearest glass to hand – Dick's – and toasted herself. ‘Cheers, Clara, love – you're a fine and wonderful example of…example of…ah, fuck it…we're all gonna be dead soon anyway…'

Jerking like a marionette, Clara accidently swiped a glass to the floor with her forearm. She peered over the table edge, stared glassily at the shattered remains, then slumped back in her chair and began to giggle between hiccups.

‘Satisfied?' said Mr De Witt.

‘Piss off!'

‘Supposing Elzevir cuts himself on that?'

This only made her giggle more, which in turn made her list badly to Dick's side. He shored her up with some effort.

‘All right, up to your room now. Eloise will help you.'

‘Not going,' Clara pouted. ‘So there.'

‘Then if you stay, you must promise to keep quiet, and act with more decorum.'

‘Can't censor me,' Clara slurred. ‘I'll have you up before Congress.' Then, in a curious voice, as if mocking one of her father's favourite phrases, ‘
We are not in Europe now
. I've got my rights and I've got my liberty.'

But to our collective relief she didn't have them much longer, Nature stepping in like George III to crush all rebellion. Her head crashed onto Dick's shoulder, and she was snoring and out, a spent firework.

Mr De Witt sighed, looked askance at Dick as his arm cradled her neck in a sort of armlock, and poured out more wine.

‘Now, gentlemen, where were we?'

Neither of us wanted to remind him, so we desperately tried to think of ways to pilot him into more interesting channels. But it was too late.

‘Ah, yes,' he said, brightening as we went into eclipse, ‘your education, or lack of it. So,' he went on, warming to his theme, ‘you're spies and know nothing about the Revolution. That's a good start. Like being a bird and not knowing how to fly. I shall have to speak to Mr Woodbine about this lowering of standards. After all, the first men who came here were educated men from Oxford.'

‘Pah, they were lying,' retorted Dick. ‘They might have been men who could read and write, and they might have been from Oxford, but I doubt very much whether they were Oxford
graduates
, if that's what you mean.'

‘Lying or not, at least they had manners then,' said Mr De Witt pointedly, glaring at Dick. ‘Nowadays the finest young men come not from England, but from Princeton, the college we have up the road.' He sucked on his pipe reflectively. ‘In fact, one day they will say “what educated man comes from England?”‘

‘Let ‘em,' said boorish Dick, dragging us all through the mud. I was just about to try and ameliorate this loutish image of Englishmen abroad with a philosophically meaty, multisyllabled rhetorical flourish when Mr De Witt began his lecture. In no time at all he was into his stride, pontificating like God on every drama – major, minor and utterly irrelevant – to have happened to America since the arrival of the
Mayflower
. All interest and opposition was crushed in a manner that reminded me of that other great pedagogue in my life, Dr Werner. So enthralling was the narrative that I flickered into sleep around the time of the Salem Witch Trials, and did not fully awake until the New Jersey legislative crisis of the present summer. However, ‘twas not the predictable political squabblings that opened my eyes wide, but the most surprising and delightful occurrence imaginable, viz. the insertion of a lady's bare foot plumb between my thighs.

Widening my legs for greater ease of access, I looked across at Eloise with love and gratitude – this was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. I was full of admiration for the discreet manner in which she was conducting herself, for no-one would guess, if they had only the demure expression on Eloise's face to go by, what friction was being generated under the table by one tiny foot. This was a real woman at play, and if this was loving friendship, then my mouth watered at the prospect of the full works. ‘Twas bliss, and it cheered me up no end. I glanced at Dick and Clara, propping each other up, and pitied their childish need to rush their pleasure. If only they'd waited…

Eyes closed now, almost swooning with pleasure, I once more became impervious to Mr De Witt's words, always willing to cast aside superficial knowledge when my wider education was at stake. After all, what would comfort me more when I was languishing in a rebel gaol – memories of Eloise's foot or the knowledge that my captors were dangerously free and constitutionally encouraged to pursue their own happiness at the expense of a British soldier's? It seemed only sensible to store up as much pleasure as I could before Mr De Witt broke the spell, which he did eventually with the heavily emphasized words: ‘So That…Gentlemen…Is America In A Nutshell.' The heavenly foot left off its heavenly work. ‘How do you feel about your mission now?'

This was one of those vague questions that I hated at any time. I looked to Dick to answer, which made him shuffle awkwardly in his seat and disturb Clara. Awakened by the movement, she smacked her lips and screwed her eyes up at the lamplight as if it were the sun itself.

