The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles Page 24

  “Yeh, but I only seen a few Israelites in this army, and you’re all a mighty sanctified lot—” He snatched again with one huge hand; again Rothman ducked just in time.

  Adams claimed to have been a brewer’s apprentice in Boston. The bunched muscles of his forearms showed he was accustomed to heavy work. His oafish face and squinty eyes indicated that the work didn’t require much brainpower. Royal Rothman was nineteen, and frail. He had formerly clerked for his father, a prosperous Boston chandler.

  “Listen, I’m gettin’ peeved, Royal. I want to try it on—now gimme!”

  A third time, Royal’s agility saved his skullcap. Philip and Cowper grabbed the bull-shouldered Adams and spun him around.

  “Leave him alone, Mayo,” Cowper said, though it obviously required some courage because of Adams’ size.

  “Go on back and eat them slops they call food around here,” Adams warned, his eyes smoldering suddenly. In the heat of the early August evening, the inside of the tent was as hot as a furnace. “This ain’t none of your affair.”

  “Certainly is,” Philip said, glancing past the big apprentice to the wooden horses; the racks where six muskets leaned. He judged the distance, adding, “When six people live together in one tent, everybody needs to tread a little easy. You’ve been ragging Royal ever since he came to camp.”

  Adams, who was fond of bragging about kinship with Mr. Samuel Adams—a lie already identified by the messmates for what it was—spat on the ground:

  “’Cause he’s been nothin’ but a nuisance. I’m gettin’ a bellyful of livin’ with a feller who jabbers half the goddam night, keeps a lantern lit the other half—”

  “There is nothing wrong with praying or reading!” Royal protested.

  “—and sports a fancy British monicker on top of it!”

  On the defensive, the dark-haired young man shook his head. “I’ve informed you a dozen times, Mayo—my father gave me the name Royal when the colonies were still friendly to His Majesty.”

  “No damn skin off me,” Mayo Adams grinned ill-humoredly. “I just plain want to try on your cap. Want to see if it’ll make me as all-fired holy as you are.”

  “Nothing would do that, Mayo,” Philip said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Wearily, the big-bellied Cowper asked, “What’s got you up, Mayo? Did you bribe one of your friends at the sutler’s tent to give you more than your half pint of spirits for the day?”

  “Go fuck a sheep, farm boy.”

  Lucas Cowper turned scarlet. But he kept his temper. “You wait outside, Royal,” he ordered.

  The dark-haired private scrambled past Mayo Adams’ tree-like legs and disappeared with one hand still clutching the little black cap on the top of his head.

  As Adams glared, Cowper said, “Now calm down and that’s the end of it.”

  “Not by a damn sight! I’m tired of the rest of you treatin’ me like I’m nothin’—”

  “You act like something else, we’ll treat you that way,” Philip snapped, pivoting to escape to the slightly cooler air outside.

  A massive hand crashed on his shoulder, the fingers constricting, jerking him around. From Mayo’s breath it was evident that he’d consumed much more than the permitted quantity of gin. The huge apprentice towered over Philip, enraged—no novelty in these steamy days of inactivity:

  “Suppose you say that where we got some wranglin’ room.”

  Philip wriggled free of the hand. “For God’s sake, Mayo, we’re supposed to be fighting Howe, not each other!”

  “Yeh, but nobody knows where old Billy’s got to since he sailed out o’ New York—and you’re right here, Mr. Sassy Kent.” Fists up, he lunged.

  Frightened out of an earlier impulse to laugh in Adams’ face, Philip barely had time to sidestep. He blocked the bigger man’s fist on his forearm, ducked under the windmilling arms while he signaled Lucas Cowper with one quick glance. Adams grabbed Philip’s throat. He shoved Adams’ slab-like chest with both hands. Cowper bent just enough so that Adams fell over him backwards, cursing blue.

  By that time Philip had reached the storage horses. He jerked out his Brown Bess with Lumden’s bayonet locked to the barrel stud. Philip was the only man in the mess who owned one of the weapons. Now the way the bayonet extended his reach was a definite advantage. Leaning forward and down, he brought the tip to within a couple of inches of Adams’ bobbing throat-apple.

