Queering Benedict Arnold

Queering Benedict Arnold 12 From Newgate Prison: April 24-25, 1762 By: Jake Preston

This story includes explicit accounts of gay sex. It should not be read by minors or by people who live in enslaved lands where the possession of such material is illegal. Jake Preston will reply to all sincere comments and questions at jemtling@gmail.com

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Benedict Arnold awoke alone in his bed in the house on Southampton early Saturday morning. On the dresser he found a note in Caribou Brave's hand:

Sir:

Let not no absence of mine alarm you. After so many months, Your kindness at Ticonderoga will be repay'd on another. That is My task. You must go about your business to- day, and pray at St. Paul's to-morrow. I took £50 from your treasury as my venture requires; a vast sum of money, Sir, I know, and I hope to return with £45 and the grace of the first Carpenter on Monday eve at the Coffee-House whereto you wanted to bring me. If I fail, you must consider £50 the cost of admittance to view the Constable's newest Puritan allegory, tho' I warrant we are not yet bound for the western parade.

Your Servant

Caribou was normally a plain-speaking man. Benedict realized at once that he wrote in obscure allusions, as a defense against his letter falling into the hands of a third party. To interpret it would require the application of memory and imagination, but the general tenor was clear, at least to him: Caribou had gone off to rescue Adam Bede from Newgate Prison. "Kindness at Ticonderoga" referred to Caribou's release from prison, which he would repay by setting another prisoner free, and there was no stopping him from his self-appointed duty. The "grace of the Carpenter" referred too obviously to Christ; he must mean someone else. Now as Christ was the second Adam, who else could be the "first" but Adam Bede? The "western parade" meant the Oxford Road to Tyburn. Therefore "we" in the last sentence meant Caribou Brave and Adam Bede.

As for the unnegotiated loan of £50 and the prospect of losing £5, Benedict didn't give it a thought. The purpose of money was to build a business; the purpose of making more money was to build a bigger business. Money in and of itself was of no consequence; he could always find more. Most people never understood that about Benedict; they thought he was avaricious for money. Caribou never thought of money at all, except when he wondered why the Puritans worshipped it as their one true God.

"You must go about your business to-day, and pray at St. Paul's to-morrow." Caribou's admonition meant exactly what it said, and yet, it meant something else: Benedict was to spend the day being seen in public by witnesses who could later swear that he had never been anywhere near Newgate Prison, for today was a dangerous day, and perhaps tomorrow, too. He had an appointment at 10:00 with a pharmacy-merchant, but what should he do until then?

He decided to call upon David Garrick, the Drury Lane actor-producer, who, as if by a lucky chance, lived two houses down the street on Southampton. He went to his library searched for a title that Garrick would not already own. He selected The Life of Samuel Sewall, Chief- Justice in Massachusetts Bay Colony, Together with His Diary, printed by a Boston bookseller in 1755. The biography was only 29 pages. The rest of the book was excepts taken direct from Sewall's manuscript, and included the author's account of how he presided at the witchcraft trials in Salem in 1692 and 1693; how he sentenced nineteen women to be hanged or pressed to death as witches; how many other women were brought before judges in Ipswich and Andover and executed or died in prison; and how he later repented his part in this miscarriage of justice and called for a public day of prayer in Salem to atone for this collective sin. As this was a "pirated" book, the printer made only fifty copies. Joshua Lathrop bought half of them for his apothecary, and gave five copies to Benedict. No other portions of Sewell's Diary had ever been printed.

A servant answered Benedict's knock on the door. Benedict asked him to convey his card and his Sewall to Mr. Garrick, together with his compliments. Were it not for the book, Benedict would have been turned away, for Garrick was often besieged by uninvited company. The servant did not return. Instead the great actor himself appeared at the door and led Benedict to his library, which was stocked with books on subjects civil and moral. A large part of it was devoted to Shakespeare and other playwrights, but two shelves were given over to the American Colonies. The Sewall lay on a table between two chairs. Garrick invited Benedict to sit. Benedict ignored the invitation, rapt as he was in reading the titles of books in Garrick's library. Garrick approved. He took an instant liking to this young man, who had obviously come from the Colonies, and who took greater interest in books than in rubbing shoulders with an influential neighbor. In deference to Benedict, Garrick remained standing, too, and allowed his visitor to roam through his books.

"Where are my manners?" Benedict said at last, and accepted Garrick's invitation to sit.

"I see from the scribbling on your card that we're neighbors," Garrick said.

"My card, yes, we just settled into the house, and haven't had time to get a proper new card printed just yet," Benedict said.

Garrick picked up the Sewall and paged through it.

"The witchcraft trials in Massachusetts Bay are in there," Benedict said. "There's also an amusing tale about the introduction of wigs into New England society. Judge Sewall was adamant in his opposition to wigs, but Jonathan Edwards saw no reason why a Puritan gentleman might not wear one. Imagine two intellectual giants in America quarrelling about something so little."

"I once heard my friend Samuel Johnson say that "there is nothing too little for so little a creature as man," Garrick said. "In fact I can quote him verbatim: 'It is by studying little things that we attain the great knowledge of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible'."

"Only a great wit like Johnson could start of a sentence like Aristotle and end it sounding like Plato," Benedict said.

Garrick laughed and laughed. If this was a test of his wit, Benedict had passed it. Benedict took stock of the man. He was about 45, and at five-feet-eight had a robust build and a squarish handsome face. His French Huguenot background was evident in his brown curly hair and searching brown eyes; a man of the stage who by good looks alone could command the approval of all the ladies and many gentlemen; but his reputation was built on performance in the theater, and on kindness and generosity in the city. He had powerful friends. More than a few barons and earls had portraits of Garrick in some theatrical performance or other, hanging in places of honor

"Are you from Boston, then, Mr. Arnold?" Garrick asked after regaining composure.

"I'm from Norwichtown, in Connecticut," Benedict replied. "I've completed an apprenticeship as an apothecary with my uncles. Dr. Daniel and Joshua Lathrop. Our apothecary- shop deals in books as well as in in pharmacies. I've come to London to procure merchandise for an apothecary shop of my own, to set up near Yale College in New Haven."