‘Much enlightened, thank you. Armed with such information we will…er…be able to…er…cope better with any awkward situation that arises.'

This was admirable waffle in the circumstances, I thought, and I nodded my head in agreement. It satisfied Mr De Witt anyway.

‘Good. Then now, gentlemen, ‘tis time for the real purpose of your visit. Girls, to bed please, while we men discuss matters in private.'

‘Yes, papa,' said Eloise instantly, rising and giving her father a chaste kiss on the forehead. Such was her discretion that she did not look at me once as she made her way out of the room, preferring instead to communicate by an all-but-intangible Psychic Vibration which said, to those attuned: ‘I will be waiting for you upstairs, Harry. My paintings will be on display.'

Clara, of course, could not be dismissed so easily, and treated us to another tantrum, in which she drunkenly railed against the Old World, the New World, God, men, and her lack of true independence, before tottering off to her room, hands swatting away imaginary flies.

‘She's just over-tired,' said Mr De Witt in explanation, as a sound like a crashing chandelier shook the floor above, ‘and worried about the current vulnerability of our position.' He plucked up some folds of skin on the back of his left hand and rolled them thoughtfully. ‘But with the grace of God we will weather the storm, and be all the stronger for having done so. But meanwhile, gentlemen, business is business. Have you got the money?'

I looked at Dick, who was our treasurer, and saw from his avid attention to the ceiling that he seemed to be taking the soundings of Clara's progress through the house, perhaps the better to find her room later.

‘Dick!'

‘What?'

‘Mr De Witt wants the money.'

He scowled at Mr De Witt, then with ill grace began to rummage in the false lining of his jacket. He pulled out, after many thwarted attempts and much cursing, a slim flask of rum, a small round mirror, a pouch of gunpowder, an eight of clubs playing card and a cloth bag with DE WITT scrawled across it in a tasteless hand. This latter item was shoved across to Mr De Witt, who – eyes glittering – untied it and spilled out its contents onto the table. It was obvious at a glance that he'd been paid three genuine guineas for his services, but Mr De Witt was not satisfied until he'd counted the coins several times, bit them, and roasted them in a candleflame.

‘All seems in order,' he said doubtfully, then rose to go to a cupboard, from which he fetched down a battered copy of
Dolly Potter's New Continental Cookery
, so big it looked like a variorum edition. With this before him on the table, he took the letter that Taylor Woodbine had enclosed with the money and stretched it carefully over the candleflame. We watched in fascination as faint letters and numbers began to develop between the lines of the hoax letter. Then he flicked a practised finger through the pages of the cookery book to decipher the code. He did this so quickly it was obvious he knew many of the combinations by heart; a similar-sized letter would have taken Dick and me the good part of an evening to unravel.

‘Yes, gentlemen,' he said eventually, shutting the tome with a sturdy thwack, ‘everything is in order – or rather in its usual state of disorder. Sometimes I wonder if either side know what they are doing.'

‘Do you know what you are doing, Sir?' I asked, still wishing to shake off our loutish impression. ‘It seems a dangerous game you play – playing off one side against the other.'

‘I do it solely for money, Mr Oysterman. Ignoble perhaps, but without money one can do nothing. I detest equally all sides in this dispute – and there are not just outright Patriots and British, there are many shades of opinion in between, and lots of waverers who sway with the prevailing wind – Patriot one day, Loyalist the next. It gives the war a very complex character; one cannot trust anyone.'

‘But money will not buy you security.'

‘Nothing will. But I am a little less unsafe with it. At least this way there is a chance that money may give me leverage or bargaining power. It may, for example, buy me time when the O'Sullivan gang finally comes a-calling. But anyway, gentlemen, let us get on. Sitting here philosophizing will not buy the baby a new bonnet. Now, have you pen and paper?' He reached into his coat and pulled out a little leatherbound notebook. ‘I will give you a list of names and all the latest information I have. Then we can all go to bed, in readiness for your early departure tomorrow.'

Despite my growing empathy for Mr De Witt's position, words like
bed
and
baby
still had me in their thrall, and were liable, as here, to dash the most serious discourse onto the rocks. Wondering what sleeping arrangements Mr De Witt had in mind – and if there was a chance of giving Eloise a
baby
in her
bed
– I retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket, smoothed it out and grabbed a stubby pencil in readiness to take down dictation. Meanwhile Dick, obviously excited by this first taste of real intelligence work, returned his gaze to the ceiling and began making clicking noises with his tongue, and drumming noises with his fingers.