  Soaked with the sudden sweat of danger, Philip still tried to speak reasonably:

  “Mayo, if you don’t back off, and right now, I’m going to send you up to the hospital tents. You’ve got better things to do, don’t you?”

  Sprawled on his back, Adams eyed the steel under his chin. Some of the hate went out of his eyes. Some, but not all:

  “Well—I guess I do. Let me up.”

  “Only if you go outside and walk around till you’re sober.”

  Cowper put in, “And stay away from Royal, he does you no harm.”

  “I didn’t sign up to serve with no damn Israelites!” Adams exploded as he clambered to his feet. “Robbers, usurers, every stinking one—”

  “Outside,” Cowper sighed, summoning courage to add a shove.

  Huge and stooping, Mayo Adams swung his massive head around as he reached the tent entrance. His glower was no less unpleasant than it had been when he was baiting Rothman:

  “This time you got me two for one. But I remember pretty good. Soon as we see some action, you boys are gonna have more to fret about than Tommy’s musket. You better watch your own backs, too.”

  He clumped out, leaving Philip and Cowper exchanging uneasy looks. Lucas Cowper wiped his forehead.

  “Lord, Philip, I think the big fool’s serious.”

  “I know he is,” Philip said as he returned the Brown Bess to the horse.

  There had been arguments with the dull-witted Adams before. But they’d never climaxed with such an open threat. Damn, it infuriated him. As if they didn’t have enough to wring out their nerves these summer days—!

  He followed Cowper outside. Mayo Adams had disappeared down the noisy street that ran between the Massachusetts tents. Royal Rothman was righting the overturned cooking pot in which the six-man mess prepared its meals. He glanced at Philip and Cowper, almost apologetic:

  “I thank you both for helping me.”

  Cowper waved it aside as he retrieved his trencher. “Royal, keeping a bridle on that straw-head is to our own benefit. Just as Philip said—men who have to fight together should stick together.”

  “That’s granting we ever fight,” Philip said with a nervous eye on the steaming August sunset.

  All across the hillsides near the Neshaminy Bridge northeast of Philadelphia, heavy blue smoke from hundreds of cook fires hung in the humid air. Regimental pennons in the tent city drooped on their poles. Eleven thousand men were camped in the prescribed rows—and had been for weeks. A sea of canvas shelters—the largest belonging to the officers—rolled from horizon to horizon. There was constant din: men arguing or laughing or singing; the rumble of baker’s wagons delivering the next day’s ration of fresh bread; the rattle of musketry as some unit staged a sharpshooting contest to pass the time.

  Philip picked up his trencher and utensils, then forked the dirt-covered salt beef and held it up:

  “Want this, Lucas? Might taste better with some ‘ Pennsylvania grit on it.”

  “Nothing would make it taste better,” Cowper said, throwing his own half-eaten slices into the coals under the cooking pot. Philip started off to dispose of his garbage, stopped when he recognized two men coming along the smoky, teeming street—the other two members of their mess.

  One was Breen, a man from the village of Andover. He was about thirty-five, a lackadaisical tosspot who maintained that all his life, he’d had no occupation other than “unemployed.” Breen wasn’t his real name, he’d confided once. He’d used it to join the army and escape creditors and a common-law wife.

  Breen’s companion, Pettibo
ne, was a short, spectacled man in his middle twenties. Before enlisting he’d taught school in Roxbury. It was to the somewhat prim teacher that Philip hurried:

  “Did you stop to see about mail?”

  Pettibone showed a letter. “I’ve one from my Patsy. Nothing for the rest of you, I’m afraid.”

  Philip was disturbed. He hadn’t heard from Anne in over a month.

  He knew that freighting the wagon-loads of mail to the army was a slow process. Sometimes a sack split and weather ruined hundreds of addresses. Many letters took months to be delivered, or got lost altogether. That didn’t change the fact that he wanted word about Anne’s well-being, and Abraham’s. And about the progress of construction on Captain Caleb’s two new privateering vessels.

