Infernal Revolutions (8 page)

‘But America, Dick. Is that not an uncivilized country?'

‘I don't know till I get there. Can't be less civilized than this country though, can it?'

I shrugged noncommittally. ‘Twas all very well for an adventurer like Dick to start a new life in the wilderness, but my future as a poet depended for its flowering on a solid basis of culture, and where else was that to be found except in the salons and coffee-houses of London? No, desertion must be attempted on this side of the Atlantic, or not at all. But in all likelihood I was panicking for nothing anyway; rescue would surely come before I needed even to consider such desperate measures. I just needed to hold out a few days longer while the post did its work, and then I would be free to return to my old ways, all the richer for the experience.

But the days passed, the dreaded 16th of July loomed ever larger, and still there was not a squeak from my would-be rescuers. In real desperation now, I was forced on several occasions to screw my courage up to the highest pitch and confront Sergeant Mycock about the illegality of my impressment. But I need not have bothered: each time I was shouted down, beaten down and kicked to a pulp before I had reached the end of my first sentence. But at least ‘twas a response, which was more than I received from the regimental officers to whom I wrote heart-rending accounts of Liberty Abused – their silence on the matter was as profound as the grave. So, at my wit's end, hemmed in on all sides by a combination of violence and silence, I could think of nothing else for it – the time had come to risk offending Little Bob.

‘Twas only a minimal risk in any case, as far as I could see, for in two weeks a total of fifteen men had deserted, and not one of them had yet been caught, despite Segeant Mycock's boasts. The only problem seemed to be one of etiquette: should one thank the officers before walking off down the lane, or write them a letter when the escape had been completed?

My first attempt at desertion, therefore, had a complacent air about it. Early one Sunday morning, while everyone including the guards slept off their hangover, I simply stepped out of the front door of the
Martyr
, looked up and down the empty lane, and sauntered towards the nearest stile.
Brighthelmstone – 2 Miles
said the signpost above it, and I set off across the fields in the direction indicated. The ease of it all was laughable, and indeed I was starting to emit little snorts of mirth when I passed a great oak tree at the vertex of three fields.

‘Going somewhere, sojer?'

My heart shot into my mouth, and started pounding furiously. I stopped walking and tried to strike an attitude of elegant unconcern, but the shock of the voice and the dread of a gunpowder blast quite unmanned me, and I fear I quaked visibly.

‘Up here, varlet,' came the voice again, as I scrutinized the hedgerows for signs of my assailant. ‘In the tree.'

I looked up and saw, sticking out of the spreading foliage, the barrel of a pistol pointing down at me. As I could not make out anything else I was not sure whether I had encountered a footpad or a member of the provost guard. I gambled on the former.

‘I have no money, Sir. If I had, I would willingly give it to you.'

‘Are you deserting from the Army camp over yonder?'

I began to suspect the latter.

‘No, I just needed some air. I feel a bit sick after all the liquor I consumed last night.'

‘Then puke up on the floor of your billets like the rest of the rogues. And don't you dare leave your quarters again without permission. Now get back to where you came from, and count yourself damned lucky that I don't report you.'

Sheepish, in no doubt now as to the occupation of the man behind the pistol, I turned and walked…

‘RUN!!'

…ran back to the
Martyr
, absolutely astonished at the turn of events. Cursing my complacency and my luck – I had walked straight towards what was quite possibly the only occupied tree in the whole of England – I returned to my bed without another soul noticing my absence. Clearly, I was not as clever as I thought I was, and I needed time to lick my wounded pride before considering another attempt at escape. My only consolation was the thought that I had escaped a whipping by a whisker, though the shine was taken off this solace when snoring Dick grabbed my legs, hugged them to his chest, and began to rut gently against my bottom. Another desertion attempt, whatever the consequences, was clearly imperative, and this time, I vowed to myself – disentangling myself from Dick and kicking him squarely on the forehead – the attempt would be well-planned, foolproof and clinically executed. Then if I was caught I would know that I was under special supervision, either Divine or otherwise, and further struggling against my fate would be useless.

So, five days later, plot hatched, I was at it again, scurrying like a fox away from the camp. This time, however, ‘twas night time, and this time, ‘twas Philpott Hall, seven miles distant, that was my destination, for I had decided to do what I should have done in the first place, viz. declare my undying love for Amanda, and throw myself on her mercy and her millions. That she would accept my suit was a foregone conclusion, and then her father could use his influence to free me permanently from the mess I had got myself into. All I had to do was get there in one piece.