"I've heard tell of Joshua Lathrop," Garrick said. "Oliver Goldsmith, the poet, made his acquaintance during one of his business adventures in London, and accompanied him on a tour of the West Country where he was looking for medicinal plants. Dr. Goldsmith approved of Lathrop's creative approach to apothecary science, and spoke of him in Child's from time to time. So you'll be purchasing medical compounds, and book as well, Mr. Arnold?"

"Yale College has been growing, along with the town of New Haven. Books will be an important part of our business."

"You have a partner, then, who has come with you in London."

"A companion, rather," Benedict said. "His name is Caribou Brave. He's the son of Chief Natanis of the Abenaki nation."

"An Indian prince! I hope I will meet him soon," Garrick exclaimed. He invited Benedict to breakfast with him in the drawing room downstairs. There, Benedict told Garrick about his relationship with Caribou Brave. He omitted mention of their sexual encounters, but from details in his story, Garrick deduced that they were on intimate terms. Garrick was especially interested in the tale of how Caribou was rescued from captivity at Fort Ticonderoga. "My dear Mr. Arnold, you're a colorful man who at age twenty-one has already lived a colorful life, and with more to come, I am sure. You must go to church with me tomorrow morning at St. Paul's, and on Monday you must be my dinner companion at Child's Coffee-House, you and your Caribou Brave."

Benedict had no complaints about David Garrick's hospitality. Perhaps it would lead to intimacy. What would it be like, he wondered, sharing love with England's most celebrated actor? Perhaps if they built enough trust between them, perhaps.... He took his leave, and made his way to the Wholesale Warehouse of Benjamin Godfrey, Apothecary, on Bishopsgate Street near Angel Alley.

The constable of Newgate courtyard must now be given a name, for he plays a part in our story. Let us call him Barnes. Neither Benedict nor Caribou ever learned his name, but Barnes will do. His head was woozy when he reported to his post on Saturday morning, for he had spent Friday evening at Pye-Corner, eating the victuals and imbibing the best dark ale of Thomas Andrews at the Fortune of War. He went there incognito. When the waiter served him dinner, he asked the lad's name. "Samuel Johnson, Sir," the waiter said. "Well, Samuel Johnson, the roast- beef is most excellent. Pray convey my compliments to the Proprietor." "That I cannot do, Sir, for he is almost gone from this world," the waiter replied. When the drawer served him ale, he asked the lad's name. "William Peirce, Sir." "Well, William Peirce, the ale is most excellent. Pray play my compliments to the Proprietor." "That I cannot do, Sir, for the Proprietor is gone from this place, but I shall send your compliments to his daughter." "What is his daughter's name, then?" Barnes asked. "Sarah Andrews, Sir." "I should like to speak with her directly, to pay my compliments," Barnes said. "Alas, Sir, the lady is upstairs and I fear she will not descend, but I will tell her." A half-hour later, Sarah Andrews did come down, dressed in black in remembrance of her father. "You are most welcome to the Fortune of War, Sir," she said to Barnes, "and I hope that all is well with you." "The roast-beef and the ale are most excellent," Barnes replied, "but I fear that your waiter, Mr. Johnson, told me that the Proprietor is not long for this world." "Indeed, Sir," she said. Tears welled in her eyes, but she maintained control of her composure. "I am sorry for it," Barnes said. "I pray that he will overcome whatever ailment afflicts him." "I shall tell him, Sir," she said, stifling a sob. "What is't with him then?" Barnes asked. "Sir?" "The ailment that afflicts him; what is it?" "No ailment, Sir, but a pain in the neck, for he hangs tomorrow at Tyburn," Sarah replied. "Then I must to Tyburn tomorrow," Barnes said. "Excuse me, Sir, I fear I must bring this interview to a close." She left the bar-room quickly, with head held high. Constable Barnes's face brightened with a satisfied smile when he heard the woman sobbing in the kitchen.

"Excuse me, Sir, I fear I must bring this interview to a close, hee! hee!"-Constable Barnes spoke to himself aloud in the courtyard while he surveyed the prisoners' cells. He imagined every detail and repeated every word spoken at his celebratory dinner at the Fortune of War. While he was there he had gazed at the Golden Boy, a gilt statue set up at Pye-Corner to mark the farthest extent of the Great Fire of London in 1666. Was it a cherub, or a demon of Gluttony, this Golden Boy? How he wished he could have seen the destruction, preceded and followed by the Black Death! How would have wanted to oversee the hanging of French and Dutch residents in London who were blamed for the Fire, and after that Roman Catholics, who also were blamed! Every Sunday in the first week of September, the preacher gave a sermon in commemoration of the Fire. In this sermon he exonerated the Dutch, French, and Catholics, and said that the Fire was God's punishment for the collective sin of Gluttony, proven by the fact that the Fire had started at a bakery on Pudding Land, and spread as far as a tavern, the Fortune of War. The Constable knew better, for in his mind, the Fire and the Plague came together as twin- punishments and were pre-figured in Genesis by Sodom and Gomorrah. Therefore both Plague and Fire were divine retribution for sodomy, and for the Crown's failure to hang all the sodomites. But the Constable's mind was capacious enough to admit all three causes at once: foreigners, Catholics, and sodomites. It was the duty of Newgate, Old Bailey, and Tyburn to purge these blots from the population of London. Constable Barnes was proud to play his part in respect of the sodomites, but it troubled him that little was done to purify the city of Catholics, and nothing at all in respect of foreigners.

"There's Chanticleer again," Barnes muttered, "crowing the morning with 'When I survey the wondrous Cross' in siren-sodomite voice. It's a crime against God and Nature that such religious words should flow from lips that have wrapped themselves around many a yard, and a tongue that has greeted the anus of every living Templar! I could silence him now, this demon in the guise of a god, but no matter. He'll be tried and condemned today, and on Monday he'll hang at Tyburn. He's on the list for morning chapel. It'll be my last chance to give him a kick in the butt."

The bells of St. Sepulchre resounded eight times. The once-deserted courtyard came alive with diverse activities. A new group of prisoners were brought in on horse-drawn carts from Poultry-Compton, and another from Bridewell. Once they entered the maw of Newgate, their miserable lives would be over. Two empty carts came up to the side entrance, and the guards began conducting sixteen prisoners into the carts, one by one, for their pilgrimage down Oxford Street to Tyburn. The hangings began at noon on weekdays, but on Saturday the prisoners were hanged in the morning. Twenty prisoners, a larger group than usual, were being conducted across the courtyard to chapel. It warmed the Constable's heart to see the wheels of justice turning with such great efficiency, although, to be sure, even he would have admitted that security was at a low level: the prisoners were loosely bound with ropes, and only eight guards, including himself, were present to manage their large number.