  In the first of two letters he’d received since his departure from Cambridge, Anne reported that Caleb had called—without Captain Rackham; a relief. She had gone over Caleb’s proposal, satisfied herself about the details and invested their two hundred pounds. But her second letter, posted in June, said nothing more about the venture.

  After supper, Philip occupied himself with the little sewing kit Anne had prepared before he left. Seated cross-legged on the ground outside the tent, he stitched up a tear in the sleeve of his long hunting shirt. He was becoming an expert with thread and the steel needle and the open-topped pewter thimble. In the field, there was no other choice.

  Royal Rothman had already gone inside, lit a lamp and started opening the packet of books from his parents. His collection thus far included an assortment of political pamphlets, a tattered copy of Common Sense which he claimed to have gone through over fifty times, and an edition of one of the most popular books of recent years, Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality.

  It was a work of the so-called “graveyard” school of poets. Philip found its blank verse uninspiring, and its themes somewhat too morbid for present circumstances. What did continue to amaze and confound him was the popularity of English authors such as Reverend Young who had produced Night Thoughts. The war didn’t seem to dampen American enthusiasm for British literature.

  Momentarily, Royal came out again with his new arrivals. Philip looked enviously at a richly bound volume whose title he recognized at once. John Milton’s century-old metaphysical epic, Paradise Lost, was enjoying a new burst of popularity; it was, Royal reported, the year’s best seller in Boston. And the new edition which the younger man showed enthusiastically was one of the handsomest Philip had ever seen.

  He ran his hand down one page, experiencing a pleasure that was almost painful. For a moment, bitterness swept over him, coupled with another intense wish that he could be home, free to pursue the trade he’d come to love. He voiced his feelings to Royal, with whom he’d discussed his ambitions before:

  “If I had the money and equipment to print fine books, this would be the sort I’d want to bear my name.”

  “I’m sure you’ll publish books like this one day, Philip.”

  Philip’s shrug expressed his uncertainty. Royal laid the Milton aside, knelt beside his messmate, fanned out three inexpensively produced pamphlets.

  “Here are the real treats—a new series by Mr. Paine.”

  Philip took the trio of pamphlets, noted that they all bore a common title—The American Crisis—and were numbered sequentially. He opened the first; it was just a few pages long. He flipped to the end, where the date appeared—December 23 of the preceding year—along with the author’s pseudonym, Common Sense. Philip had heard that the famous pamphleteer was now employed as secretary to the committee of foreign affairs of the Congress. From that vantage point, he continued to use his pen to praise and encourage the patriots—and damn all Tories, British and domestic.

  “Read the opening paragraph,” Royal urged.

  “I’d like to read the whole of all three when you’re finished with them.”

  “Of course you may. But do look at the opening of the first. Some of the phrases are worthy of a Milton.”

  Philip turned back to the passage indicated:

  These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country, but he that stands it now deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us that, the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods, and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.

  At that point, Philip stopped and returned the paper-covered essay with the other two, saying:

  “Mr. Paine certainly has a grasp of the mood of an army camp. He’s doing his best to keep spirits up.”

  And my own need it badly, he added in the silence of his mind. He wondered again whether he would ever live to embrace Anne; hold his child; or pull the lever on a flatbed press and watch a sheet come forth, miraculously inked with the thoughts of the author.

  Royal said, “My father’s letter reports that Mr. Paine is planning a whole series of these Crisis articles—written as the need arises. Someone will certainly put them together in a book one day. Why shouldn’t it be you, Philip?”

  Philip smiled wearily. “Well, it’s a mite early to consider that, seeing as I have no press, no pressroom and precious little money.”

  But his eyes had brightened a bit; the suggestion had caught his fancy. Reality quickly took control again:

  “Very likely some printer who isn’t with the army will seize on the idea first.”

  “Yes, but a Kent edition could be finer and more handsomely prepared—and I’m sure it would have a guaranteed sale. Look at all the different versions of Common Sense that are circulating.”