Again, the escape started well enough, my squeeze around the side of the jakes going unnoticed by the guard, who was busy as usual trying to peer through the keyhole of Vickie Tremblett's bedroom door, she being the landlord's lovely daughter. Free again, I then made good progress over the moonlit fields, giving all trees a wide berth and keeping a wary eye on the ships at sea, in case one should suddenly decide to discharge a cheeky broadside at me. In two hours I was at Steyning, and ten minutes later I was gazing at the distant rooftops of Philpott Hall. Confident now that I was far out of the range of guards, I relaxed a little and allowed myself to survey the scene with proprietary pride. Far from being the Slough of Despond that I imagined it might be in the dead of night, the countryside around here was an Arcadian wonderland of gleaming cowpats and hooting owls. ‘Twas a ravishment of the aesthetic senses, with each tree and coppice perfectly positioned to provide the most exquisite combination of form and function. Each lungful of damp air was ambrosia to me, and induced the reflection that perhaps even Amanda was nothing like the ogre my memory had painted her. Perhaps she too was a masterpiece of nature in the offing, who only needed good strong loving to remove the inherent flaws. Manhood stiffening at the thought, my reverie turning increasingly lusty, I continued on until I came to the sunken lane that surrounded the Philpott estate. Clambering down to cross, I thought I heard a rustle in some bushes. I stopped still and peered into the darkness. Nothing further stirred, so, suspecting ‘twas merely a nocturnal beast making its bed for the night, I jumped down onto the lane itself.

Immediately the area around the suspected bush burst into life. Onto the lane dashed an officer and three soldiers brandishing arms. I was quickly surrounded.

‘Took yer time, Oysterman,' shouted the officer down my ear.

‘Who-who,' I jabbered, truly shaken, ‘Who-who…?'

‘Sounds like that bloody owl we've been listening to all night,' said one of the soldiers, giving me a gratuitous prod on my left buttock with the tip of his bayonet. ‘Come on, express yourself properly, ye dog.'

‘Well, anything coherent to say before we take you back to camp?'

‘How do you know my name?' I managed to get out. ‘Who are you?'

‘Provost guard, laddie, no more. As for your name, word gets around.'

I started to babble.

‘I'm under special supervision, aren't I? Tell me I am. Just tell me I am.'

I was butted firmly in the stomach with the stock of a musket.

‘Pish. You are just unlucky, ‘tis all.'

‘But,' I gasped, doubled up, ‘why arrest me here, of all places?'

‘On permanent patrol here. Protecting the Philpotts.'

‘From what?'

‘Loons like you. Now climb back up the way you came.'

With difficulty I did so, and stood looking at the Hall in disbelief as a pair of irons was clamped around my wrists. I was still watching when one of the top rooms flared into light and three tiny figures appeared in the window-frame. Squinting, I could just make out ‘twas the Philpotts Three, and if they had been awakened by the noise it followed that they could hear me if I yelled loud enough. I was in the middle of taking the deepest breath of my life when a neckerchief ball was plugged unceremoniously into my mouth.

‘There,' said the officer, ‘that'll keep you quiet until we're out of hailing distance of the Hall.'

Unfortunately for me, however, he did not keep his soldiers quiet in the same way, and I had no alternative but to listen in terror as they outlined, in great detail, the joys of the cat.

‘Looking forward to it, me,' summed up one of the soldiers eventually, appetite whetted. ‘First deserter we've caught since April. Make an example of you, Sergeant Mycock will. You'll be lucky to come out of it alive.'

This turned out to be true, for I experienced that same afternoon the most exquisite pain this side of Hell. Stripped to the waist and tied to crossed halberds, I was stroked by Little Bob until my gag was bitten through, and my head and tongue lolled. Sentenced to fifty strokes, I knew no more after twenty, which must have been a disappointment as far as Sergeant Mycock and the other barbarians in the regiment were concerned, but it was no doubt some consolation to them to hear the agony in the screams, cries and whimpers I did emit, stripping me of all dignity. Strangely, even in my most extreme suffering I did not cry out for Jesus to comfort me; instead, so I was told later to my great humiliation, I invoked the name of Piggy Poo Face, my first pet pug – no doubt to the comic relief of the assembled company. Eventually, unconscious, I was taken back to the
Martyr
and left to lie face down on a makeshift bed in the stables until my back dried out. Truly, the sobriquet of Bloodyback had been earned.

‘I don't want to rub salt in your wounds, Harry,' said Dick Lickley on a visit the following day, ‘but I think an apology to Little Bob here is in order. He's not said a word since the whipping. Upset him, it has.'