Prisoners were always sent to chapel for morning prayers on the day of their trial. That's why there were twenty, just now, at the chapel doors, loosely bound together with ropes and conducted by two guards. Everyone was kept so busy that no one noticed the approach of twenty-two figures dressed in magistrates' robes and wigs. They shouted cat-calls and jeers at the prisoners near the chapel doors, and threw stones that they had carried in sacks for this purpose. The prisoners broke loose from their ropes. Most of them appeared to tussle with the mock-magistrates, but soon ran through the courtyard and down Newgate Street, and from there to parts unknown. The Constable noticed a Priest at the chapel door, who appeared to be tussling with three of the prisoners. He grabbed one of them by the hand-the one he called Chanticleer-and pulled him into the chapel. "Well, at least Chanticleer won't be going anywhere," Constable Barnes said to himself. "No matter if the others get away." Shots were fired by the guards, who ran after the fleeing prisoners. All but two of them escaped. The mock- magistrates ran off, too. None of them were ever identified, nor were their costumes ever found.

Constable Barnes supervised a search of the chapel, but the only person they found there was the chaplain. The disappearance of Chanticleer, and the Priest, was a mystery. Naturally the Warden of Newgate Prison had to write a report. It said that order was restored within ten minutes, and it recommended the addition of six additional guards at Newgate on Saturdays. It was unnecessary to mention that eighteen prisoners escaped, but on the Constable's advice, the Warden commended an unknown Man of the Cloth who subdued three of the prisoners and then exited the scene, so as not to have his name associated with unclerical acts of violence. As a result of the prison-break, Newgate was rewarded with an increase in its annual budget, which pleased the Warden. All in all, a satisfactory result for everyone concerned.

Adam Bede did not go to trial that day. Witnesses had been summoned to Old Bailey for his trial, but were told that the prisoner had been discharged for want of sufficient evidence against him. "Where is he, then?" some of his Methodist friends wondered. "Probably on a ship bound for the American colonies," they were told. "That's what we recommend as the best course for discharged prisoners."

"A proleptic truth," Benedict said satirically when gossip about the episode seeped out of Newgate.

Dr. Benjamin Godfrey, MD, was the wealthiest apothecary in London. Benedict had a letter of introduction for him from Joshua Lathrop, so Godfrey's Wholesale Warehouse on Bishopsgate Street was his 'port of call' for the morning. The man turned out to be more a salesman than an apothecary. He tried to persuade Benedict to purchase a large quantity of "Dr. Godrefy's General Cordial," which he proclaimed as a remedy for cholic, bowel disorders, fluxes, fevers, small-pox, measles, rheumatism, coughs, colds, venereal disease, and "all manner of restlessness" in sexually dysfunctional men, pregnant women, and "young children in breeding their teeth." He had agents selling this compound in Bristol, Newcastle, Norwich, and Dublin, and saw no reason why it should not be a success in New England. His General Cordial was so popular that counterfeit bottles appeared in several shops in London. Dr. Godrey had published notices in the City Register, warning the public against these counterfeits, and giving a list of the shop where the genuine article could be found, at sixpence a bottle.

"Universal elixirs are sold in New England, and some are quite reputable, like Seneca Serum, a cetaceum spiked with asclepias-extract and oils drawn from canebrake and cottonmouth," Benedict said, as politely as he could manage. "This miraculous serum can be taken internally, or applied externally to rashes and bruises. At one shilling a bottle it is quite expensive, because the extraction of oil from pit vipers is a dangerous business and these creatures must be imported from Charleston. For sixpence you can purchase a counterfeit substitute that omits the benefit of pit-venom. For customers who demand it, Dr. Lathrop sells a three-penny counterfeit because, in his estimation, asclepias is the active ingredient, and many species of milkweed grow wild in the Colonies. But my clientele in New Haven is most particular. They expect individual remedies that can be applied to very specific ailments. It is in that direction that we must conduct our business." He would have been more abrupt, but he was mindful that he might need Dr. Godfrey as a friendly witness, should it fall out that Caribou Brave's adventure at Newgate reached a tragic conclusion.

"To be sure, I have more costly compounds for clients who can afford them," Dr. Godfrey said. "Here is Dr. R. Nelson's Strengthening Elixir a bottle, a remedy for impotence in men and infertility in women, and breaks up internal obstructions in men who have difficulty passing urine. It sells for five shillings at Isted's Bookshop, and at the Golden Ball, between St. Dunstan's Church and Chancery-Lane End in Fleet Street." Benedict maintained a polite silence, but reflected that a man suffering from impotence might take Dr. Nelson's Elixir for months, to no good effect, and never declare publically that the medication was useless.

"And here is a Healing Water prepared by A. Downing, Chemist, that cures the itching- humour 'in a few days without the necessity of purging or the dangerous use of mercury'"-Dr. Godfrey read from a label on the bottle. "It sells for one shilling-sixpence at the Crown and Ball in George-Court, in St. John's Lane by Hicks's Hall, near West Smithfield."

"A miraculous easy cure for pox," Benedict nodded with mock-gravity. He wondered how many people in London contracted gonorrhea from patients who had taken Downing's Healing Water for a cure.

"Here is Spirits of Scurvy-Grass, at eight-pence a bottle, wholesale or retail," Dr. Godfrey said. "It's a most effectual remedy for violent pain in the teeth, and can be applied daily to preserve healthy teeth, and to clear them from scurvy."

For the first time in his interview with Dr. Godfrey, Benedict took an interest. A remedy for toothache was something he could use. He said he would purchase a crate of these Spirits, plus an assortment of garden and flower seeds, and clover-seeds. "Have you anything to relieve the pain of a surgery?" he asked Godfrey.

"Oh, yes Sir," Dr. Godfrey said. "Here is Laminaria Digitatis, an extract of brown seaweed. It settles the patient who must go under the surgeon's knife. There was a similar extract prepared from red seaweed. Some years ago, a chemist named Fraser applied it to his wife to relieve the pain of childbirth, but Parliament outlawed its use because, as they said, 'it is the duty of women to bear pain in childbirth'. Red seaweed must be avoided as a legal matter, but brown seaweed works just as well."

