The Rebels Page 11

  “That’s correct. You have already tried me beyond all reasonable limits. Go to Philadelphia—step off this property for that purpose—and I will never permit you to set foot on it again.”

  “Oh—” Judson tried to muster another grin, couldn’t. “A little bait dangled? If I repent, everything will be well?”

  “What’s the harm in that? I’d redeem your soul if I could, since you won’t do it yourself.” All at once the old man sounded tired. “You seem bent on destroying yourself.”

  “Thoughts like that are too deep for me,” Judson said with a loose shrug. Inside, something broke with tearing pain. He shut his eyes a moment. Then he reopened them, managing at last the kind of totally cavalier smile that could light his face. He reached for the door. “Goodbye, sir.”

  “You do understand what I intend, Judson?”

  “Of course. ‘And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee, for it is profitable for thee—’”

  “Stop.”

  “‘—that one of thy members should perish—’”

  “Stop, goddamn you!”

  But Judson kept on, loudly: “‘—and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.’ All right, I’ll do the service in hell in your place. For the moment! That way, you can keep fancying yourself spotless and sanctified. Until you arrive to join me.” He walked out, rolling the door shut with a bang.

  Rain rattled on the windows as he hurried through the conservatory. Suddenly he thought he heard a muffled outcry from the office. A cry of grief. His heart leaped—

  He hesitated. Thought about going back—

  But he didn’t.

  It was much too late.

  viii

  Half an hour later, Judson Fletcher left Sermon Hill. His cloak belling behind him, his tricorn cocked low over his forehead to keep off the worst of the rain, he galloped down to the river and turned southeast in the direction of the ferry that would take him across to the road leading north. At a front window of the great house, one curtain was held aside by an unseen hand until Judson’s flying cloak vanished in the December mist. Then the curtain was slowly put back in place.

  CHAPTER V

  The Guns of Winter

  A BITTER GALE OFF the Atlantic flung sleet through the November twilight. Philip turned in at the front gate of the Vassall house on Brattle Street, Cambridge. He was chilled clear through, and nervous. Only an hour before, one of his occasional visits with his wife and son had been concluded in unexpected fashion.

  Philip had arrived in Watertown to find Anne feeding their stocky infant at her breast. Her color was good, her strength increasing daily. Apart from a continuing concern about the likelihood of full-scale war, what troubled Anne Kent at the moment was her father’s poor health.

  The lawyer had lain abed for more than three weeks. Wracked by chills and constant coughing, he lacked appetite and was steadily losing weight. During the hour Philip spent with his family, the raspy cough from Ware’s bedroom was a worrisome counterpoint to conversation.

  On his way back to his regiment, Philip stopped at the tiny shop near the Charles River where his former employer, Ben Edes, had reassembled his press after smuggling the pieces out of Boston in a rowboat. With a few fonts of type, Edes was struggling to publish his patriot newspaper, the Gazette, on a more or less regular basis.

  But when Philip arrived, he found Edes setting up the press to print paper currency; special currency authorized by the Massachusetts provincial legislature.

  There had already been talk in Philip’s regiment that such money might be used to pay the soldiers. The possibility caused grumbling and resentment. Money made legal only by the legislative act of a colony in rebellion might not be worth much. Certainly it wouldn’t be as readily spendable as the sterling pound. The new currency was being printed in desperation, to purchase needed supplies and materiel for the army. Edes, who looked tired, emphasized the point by showing Philip several plates for various denominations. When Edes turned the plates over, Philip recognized Revere engravings, prints of which had been sold at the old shop in Dassett Alley. Revere had worked one new design on the back of his popular depiction of the Boston Massacre.

  “Even new copper for etching the worthless stuff can’t be had,” Edes complained, just as the front door banged open.

  “Are you Philip Kent of the Twenty-ninth Massachusetts?”

  Philip whirled to confront the gruff-voiced arrival: an officer of the Marblehead Twenty-first. The unit’s trimly outfitted men had been chosen as personal guards for the commanding general’s headquarters.