‘Bob,' I moaned, putting as much sarcasm into my voice as I could, ‘I'm truly sorry for what I made you do to me. Please forgive me.'

‘I'll think about it,' said the sulking youngster eventually, before leaving with a great slam of the stable door.

‘There, that wasn't painful, was it,' said Dick, patting the heel of my foot. ‘He'll come round now. Soon be talking to you again.' There was the sound of a knapsack being rummaged, then I heard and smelt a pipe being lit. ‘So,' went on Dick, in between draws, ‘when's the next attempt? Only a short time left now, you know.'

‘No more attempts. Resigned myself to life in the army.'

‘Already?'

‘No-one else wants me.'

‘Poignant, Harry. Very.'

‘Besides, I can't risk another whipping; any more strokes would be hitting bare kidney, and I don't fancy that.'

‘I've known men survive a thousand strokes before now. Where's your bottom, man?'

‘Have you been stroked, Dick?'

‘Well, no.'

‘Shut thy mouth then. And get me a drink of ale. My mouth is as dry as a nun's fireplace.'

‘Twas time, I had decided, to start acting and talking like a soldier if I was to be one. And a great relief it was too – thinking and plotting and dreaming ecstatic dreams of anything, be it fame or escape, was a tiring fruitless business, and I'd had enough of it. Now I could just put my body and brain and soul in the hands of George III, and let him do my worrying for me, at least for the duration of the American war. This change of heart must have become apparent to everyone over the next few days, for as soon as I was well enough I was taken to the quartermaster's store and kitted out in the regulation uniform, which consisted of a red coat, a cocked hat, a white stock, half-length gaiters, white stockings, white breeches, linen socks and black boots. Issued also with a tin canteen, a knapsack, a haversack, combs, brushes and blankets, I was instantly transformed from creeping Night Poet to brazen Soldier, shockingly conspicuous to all adversaries.

So, subdued and acquiescent, I knuckled down to my duties, which, thanks to my new attitude, became almost enjoyable. For a couple of weeks, these consisted entirely of learning the dull mechanisms of drill practice, but then I was issued with my very own firelock and bayonet, complete with ammunition pouch and cartridge box, and the world became a brighter place, for I found I had a special knack for impersonalized murder. The technique and ritual involved in loading and firing the musket was very conducive to my temperament, and soon I was spraying balls around with surprising speed and facility. Despite this accomplishment, however, I was never considered good enough to join the elite Grenadier or Light Infantry battalions, scouts of which came round occasionally to claim the better amongst us as their own. Big, brave and handsome recruits, of which in my opinion there were none, were destined for the Grenadiers, there to be heartily backslapped and pumped with over-estimation of their own worth; while small, wiry, witty men ended up in the appropriately-named Light Infantry, to be trained for all sorts of skirmishing and nimble errands when real battle commenced. Hurt at first that I hadn't been selected for either, I consoled myself with the pleasing reflection that I was too intelligent for the Grenadiers, and too big and handsome for the Light Infantry squirts, thereby falling into an even-more-elite middle category, of which, looking around me, I was the only member.

Still, this oversight was perhaps a blessing in disguise, because it meant that I could continue the friendship I had struck up with Dick and the boys. For now that Little Bob was talking to me again the camaraderie in our quarters was excellent, and we all played very well together. This
esprit de corps
particularly manifested itself on company marches, when the open air and the music and the heroic nature of our calling made us feel a cut above ordinary mortals. We even felt superior to our superiors, thanks to their appearance of doing nothing in particular. Indeed, ‘twas not until five days before our departure that I caught my first proper glimpse of our commissioned officers.

‘Dick,' I said, pointing, ‘Who are they coming out of the houses over yonder?'

Resting at midday in the middle of a pointless ten-mile march, our company was seated on a hill with good views of both the sea and the countryside. Whilst pouring out tepid tea from my canteen, my attention had been caught by the distant barking of a dog.

‘Why,' said Dick, squinting through his pipesmoke, ‘they are our glorious staff officers. We must have stumbled across their nest.'

I watched fascinated as several little figures emerged stretching and yawning from a row of cottages. All held bottles, and all had a bedraggled air about them, as though they had spent the night in wild debauch. This suspicion was confirmed a few moments later, when wenches appeared in the doorways buttoning up their dresses and shaking their hair free of bedbugs. Everyone stood talking to each other for a while, apparently happy at the night's work, before pairing off again. Then, carrying hampers between them, they disappeared from view behind a church and a line of poplar trees.