  Philip nodded, enjoying the fantasy of a collection of Paine’s essays offered under his own imprint. He didn’t even think about the legality of it. Every respectable printer practiced piracy, despite copyright statutes of various sorts in force in the former colonies. Massachusetts Bay’s law had been enacted in 1672, Ben Edes had told him once. But it was largely ignored, and the penalty was relatively paltry: a fine three times the manufacturing cost of the illegal edition. Anyone could reprint foreign authors such as Milton and the Reverend Young with absolute impunity. Existing copyright laws didn’t apply to works by non-Americans.

  “All right, Royal,” Philip smiled at last, “I’ll consider an edition of Mr. Paine one of my first priorities. But don’t pin me to a calendar, please. Who can be certain when we’ll be back in Boston?”

  Royal’s somber nod showed that he caught the undertone of resignation and apprehension. He scooped up his shipment and headed for the tent.

  “I’ll get busy reading so you may have these quickly—”

  Philip barely heard the remark. He was staring into space, seeing the title page of the Paine book as he would compose it.

  Lucas Cowper, not the least interested in matters literary, had paid no attention to the conversation, occupying himself instead with an ox horn he’d obtained at the camp slaughterhouse. He was fashioning a new container for his powder. Left-handed, Cowper needed a horn that would fit snugly on his left hip; an ox’s right horn would have done him no good.

  While Philip and Royal talked, Cowper worked away with the tip of his knife, carefully chipping letters from the bony surface. Now he held up the horn and displayed its legend to Philip:

  Lucas Cowper, His Horn, August 1777

  “A handsome job, Lucas,” Philip told him.

  “I don’t know about that,” the other grinned. “But maybe it won’t be stolen like the last one.” He applied himself to a few finishing cuts to smooth rough edges of the letters.

  Paine’s phrase kept stealing back into Philip’s mind. Times that try men’s souls. It was certainly apt. Fear and frustration combined to harry the strongest man’s nerve; erode his will
; fill him with anxiety. In a few moments, Philip was almost regretting that Royal had brought up the subject of an edition of Paine. The tempting idea only reminded him of the impossibility of fulfilling any dreams or ambitions in the immediate future.

  Stretching, Pettibone emerged from the tent to take the air after completing his letter to his wife Patsy. Breen appeared, having vanished to the sutler’s for a while. As the regimental drums began to beat the night’s tattoo, Breen announced disparagingly:

  “More of them goddamn Frenchies comin’ out tomorrow.”

  Philip looked up from his unfinished sewing. “Officers?”

  “Fortune-hunters, more like. Figger to make a killin’ sellin’ their fancy selves to lead us poor ignorant clod-foots. Feller told me the Congress is gettin’ mighty sick of them monsoors paradin’ off the ships and askin’ for high rank and lots o’ pay.”

  “If there are more coming out tomorrow, I imagine we’ll have an inspection,” Philip said. “Maybe even a grand review. That’ll break up the day, anyway.”

  Anything to break up the day—!

  And the waiting.

  ii

  Mayo Adams hadn’t come back by the time the last drumbeats died out across the Pennsylvania countryside. Philip lay sweating in his underdrawers, on top of his bedroll instead of in it. Breen’s loud snores, augmented by the click of his wooden dentures, added to the other irritants—the heat; the boredom; the uncertainty about what might lie ahead—that kept Philip awake and restless.

  Eventually he dozed off. A sudden clumping and heavy breathing shot him upright:

  “Who is it?”

  “Adams.” Crawling past the other sleepers.

  Adams still reeked of gin. General Washington believed that a certain amount of alcohol was necessary to a soldier, but that too much was disastrous. A man could only obtain more than the daily ration if he had a friend. Adams did.

  “You gwan back to sleep, Kent. Let’s hope you wake up tomorrow, huh?”

  Chuckling, Adams passed on, a dimly seen bulk in the stifling gloom of the tent. He took his place on his roll at the rear corner. Philip settled down again, tense.