The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles Read online

  Miraculously, the officer avoided being hit. He brandished his sword and kept up that worldless screeming that brought all of the Americans out of the ditch at last—Philip among them. The first ranks of Hessians started scuttling back toward the trees.

  Across a front fifty or sixty yards long, two dozen Americans followed the officer in his crazed charge. A Hessian stumbled. The officer sabered him through the chest. A cheer went up from the Americans. Suddenly Philip caught the mood of savagery, found himself running as fast as he could, just like the others—

  The Hessians—perhaps thirty in the company—completely abandoned any pretense of orderly formation, retreating from the wave of attackers who began howling like the officer. Philip sped through the tall weeds between the ditch and the trees. Almost all the mercenaries had already melted back into the forest.

  One sergeant, his belly bulging the tunic of his uniform, didn’t quite make it. He stepped into an animal’s burrow and sprawled. Philip reached the sergeant just as the man pulled his foot from the hole, supporting himself on his hands and one knee.

  The Hessian heard Philip coming, turned his bulky body, raised a forearm to protect his face, shrieked:

  “Himmel—”

  Philip bayoneted him in the stomach.

  In the near-darkness, American muskets spouted orange fire. Philip stepped on the Hessian’s head, plunged on toward the trees where the saber-wielding officer had disappeared. But the light was so poor, he could find no more targets.

  He passed a Hessian corpse just this side of the woods, saw another man running toward him, whipped up his Brown Bess to stab defensively—

  A saber flashed as another musket glared to Philip’s left. The saber clashed on bayonet steel, striking sparks. Philip absorbed the blow, dropped back a step, prepared to fight hand-to-hand—

  Then he recognized the man who’d knocked his bayonet aside. The shabbily dressed officer.

  Philip couldn’t see the man’s face clearly. But his voice was enough to suggest his pleasure:

  “A little spirit and they turn tail. That’s all it took, a little spirit—”

  He breathed hard a moment, then shouted to those who had followed him:

  “Well done! Well done!”

  To the right and left, the Americans who’d joined the charge, voluntarily and otherwise, offered each other loud congratulations. The officer’s saber clacked back into its scabbard. The whole action had taken no more than three or four minutes.

  Philip thought of Cowper, headed back for the ditch. The officer strode beside him through the tall weeds:

  “Damme, if we’d had this kind of spirit at the creek, we might have carried the day.”

  Quite without thinking, Philip said an obscene word. “We don’t need more spirit. We need some commanders who know where the hell the British are hiding. If intelligence had been proper, we wouldn’t have lost.”

  The officer stopped suddenly. His voice iced:

  “I’ll convey your opinion to the commander-in-chief. But perhaps I should also convey the name and unit of the man making the statement.”

  “Philip Kent. Private, Massachusetts infantry.”

  “You’ve a ready tongue, Mr. Kent.”

  Beyond caring whom he offended, Philip shot back. “Maybe so. But I’ll stick by what I said. We wouldn’t be retreating if we’d known Cornwallis was coming at us from behind.”

  “I am well aware of that, soldier! Do you think I like it any better than you?”

  The officer’s tone brought Philip up short. He rubbed his eyes.

  “No, sir, I suppose not. I’m sorry I spoke out.”

  The officer too seemed less angry:

  “Don’t be. What you said was blunt but correct. And I spoke too sharply. You fought well a few moments ago. All these men fought well—”

  His hand lifted to indicate the little band he’d rallied to rout the Hessians. All at once he realized the men were gone. As quickly as they’d assembled, the anonymous soldiers had disappeared back to the road, rejoining the columns trailing east. The officer concluded:

  “Let’s put the whole conversation out of mind and just remember the engagement, eh?”

  In the darkness a voice shouted, “General Wayne?”

  “Here,” the officer barked.

  “I’ve caught your horse, sir.”

  “Right with you. Mr. Kent—” A hand clapped Philip’s shoulder. “Bravely done.”

  And he tramped off toward the ditch, leaving Philip stunned and speechless.

  Because of the man’s sorry-looking uniform, Philip had had no idea he’d been following one of Washington’s top field commanders. General Anthony Wayne, a young squire of this same Pennsylvania country through which they were fleeing, had a reputation for recklessness and quick temper. Philip was grateful that temper had moderated while they talked. Otherwise he’d certainly have been a candidate for disciplinary action.

  He heard Wayne’s horse pound away in the direction of Chester Creek. Again he remembered Lucas Cowper, started running.

  There seemed to be fewer men on the road. Perhaps the main body of the retreating army had passed. He was uncomfortably conscious of the quiet of the night-shrouded countryside as he reached the ditch, clambered down to the bottom, oriented himself as best he could—

  He had charged the Hessians on an oblique line from the point where Wayne first joined him. That meant Cowper should be somewhere to the left as Philip faced the road. He headed that way.