Benedict announced his intention to purchase Laminaria. He hoped to find a way to manufacture it himself in Connecticut, on whose shores seaweed grew in green, brown, and red variations. In exchange, Dr. Godfrey expressed an interest in Benedict's New England herbs and his Indian remedies, a promising business venture, he knew, because of the origins of these medicines were exotic. He did not ask what ailments they cured, or whether they were effective.

An hour before the prison-escape at Newgate, a priest discovered the entrance to a tunnel that joined the chapel to another church, possibly Ludlow Church, but more likely St. Paul's. It started at a trapdoor under a carpet behind the baptismal font, where it once had doubled as a drain for the font. The chaplain had assumed it was just an oversized drain. It was no longer functional, since there had been no baptism at Newgate Chapel in recent memory. When he found the entrance, he tossed a rucksack down to the tunnel. During the attack of mock- magistrates in the courtyard, a priest pulled Adam into the chapel. They descended a rickety ladder to the tunnel, and the priest replaced the floor-tile, balancing the carpet over it as best he could. He pulled the ladder away and hid it in the tunnel.

The priest used a flint-scrape to light a candle. During their momentary rest in candlelight, Adam recognized the priest as the man who had visited him on Friday morning. He said he was Caribou Brave. He gave the candle to Adam, and strapped the rucksack at his back. "You lead the way," he told Adam. Most of the time they walked upright, but occasionally they crawled over mounds of earth that had caved in during one or another of London's frequent rainstorms. The grime of the tunnel clung to their clothes, but as Caribou said, "These obstructions work to our advantage. They will conceal the light of our candle."

By turns they stumbled at times in the dimly-lit tunnel, but when one man stumbled, he was steadied by his companion. On these occasions, Adam held Caribou's hand or his arm in a grasp that signified affection. Caribou returned the gesture with a suggestive squeeze of his hand, or wrapped an arm around Adam's waist. "We must keep moving forward," Caribou said. "Let us hope that our opponents lack curiosity as to what might lie below the baptismal font, but we must allow for the possibility that they might discover our path. We must prepare for a quick exit from this tunnel, if there be any."

They reached a fork in the tunnel. "So there are two tunnels!" Caribou exclaimed.

"Which way should we go, right or left?" Adam asked.

"Two the right, I think," Caribou said. "It should be 200 yards to St. Paul's." Adam heaved his weight at it to no avail. "Save your strength, Adam," Caribou said, "for we must go back."

"I'll die here first, before going back to Newgate," Adam exclaimed.

"Not to Newgate. To the secondary tunnel."

They followed the second tunnel for a considerable distance. It narrowed, so they crawled most of the way. At one point the tunnel made a sharp turn to the left. "I think we've turned south," Caribou said. "If I'm right, we're following the course of the Thames, which spirals into the west side of London like an S." From his pocket, Caribou produced a new candle. Two hours later, the tunnel turned to the right. After more than four hours on their hands and knees, they came to a large underground chamber where high-pitched chirping could be heard. Adam raised his candle and they saw a dozen or more winged creatures flying overhead. On closer inspection they saw hundreds of these creatures clinging to the cavernous ceiling.

"Demons from hell!" Adam exclaimed.

"Bats," Caribou said.

"Of course they're bats," Adam said. "I know that. But what does it mean?"

"It means there's a way out of here. All we need to do is follow the bats."

Adam walked the perimeter of the cavern, holding the candle close to the wall. "Here," he said, pointing to a narrow tunnel from which a warm current of air could be felt. They crawled through it and saw daylight. The entrance was hidden behind a growth of reeds and grasses. Three feet below was the waterline of the Thames River. They saw boats, and across the river some trees. "We must be at the western end of London," Adam said.

"We must stay in the cave until dark," Caribou said. "The bats will let us know when it's safe for us to leave." He doffed his clerical cloak, wrapped it in a heavy stone, and tossed it into the Thames. He flung his clerical hat like a saucer and watched as it skipped and sank in the water. "Help me with this collar, would you?" he said. Adam helped Caribou out of his stiff white shirt and his collar. These, too, were tied around a stone and tossed to the Thames. Next came the trousers. Caribou unbuttoned the fly. He needed Adam's help to pull the pant-legs over his boots. Adam relished the contact that his hands made with Caribou's legs while he watched his spots of sunlight brighten his muscular torso and the lower part of his body. Caribou gazed out on the Thames, aware that Adam was gazing on him. Adam swallowed hard to relieve the tight lump in his throat.

Caribou turned over and lay on his back. "The linen must go, too," he said. He waited for Adam to process his words as an invitation for him to relieve him of his last stitch of clothing. Adam crawled close and knelt at his left. He put his fingers around the top of the linen on each side. A musky hint of man-scent mingled with a breeze of fresh air. Adam pulled at the linen. Caribou raised his hips to assist. Adam pulled the linen downward and watched as Caribou's cock flipped outward. Just then, Caribou pivoted to his right, away from Adam, such that his cock brushed against Adam's forearm. Adam paused. Caribou arched in such a way that a trail of pre-cum formed along the forearm of Adam.

Adam pulled Caribou's linen downward below the knees. Caribou frog-legged his way out, giving Adam a bird's eye view of his balls and his dark hairy mystery of his arse. For several minutes, Caribou lay with his left knee up and out, basking in the breezy fresh air while Adam gazed on his warrior's-body in silence.

"We should go back to the cave," Caribou said. "The bats will get anxious if they find their passageway blocked by the likes of us." He crawled ahead in the tunnel. Adam crawled behind him, holding the candle. Caribou moved slowly, and at times stopped to arch with his knees far apart, knowing that Adam's attention was riveted to his backside.

In the Cave of the Pits, Caribou lay on his back in a patch of soft sand. "From these deposits of sand, you can see that the water-level in the Thames sometimes rises higher and flows into the cavern," he said. Adam positioned the candle between two rocks. He lay beside Adam in the sand.

"What will you wear, now you've been defrocked?" Adam asked merrily.

"Deerskin and feathers," Caribou replied. "You'll be wearing the same."

"Me disguised as an Indian? I wouldn't be very convincing. You'd have to give man an Indian name which I'd probably forget. I'm willing to lie about my name, but people can tell when I'm lying. I have no talent for it."