  “I’m Kent, yes, sir.”

  “Christ, you roam around a lot. First I rode to your regiment, then your wife’s rooms—come along smartly, if you please. I’ve a horse for you outside.”

  “Come along where?” Philip asked. “I’m due back in camp—”

  The ruddy-cheeked man seemed skeptical of his own reply:

  “No, you’re to come with me. To General Washington.”

  Even Ben Edes looked flabbergasted.

  During the uncomfortable ride to Cambridge, Philip’s uneasiness increased. The officer said he had no information about the reason for of the summons.

  Presently they arrived at the large, imposing residence on what was coming to be called Tory Row. Like many of his neighbors, Mr. Vassall, owner of the property taken over by Washington, had fled to sanctuary with the British in Boston. A few other loyalists who hadn’t as yet departed had painted black rings around their chimneys, to signify continuing allegiance to the king.

  As he tethered his horse, Philip decided that his involvement in the brawl in the Virginia encampment had somehow caught up with him, and he was due for punishment.

  He slipped and slid up the sleet-covered walk. Three officers emerged from the brightly lighted house, arguing. Philip stepped aside, remembering to offer a salute. The officers returned it in perfunctory fashion, giving him over-the-shoulder stares as they hurried on to their horses. Their expressions showed their astonishment at the sight of a common soldier of the line approaching headquarters; a soaked, bedraggled soldier at that.

  More apprehensive than ever, Philip moved on. Near the front of the house, wind tore at a swaying pole. At the top, a flag cracked and fluttered. A flag Philip hadn’t seen before. Britain’s Union Jack in the upper left corner was familiar, but not the red and white horizontal stripes. He counted thirteen, just before the armed Marblehead men flanking the doorway demanded identification.

  Philip gave his name and unit. He was astonished when he was admitted instantly, with instructions to turn left and knock at the drawing-room door. He did.

  “Come in, come in!”

  Teeth chattering from more than the cold of the night, he obeyed.

  ii

  Behind a littered writing desk, General George Washington faced a wall map representing the Boston area. A few candles lent a soft glow to the room. Philip was startled to see a familiar figure all but hiding most of a chair.

  Henry Knox.

  Knox lifted his silk-wrapped hand to acknowledge Philip’s presence while the third—feminine—occupant of the room set a tray on a corner of the desk. On the tray were glasses, a decanter of madeira and several oranges.

  The plump-cheeked, diminutive woman was dressed in an elegant gown of pale blue. She glanced at Philip and smiled in a friendly way. The same couldn’t be said of Washington or Knox. Both looked weary; under strain.

  Philip said, “Kent of the Twenty-ninth Massachusetts reporting as ord—”

  The tall, big-boned general in dark blue and buff cut him off with a gesture:

  “We may eliminate the formalities. Time presses.” His gray-blue eyes shifted to the woman, softening a little. “Our thanks for the refreshments, my dear. Now if you’ll be so kind as to allow us privacy—”

  “Of course,” the woman murmured, withdrawing quickly and closing the door behind her. Philip assumed the woman must be the general’s wi
fe, only recently arrived from the family plantation on the Potomac River in Virginia.

  Camp gossip about Martha Custis Washington was uniformly favorable; she was reputed to be a kind, gracious person who preferred to be at her husband’s side instead of at faraway Mount Vernon. Everyone knew the general loved his estate, and the refined squire’s life it afforded. Everyone also knew that if a British force ever penetrated up the Potomac, Mount Vernon would surely be burned.

  Yet Washington’s wife had placed her husband above her opulent home, and traveled north in bad weather over difficult roads to be with him. Unexpectedly, Mrs. Washington’s arrival in Cambridge strengthened the general’s own standing among the troops. Plainly delighted by his wife’s presence, Washington seemed less austere; became something more of a human being in the eyes of the men who served him.

  The general indicated the fruit and wine:

  “Take your ease and help yourself to refreshments, Kent. Mr. Knox requested your presence.”

  “And your, assistance, Philip.”

  “Certainly, Henr—sir. What can I do?”

  “Find me at least one more good man to go with us on a mission of considerable urgency.”

  Philip picked up an orange, began to peel it clumsily. Breaking the skin with his thumbnail, he squirted juice onto his coat, further compounding his nervousness. Us, Knox had said. Then he recalled some reference to a scheme Knox was hatching; Knox had mentioned it back in September.

  To cover his awkwardness, Philip slipped into a chair Knox indicated and dispensed with trying to eat the messy orange. Washington’s shadow lay black and immense over the wall map. He put one finger on the outline of the coast:

  “We face a perilous situation here at Boston, Kent. A situation which Mr. Knox with his special knowledge and abilities may help us remedy. I had hoped to be able to commission him colonel for this duty. That’s temporarily delayed—the damn paperwork required to gain Congressional approval of an appointment is beyond belief. But Henry will still serve as commander of the expedition in question.”

  Washington knocked knuckles against the map. “Prolonged hostilities now appear certain. Especially since His Majesty has declared us in rebellion. At any hour we can look for Billy Howe to break his ministerial troops out of Boston to attack our positions—”

  General Howe, Philip knew, had already replaced the well-intentioned but ineffective Thomas Gage as commander of the Crown forces locked up on the Boston peninsula.

  “—and here—” Again Washington knocked the map, in its southeast quadrant. The heights of Dorchester, overlooking the Neck and the city. “—we are vulnerable.”

  Knox put in, “For that reason I intend to procure a train of artillery. The guns we need to fortify our defenses and insure that Howe does not break out. I must have one or two dependable men with me, Philip.”

  “Knox recommends you,” Washington said with a keen look, while Philip thought of his wife, his son, his ailing father-in-law. “You are of course not compelled to undertake the duty—”

  Two pairs of eyes fixed on him, waiting. Washington’s remark wasn’t entirely truthful. Those steady gazes left him no choice.

  “If I can be of use, General, then of course—”

  Washington’s smile was wry. “A refreshing attitude, eh, Henry?” He swung back to Philip. “Mr. Knox learned that you plan to re-enlist, Kent.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s my intention.”

  “Well, you are in a minority,” the general grumbled. “It seems that most of our men have no desire except to retire to their chimney corners. In fact, such a dearth of public spirit and want of virtue—such stock-jobbing and versatility in all the low arts to obtain personal advantage—such grubby self-seeking pervades this ill-formed army that I shouldn’t be at all surprised at any disaster which—”

  The rising voice cut off abruptly. Somehow it heartened Philip to see the general momentarily embarrassed by an excess of temper.

  “However—” Washington cleared his throat. “You heard Mr. Knox say he needs a pair of aides he can count on—”

  “Can you suggest someone from your own unit?” Knox asked.

  Philip thought, chose words with care: “I know a great many men. But I’m not sure whether—”

  “Whether they’re trustworthy?” Washington broke in.

  Philip’s nod acknowledged the truth he’d been unwilling to speak. Then, an inspiration:

  “There is one man I met—he seems very courageous and forthright. He’s from your own colony, General.”

  That pleased Washington: “What’s his name?”

  “Experience Tait. I don’t know anything about his military ability. But as a friend, I can’t speak of him too highly. When I couldn’t find a physician, he went to Watertown to deliver my wife of our son.”

  “For money?” Washington asked.

  Philip smiled. “No, all he wanted was a drink afterward.”

  “A Virginian, all right,” Washington said. To Knox: “Get him.”

  Knox nodded, said to Philip, “I’ll arrange matters, with your commandant so we can leave as soon as possible.”

  “If I may ask—”

  The silence of both men gave Philip leave to continue. “—where will we be going? To one of the outlying towns?” Before the outbreak of hostilities at Lexington and Concord, various patriot groups had hidden a few small artillery pieces to protect them from possible British seizure.