Caribou guided Adam's hand to his chest. Adam stroked it and began pinching his nips, gently. "You won't be an Indian. You'll be an Abenaki. If you insist on that, people will believe you. And your Abenaki name is Adam."

"Adam is an Abenaki name?"

"It is now, and it's proof that the American Indians are descendants of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel," Caribou said.

"People will believe that?"

"Many people believe that already. The English are capable of believing anything about the Indians, if it's fantastical."

Caribou guided Adam's hand down to his abdomen. Adam lay on his side with his face close to Caribou's. "If we're Abenaki companions, how are related? Are we brothers?"

"That won't do. People would ask you questions about Natanis that you wouldn't be able to answer," Caribou said. "Besides, we can't make love if we're brothers. Let's say I'm married to your sister."

"That would make us brothers-in-law," Adam said.

"Brothers-in-law, then," Caribou agreed, "and sworn brothers; the English seem to like stories about sword brotherhood. The theme comes up often enough in their Gothic romances." Their lips seemed to gravitate to each other in a kiss that was tentative at first, but soon grew passionate.

"I want us to be lovers," Caribou said.

"You don't know me well enough for that," Adam said. "You don't know my character. I fear that you might be disappointed."

"I know you've got a great soul," Caribou said. "I've known other men with great souls, Abenaki warriors, Mohegan hunter-farmers, English colonials, Dutch farmers.... Well, one Dutch farmer, in Poughkeepsie. It's a law of Nature that men of great souls share one universal character; they differ in this respect from men of small minds, who differ from one another in endless petty details. Through your greatness of soul I've known you all my life."

"That's an original pick-up line; fantastical but effective," Adam said, and laughed while Caribou helped him out of his clothes. He introduced comedy into their discourse while they roamed each other's bodies like navigators exploring newfound islands, not forgetting to light a fresh candle. Adam dug his fingers into every inch of Caribou's body in what Caribou called "the practical application of Methodism." In a more serious moment, Caribou warned Adam: "You can never go back to your life. You're not the sort of fellow who gets lost in a crowd. You're handsome and you cut a manly figure. People remember you. The most well-meaning Methodist might see you and send you to Tyburn by blabbing to another."

"Do you want to bugger me?" Adam asked, abruptly. It was an offer, not a question.

"Yes, Sir, I do, but not now. Not here in this hole in the ground. You deserve better, my dear Adam. You deserve the dignity of a clean bed, or a grassy meadow by a clear flowing stream."

"Thank you for that, but the connection between us is not yet complete," Adam said.

Caribou knelt between Adam's legs. He leaned forward and kissed him. A playful sword- fight ensued. When they embraced, Adam realized that Caribou's body was smaller and lither than his. Which one was stronger? They would never know, for neither of them would ever be able to engage in a serious contention with the other. Adam tried to roll over, intending to offer his backside, but Caribou held him in place and kissed him with passion. Adam resigned to compliance. Caribou moved forward and straddled his torso. He squeezed Adam's throbbing wet cock between the mounds of his arse and frotted it with his cleavage. The rocking rhythms of Caribou brought Adam to a high pitch of desire; he thrust his cock upward into the warm cleavage of Caribou. During one of those thrusts, Adam's cockhead penetrated Caribou's arse- hole. Caribou relaxed his arse. Adam gained ground with his cock, half way up the shaft. Caribou leaned forward and kissed him while he drove the shaft further in. When he sat upward, he engulfed Adam's cock completely. Adam gasped. Caribou groaned.

"I fear I might be giving you pain," Adam said.

"Of course you are, Adam, you've got a big yard. And now it's your duty to let Nature take its course. I'm tough. I can take anything you give me, so do your duty and fuck!" Adam arched upward and thrust his yard into Caribou. His companion was willing, but groaned with each thrust.

Caribou turned over to offer his arse from behind. From his rucksack he retrieved a leather pouch and handed it to Adam. "It's bear-grease. I call it bugger-bear," he said. Adam spread grease on his yard and inserted a lubricating finger into Caribou's arse. Looking down at him, he admired the man's beauty. This time his cock went in easy and Caribou seemed to enjoy it as much as him.

Caribou rolled over on his back and frog-legged for Adam, who knelt between his legs. Adam drove his cock deep inside. "You're like a dream come true," Adam said.

"Do you want to breed me?" Caribou asked.

"More than anything. I want to make you mine."

"Then I want you to breed me; I'll be your second Adam with your seed in my body. But before you breed me, I want you to get me off while you fuck me."

Caribou taught Adam how to alternate between furious humping and gentle massages of his anal canal. Adam's pleasure increased, knowing that he could please his partner. During those anal massages, Caribou frigged his cock and Adam frotted him, too. Caribou came in warm surges. Adam's lust increased when the fragrance of spunk reached his nostrils.

Adam orgazzed in Caribou's body and lay at his side in a mutual embrace. "We're like Aeneas and Dido in the cave," Adam said in the deep lilting voice of après-sexe. "Me Dido, you Aeneas," Caribou replied. The bats overhead chirped an epithalamium, so the lovers imagined, but in truth their epic climax on the cavern floor went unnoticed by black-winged creatures on the ceiling.

Adam and Caribou dozed but awoke to a whirl of winged activity above them. A raised candle disclosed the bats swarming and exiting the cavern in a long black cloud. A human presence in the cavern affected them not at all; it was as if they and the humans lived in parallel universes that were aware of each other but chose not to interact. The bats were gone in five minutes, leaving Adam and Caribou alone in the cavern.

"This means it's dark outside," Caribou said. "We can go for a swim in the river and cleanse ourselves from the grime and rigor of the day."

"Grime and rigor, is that what it was?" Adam asked, playfully.

"More like vim and vigor," Caribou replied.

The current was gentle and the waves refreshing. They sported in the Thames, wrestling and dunking each other, so far as this was possible in water whose depth went over their heads. Although the Thames is not the cleanest of rivers further east, it runs fairly clean west of London. Refreshed and bathed, Adam and Caribou resumed love-making with new a new level of intimacy that included oral sex. They remained in the cavern until Monday evening, and emerged only at night for swimming in the Thames. Caribou spent much of his time teaching Adam about Abenaki customs and language, and the story of his family, to prepare Adam for his disguise as an Indian in London society. With regard to Adam's virginity, Caribou kept his word and let Adam play Aeneas to his Dido. Caribou became Adam's schoolmaster, and Adam became Caribou's lover.