  Knox stared at his bandaged left hand while Washington unrolled a map lying on the desk. Philip craned forward, bone-cold again. What Washington was spreading was not a map of the Massachusetts colony but the whole eastern seaboard of the continent. Philip began to understand why Henry Knox looked grim.

  “We need many more cannon than we can find in the barns and cellars of Massachusetts Bay,” Washington said. “There is only one place they may be had—difficult to reach, doubly difficult to return from this time of year. But Mr. Knox has volunteered to bring the cannon back regardless. You will be going after the artillery pieces captured some months ago at the British fort here—”

  The Virginian’s big-boned hand dropped down to thwack a blue patch on the map, far away from the Boston shore:

  “Ticonderoga.”

  The drawing-room windows whined under the onslaught of the November wind. The orange fell from Philip’s suddenly slack hand, thumped the floor and rolled to Knox’s feet.

  The fat young man picked it up and tossed it back to Philip with an empty smile:

  “I’m not surprised at your reaction. The roads are poor where they exist at all—the distance is formidable—and there’s winter to contend with. But we will bring back the guns, because our cause is in extreme danger until they’re in place. I suppose we should again offer you the option of withdrawal—”

  Philip shook his head. “No, I agreed to go. I will.”

  Washington and Knox exchanged brief smiles. But that didn’t relieve Philip’s awareness of the staggering problems of the venture to which he’d just committed himself. Sleet struck the windows like a rattle of small-arms fire, and the panes once again gave off a forlorn, whining sound.

  iii

  On the eve of the new year, 1776, Philip Kent half believed that he’d been submerged in a nightmare from which he would never awaken.

  How long he’d been working, he didn’t know. Since eternity, it seemed. The axe felt twenty times as heavy as it should. He swung it up again, brought it down, chopped through the slushy surface of the ice—

  And heard a terrifying crack just to his right.

  “Better stand back!” Eph Tait yelled from a couple of yards away. “She sounds ready to go—”

  No sooner was the last word out than Philip felt the ice of the Mohawk River give way. A large section dropped out from under one foot. He teetered wildly, off balance.

  His right boot plunged into icy water. Eph Tait threw down his axe and leaped, pulling Philip back to safety with a yank. Tait let go and Philip sa
t down hard on his rump. The ice crackled again, but held. Philip climbed to his feet and rubbed his rear, grimacing.

  “Better ’n a river bath, ain’t it?” Tait wanted to know.

  “Not much.”

  “Some thanks I get,” Tait said, grinning.

  From one shore of the Mohawk to the other, shadow-figures—hired teamsters plus volunteers dragooned locally by the persuasive, determined Knox—continued to chop openings in the ice. The holes permitted water to flood up and freeze a new layer over the perilously thin crust on which the men worked. A high winter moon lit the landscape and the workmen with eerie touches of white. Behind Philip and Tait, the lights of the settlement called Half Moon gleamed on a point of land where the Mohawk and Hudson met. In Half Moon right now, Knox was undoubtedly engaged in his interminable haggling for more sledges, more horses and oxen, more drivers to push the bizarre caravan southward—

  “All this work’s a waste!” Philip exploded, his breath a cloud in the moonlight. He was still butt-sore; dull pain tormented every muscle. His rag-wrapped hands were stiff as sticks. “We’ll never get them across such thin ice.”

  “We will with a good sharp freeze.” Eph Tait slapped his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s mosey back. I’d say we could draw our whiskey ration ’bout now, wouldn’t you? Half an hour’s rest’ll do our bones some good.”

  “A half hour standing still and I’ll be frozen to death.”

  “Listen, I’m the one oughta be complainin’!” Tait retorted as they crossed the slippery, moon-bright ice. On their right, the black line of trees on the Hudson’s east bank showed an edge of silver. “You volunteered me for this damn duty! A real honor! ’Bout the only honor I’ll get is if I get killed an’ they bury me. Say, you ’spose Washington’d come to our funerals personal, Philip?”

  “If he could, I think he would,” Philip said absently.

  “Least he could do for a pair o’ fine gentleman volunteers, I’d say—”