Early Monday evening, they watched the whirling departure of the bats for the last time. Caribou opened his rucksack and showed Adam their Abenaki costumes: deerskin trousers and vests, woad-blue cotton shirts, strings of ceremonial beads, and eagle-feathered headdresses. "The deerskins are genuine, but the feathers are just for show," Caribou said. "No self-respecting Abenaki would strut around in an elaborate headdress. It would be like a soldier going to war with a book balanced on his head." Caribou's smart leather boots weren't Abenaki either; a gift from Pieter van Hueveln, their Dutch manufacture was betrayed by their stylish fold-over tops.

Caribou painted Adam's face with lozenges, zigzags, and rows of wigwams in yellow, red, blue, and white. He applied similar designs on his own face. On the ledge outside the cavern they got dressed. They climbed the cliff and walked north and then east back to London. Caribou left the rucksack behind in the cavern, taking with him only his purse full of money and Dodsley's Plan of London. "We'll need the map to find Child's Coffee-House, next to St. Paul's," he told Adam. "Benedict won't mind if we return without his money," he added, "but if we return without his Dodsley, he'll be quite annoyed."

While all this was going on, Benedict Arnold attended a performance of David Garrick's King Lear at Drury Lane Theatre (an eight-block walk north from home), and gave his compliments over brandy in his chamber backstage. Afterward, Garrick drove him home in his carriage. "Drury Lane and the Strand are safe enough in the day, but I prefer the company of my coachman after dark," he said. On Sunday morning, Benedict accompanied Garrick to church at St. Paul's. There they joined company with David's brother George, who was four years junior and worked as his private secretary. After the service, he met some of Garrick's friends. Among these were Alexander Donaldson, a bookseller who sold bargain books in a shop on the corner of Arundel Street in the Strand; Garrick's most constant critic, Thomas Sheridan; and Samuel Johnson, who to Benedict's surprise was introduced as Garrick's lifelong friend, although he was nine years his senior. Benedict took a particular interest in a fourth new acquaintance, a Scots lawyer named George Dempster, a moderate Whig who at age 29 had just been elected as a Member of Parliament for the burghs of Forfar and Fife. Dempster was a bachelor whose house was kept by his sister Jeanie. He was a self-proclaimed skeptic, but attended St. Paul's for the company. During their discourse, Dempster raised the topic of the recent uprising of prisoners at Newgate, and hinted that there was more to the story than had appeared in London gossip.

When David Garrick saw that their conversation was animated, and also because he wanted to know more about the public disturbance at Newgate, he invited George Dempster and Benedict, as well as his brother George, to Sunday dinner at his home. He sent his coachmen ahead to alert his cook of their company, and the four men walked westward down Fleet Street until passed the end of Drury Lane and turned into the Strand. The Garrick brothers led the way, whilst Benedict and George Dempster followed and the new MP talked about points of interest he had visited weeks earlier: "There's Ludlow Church to our right, and north beyond that, Old Bailey and Newgate Prison, although you can't see them from here," and after they crossed the Fleet Ditch bridge, "there's St. Bride's Church to our left," and three blocks later, Mitre Tavern, and Temple Church. After they crossed Chancery Lane, the sites of historical interest came one after another: "St. Dunstan's, and Lincoln's Inn three blocks north, to our right; the Temple Bar just before us. Here's Clifton's Chop-House, a great place for beefsteak dinner; Dr. Samuel Johnson has his lodgings in the house to our left; here's St. Clement's Church," then New Church, to their right." "You already know Somerset Coffee-House on our left, and next to it Somerset House, and Turk's-Head Coffee-House just beyond, but we're almost home, so you must know these places already."

David Garrick was a gracious host at dinner. He welcomed Benedict as the day's guest of honor, and recited his history, citing every detail from the conversation that they had on the previous day. Garrick had an almost photographic memory for detail; it was part of his talent as an actor. At the end, as a sort of climax, he told the story of Benedict and Caribou Brave at Fort Ticonderoga, and embellished it with dramatic details, and a dialogue of his own invention, as if it were one of his plays. The two Georges and Benedict applauded his impromptu performance. After this applause, Garrick asked, "Mr. Arnold, When will we have the pleasure of meeting your Indian Prince?"

"Ah, Caribou Brave," Benedict said. "He's a free agent and I don't keep track of him, but he's promised for tomorrow eve at Child's. He's the son of Natanis, the Chief of the Abenaki nation, and it was he, more than any other, who was responsible for persuading the Abenaki to change their allegiance from the French to the English in the War for Canada. His diplomatic abilities are considerable, and I think that in the future he will prove a great support to the interests of King George in the Colonies. He's in London with an Abenaki companion, who he says he'll bring with him to Child's."

"How will we know them, to give them a proper welcome?" George Garrick asked.

"There will be no mistaking them," Benedict replied. "Beyond that, gentlemen, I am bound by a confidence to say no more at present."

"Then we must respect your discretion, Sir," Garrick said. "You are not a man for gossip."

"Can you at least tell us the name of Mr. Caribou's companion," George Garrick asked.

It was an innocent question, but it put Benedict in a dilemma. He tried to imagine how Caribou Brave would style his companion. He was on the verge of saying that the companion's Christian name was Adam, when George Dempster asked David Garrick what his next role would be in Drury Lane Theater.

"We're planning a revival of The Beggar's Opera, so I'll be Macheath again, for the third time," David Garrick said. He rehearsed the stage-history of this popular work, and spoke at length about some innovations in set-design that he had planned for this production. The longer he spoke, the greater relief came to Benedict, as the attention of his interlocutors drifted away from Caribou Brave and his mysterious companion. "Which role to you prefer," he asked Garrick, "the youthful highwayman?"

"Finding myself midway in age between these two characters, I have fun with Macheath, whose reputation precedes him on stage, but the greater challenge is a proper performance of Lear, which leaves me thoroughly worn out at the end of the play," Garrick said. "Young actors come to the theater ambitions to play Hamlet, but experienced actors know that Lear is Shakespeare's most difficult character, and the most rewarding for this reason. The Beggar's Opera is more lucrative, and I admit that I like making money, but I prefer Shakespeare. Since I can have both, I don't have to choose."

While David Garrick spoke, he ushered his three guests into the drawing-room for after- dinner port. There, on a table, lay the book that Benedict had given him. David handed it to his brother George, who read the title aloud: "The Life of Samuel Sewall, Chief-Justice in Massachusetts Bay Colony, Together with His Diary, printed by a Boston bookseller in 1755." "A gift from our new friend Benedict," David Garrick said, "and well-thumbed already." He retold the tale of witch-trials in Salem, and an absurd dispute between Judge Sewall and Jonathan Edwards about whether Puritans should be allowed to wear wigs, which gave everyone a good laugh.

As always happens between men on such occasions, the conversation came round to warfare; in this case the War against France which was now in its fifth year and, as George Dempster said, was beginning to bankrupt the Government. "Soon enough, I fear, Parliament will be picking our pockets with a three-penny tax here and sixpence there, on paper, or textiles, or tea, or any commodity that can be controlled in large quantity," he said; a prophecy that was to come true, as it happens, and would propel the Colonies into revolt.

George Garrick chimed in: "On Friday the City Register printed an essay in which the author made the argument that the Colonies ought to bear the cost of this war, because it was the British Army who saved them from the French and the Indians." Benedict shuddered. The dialogue was turning back to North America, and soon enough, his interlocutors would be asking him questions about Caribou Brave.

"Yesterday's City Register had an amusing report about a disturbance at Newgate," George Dempster said, deftly changing the subject. Intuitively he sensed, as the Garrick brothers did not, that although Benedict was the only man in the room who knew anything about Indians, he wanted to avoid the topic, for some reason that was unknown to him, but must be important. "If the Register is to be believed, the guards in the courtyard were attacked by an army of street- urchins dressed in the costume of magistrates."

David Garrick laughed and laughed. His companions joined in, and encouraged Dempster to say more. "The man in charge of the guards was a constable named Barnes, whose story hyperbolized with each telling. In the earliest version, eight guards were assaulted by twenty magistrates dressed in judicial robes and wigs. Then it was thirty magistrates attacking six guards. After that, a party of four guards fought off a forty-man army of magistrates. To make an end, Constable Barnes single-handedly fended off an attack by forty-five magistrates."

The laughter among them was infectious, for Dempster's comic tale was assisted by an exaggerated Scots dialect, and by the spirit of Garrick's best port. Benedict wanted to ask whether any prisoners escaped, but he thought it prudent to conceal his interest. In any event he could count on George Garrick to raise the matter. "The Register reported that the guards never lost control of the situation and there were no escapes," Dempster replied to his question, "but between us, some of the prisoners were on their way to chapel and they did ran through the crowed of mock-magistrates to make their escape, but their number is unknown. There may have been ten or twelve that got away." There was more laughter, for neither the Garricks nor Dempster were overconfident in Old Bailey justice.

"I suppose there'll be a city-wide search for the convicts, then," George Garrick said.

"Not convicts, as I understand it," Dempster said. "The ones who escaped had not yet come to trial, but were to take the stand yesterday in Old Bailey. The Constabulary would have us believe that no one escaped, so instead of a dragnet, they'll mark the occasion by awarding Constable Barnes with a promotion." More laughter echoed in the drawing-room. "No doubt the public interest would be too much provoked if they learned that one of the fugitives was a...."

Benedict cringed at the words, fearing that Dempster was about to name 'a Methodist sodomite'; but Dempster continued: "a woman of the streets who was seized after stealing a purse from one of the Lords of the Realm. What good would it do for the public good to see a great Lord and the Constabulary of Newbury outfoxed by a woman?" Another release of laughter, and relief to Benedict, who worried that his interlocutors would press him for more information about Caribou Brave and his new companion. George Gerrick pounded his fists on the table and in a fit of giggles said, "No doubt she's back to business in White-Chapel!"

"One of the British virtues, I've learned in my brief stay in London, is their ability to laugh at themselves," Benedict said to Dempster as they strolled north up Drury Lane and took a shortcut through an alley to reach the British Museum. It was one of the few public places open on Sunday afternoon, and Benedict had accepted an invitation from Dempster to accompany him there. They inspected a display of crown jewels from the time of Richard III, but Benedict took more interest in a scientific exhibit of rocks and minerals from far-flung parts of England's "first" empire, and a collection of fossils that had given rise to rival theories of Creation. Their final stop was an American Indian exhibit. Dempster asked Benedict for his appraisal.

"It's rather eclectic, I would say. It represents the Indians as one nation, when in fact they are many. The Mohegans are as different from the Mohawks as the English are from Russians. As for that Huron manikin wearing a Cherokee headdress, it's no less absurd than a London magistrate crowned with an Ottoman turban. The English ought to keep better track of their many possessions, or else they might lose them," Benedict said.

"Speaking of diverse customs, is it true that the Indians are somewhat more tolerant of behavior that British Law condemns as a crime against Nature?" Dempster inquired.

"Among the Indian nations, there's as much diversity as in other nations," Benedict said. "Among the Carolina Cherokees, an old chief might beat youths who seem over-familiar with each other, but the Mohegans are more tolerant, and the Abenaki approve close bonds between warriors. Some of these tribes have medicine-men who live with male partners. I know of no Indian nation in which sodomy is a capital crime, not even the Narragansetts or Wampanoegs or Mohegans, who live alongside Colonials in New England. One thing the Indian nations have in common: they have no written law, and they make no distinction between morality and legality. Their legal customs are moral customs."

"Would that be an improvement for England?" Dempster wondered.

"I'm no legal scholar, Sir. All I can say is that the Buggery Act became law in 1533, under a king who had six wives, divorced two of them, had two of them beheaded, and had one of them poisoned in prison. Surely you've heard the old tune:

King Henry the Eighth, to six wives he was wedded.

One died, one survived, two divorced, two beheaded.

"You're speaking of a private relation between men that was lawful in 1532, and the next year, quite suddenly, a capital crime."

"Indeed the law seems rather rugged," Dempster remarked, cautiously.

"No one dares oppose it in public, for fear of being suspected a sodomite," Benedict said. It was always his manner to speak boldly. "When Cain slew his brother, that was a crime from unremembered time, but how a thing be innocent one year and criminal the next? A moral prohibition with a history cannot be a universal truth."

Retracing their steps through the alley and southward on Drury Lane, Dempster glanced at Arnold, and Arnold at Dempster, in silent calculation of desire. Each seemed a lusty demon to the other, and as neither dared speak his mind, each man laid down a plan of attack that would conclude in the planting of seed in the arse of the other. During their time together, Benedict had noticed how Dempster admired his manly figure; in his mind, he was already counting the diverse positions in which this sprightly Member of Parliament would be skewered by colonial cock. But Dempster had the devious mind of a giant-killer, and figured on conquering Benedict's arse with a wee bit of flattery and a generous supply of oral endearments, not without the unexpected surprise of a nine-inch yard. Once during a village festival in Firth, Dempster made friends with a prize-winning wrestler from Edinburgh, who intended to tup him, slight creature that he was, but changed his mind when Dempster's yard grew to nine inches, and yielded his virginity to the sandy-red-haired youth with dimpled cheeks. The wrestler was tough, and had no complaints about the bruising he took up the arse in four nights of lust on the Dempster family estate. Compared to the Edinburgh wrestler, the conquest of Benedict Arnold would be easy.

"It occurs to me that London is a very small town," Benedict Arnold said when they had walked most of Drury Lane and approached David Garrick's theater.

"Not too small, but tightly knit," Dempster said laughed, appraising Benedict's butt. "The theater is closed on Sundays. What are the odds that the stage is still set for King Lear's deathbed scene?" he asked. He led Benedict to a side-entrance, picked the lock, fastened it again, and led him down a narrow corridor to the stage. They sat on the bed that had lately been occupied by David Garrick in the closing scene of Lear's tragedy. "That scene isn't in Shakespeare," Dempster said. It was one of Garrick's improvisations. After comes on stage with Cordelia's body, he takes to his bed and denounces his enemies for killing his Fool. He introduced a new scene without changing the words, so Lear cries out, 'Never, never, never, never!' from the bed. Ever since the Puritans, the English have loved their deathbed scenes." Benedict made no objection when Dempster helped him out of his clothes.

While Benedict lay in the bed of King Lear, Dempster stood at his side and doffed his clothes. "Whoo-oh!" Benedict interjected, involuntarily, when Dempster's nine-inch yard sprung from his linen and bobbed; a white whale it was, mobled with a reddish-streaked retracted foreskin veined purple.

"Never, never, never, never!" Benedict declaimed while Dempster approached and caught him in an embrace.

"Methinks the lady prostesteth overmuch," Dempster laughed.

Benedict accepted Dempster's embrace. "Methinks we're in the wrong play," he said. He imagined the pit and the theater seats peopled with Londoners, standing and sitting, egging Dempster as he edged into the cockpit.

"The question is not if we're in the right play, but whether we've found the right hole," Dempster quipped.

The element of suspense is always an advantage that gay lovers have over their straight counterparts. When Man seduces Woman, or Woman Man, from the moment that they agree to have sex there is no variation in the anatomical details of their congress. But in sex between men, the moment of consent marks the beginning of their negotiation, not the end, and their love- dialogue continues, for in each encounter it is rarely a foregone conclusion what they will do and who will do what. Benedict had hoped to conquer Dempster's arse in the privacy of his bed- chamber, where he would have the home advantage, but here he was in Drury Lane Theater, being skewered by Britain's youngest MP, a slight almost-redhead from Scotland, in the sight of an imagined crowd of cheering Londoners, and had not a moment's notice nor chance to put into action his own plan of attack on his companion's comely butt.

The element of difficulty is a second advantage. To conquer a woman's heart is difficult and long, but the rest is easy. To conquer another man's arse is always difficult. "This will cost you a groaning," Dempster said when he drove his yard toward its intended target, but he missed the mark and it thrust downside into his partner's cleft. He failed on the second try, too. On the third, his attempt at penetration would have ended in absurd comedy, but for Benedict's guiding hand. "We'll get there if it takes an Act of Parliament," Benedict quipped.

"Not the whole Parliament, just one of its Members," Dempster replied while his cock throbbed inside. The penetration was painful for Benedict to bear. He groaned and cried out to the imagined crowd of Londoners who observed his agony in prurient silence. Dempster was grateful and cruel. He catapulted "Mr. M.P."-for that became the lover's nickname for his nine- inch rod-into the snugly narrow House where it shook the walls and raised the roof of the chamber.

Benedict squirmed like a gutted sturgeon under the probing grasp of George Dempster. Benedict was the stronger man by far, and could have flipped Dempster over and away, but for his nine-inch hook that seemed to grow larger inside him. There was no stopping Dempster's drive into Benedict, for between men, anal intercourse is the highest possible form of cooperation. His agony complemented Dempster's ecstasy.

Not that Dempster was indifferent to Benedict's suffering, we notice while we watch the Scotsman's lean hips churn and dimple with each thrust. Every groan and yelp from Benedict fired his lust. Now and then he paused to give Benedict's arse a rest, and to whisper endearments in Benedict's ear: What a wonderful snug pussy he had; how he intended to fertilize Benedict's arse with an army of homunculi that presently were lodged in his testicles, awaiting marching- orders from the Master.

Benedict's agony dissipated and gave way to pleasure, as it always does. On stage, before the imagined crowd of Londoners, he performed merry tricks for the man who now owned his arse. He straddled Dempster front-wise, and rotated his arse on the better man's cock. He knelt doggy-style while Dempster fucked from behind. He straddled with his backside to Dempster and sat on his cock. He bowed at the side of King Lear's bed while Dempster stood behind him and fucked. When he resumed his initial position with Dempster between his legs and inside him, he orgazzed gobs of fragrant jizz.

With fists clenched and teeth gritted, Benedict braced himself while Dempster fucked fiercely. His cock exploded inside Benedict. He soaked it in primordial ozze for a few minutes, then flipped Benedict over and fucked him again, from behind, and bred him a second time.

In Benedict Arnold's day, people believed that each one of a man's spermatozoa was a homunculus: a miniature liquid statue of himself. Dempster's erotic satisfaction was enriched by the science of the time, for he had dispatched hundreds of homunculi into Benedict's inner sanctum, whence they would travel in his veins until they reached his brain, and there they would implant themselves as Dempster-images in Benedict's mind. The mirror-images of Dempster would cause Benedict to be more compliant with each visitation. Benedict believed this, too, and because he did, Dempster became a regular visitor in his home on Southampton. They spoke of their love as "homuncular." "How many homunculi of mine are now in your body?" Dempster would ask after administering a new dose of liquid images.

"An army, I'm sure, but there's room for more," Benedict would reply.