  He’d gone no more than a yard or so when he heard sounds made by two other people. One was unmistakably Cowper; groaning. Another man was breathing hard. The man heard Philip coming along the ditch:

  “Who’s that?”

  Sudden fear wrenching his stomach, Philip answered:

  “It’s Kent. What are you doing, Mayo?”

  Mayo Adams stood up beside Cowper’s shuddering body, a black hulk against the first stars. There was a vicious undertone in Adams’ voice:

  “I come across Lucas and decided to help myself to his canteen and cartridge box. Lost mine back at the crick.”

  “Don’t touch him. He’s hurt pretty badly.”

  “Shit, he’s dyin’. He won’t miss them things.”

  “I said get away from him and get back on the road.” Philip raised his empty musket. The metal of the bayonet glimmered in the starlight.

  Mayo Adams chuckled.

  “Why, you still got a musket! Think I’ll take that too.”

  “What happened to yours?”

  “Dropped it a ways back, accidental, and couldn’t find it again. And a feller can’t get by without a musket, now can he? Sure glad I bumped into you this way. Nobody’s gonna know whether the redcoats kilt only one of the bodies in this here ditch, or two—”

  The sudden explosion of Adams’ breath gave Philip forewarning that the bigger man was moving. But tiredness slowed his reaction time. His bayonet-thrust was poorly aimed.

  Mayo Adams sidestepped, safe, and clamped both hands on the muzzle of the Brown Bess. He jerked hard. The musket tore out of Philip’s fingers.

  Adams swung the musket like a club, his meaty face awash with starlight for a moment. The little eyes shone. Desperately Philip wrenched back out of range of the stock arcing toward his head—

  Adams cursed when the blow failed to land. Philip dove forward, both hands fastening on the stock. He kicked Adams’ shin. The bigger man swore and kicked right back. Philip almost let go under the painful impact. Adams wrenched and Philip lost his hold a second time.

  The stock came hurtling toward his jaw. Once more he started to dodge. His left boot skidded on the slope of the ditch. Off balance, he fell. He landed on his spine, the wind knocked out of him.

  Laughing, Adams dropped the Brown Bess in the weeds.

  “Well, Kent, guess this here’s as good a time as any to settle things, what d’you say—?”

  Philip yelled as Adams’ huge weight crushed his belly; Adams had simply dropped
down on both knees. Big hands stinking of powder closed on Philip’s neck.

  Suddenly he felt something rigid under his right hip. His hunting knife, still in its belt sheath. If he could only reach it—

  To do it, he first had to stretch out his right arm. And he was close to passing out because Adams’ fingers were digging deep, cutting off his wind. The Boston apprentice squeezed, then let go; squeezed and let go. He hummed as he knelt on Philip’s midsection, sporting with him.

  Philip heard several men passing along the road only a short distance away. But they were moving fast in the darkness, making noise themselves. They’d never hear Adams’ little hum of pleasure—

  Philip got his arm straightened out. Then he doubled his right hand under; bent it so far he thought the bones in his wrist would snap. Almost as if the hand were a separate thing, he groped back toward his right hip. Pushing his knuckles against the ground, he forced the hand along until he touched his own body.

  He extended his fingers—stretched them toward the hilt of the knife—

  He couldn’t reach under and free it. Adams’ weight was too great, pressing him flat. The huge fingers worked on Philip’s throat while Adams hummed. Dig and release. Dig and release—

  “Your poor wife’s sure gonna wonder what happened to you, Kent. She’ll think some Tommy kilt you. Maybe I’ll call on her one day and tell her what really happened. Tell her how you got smart with the wrong man—how you feel about that?”

  Abruptly, Adams released his grip.

  “Come on, you snotty little bastard, say somethin’!”

  Waiting, Adams slid off Philip’s belly. Philip could only make raw, retching sounds. He tried to raise his right hip a little. He was too weak.

  Adams seized his hair, yanked his head up.

  “Listen, I told you to say somethin’, you son of a bitch!”

  Adams pulling him up was the mistake. Philip’s tortured right hand closed on the hilt, freed the knife, brought it whipping up, the blade turning toward Adams’ throat—

  Adams saw the glare of the stars on metal. He stabbed his free hand at Philip’s wrist—

  Too late. Philip raked the knife edge over Adams’ neck, pushing—

  One startled, gurgling cry. Then blood spewed like a fountain.

  The blood drenched Philip’s forehead, his eyes, his cheeks. He rolled away as the dead hand came loose from his hair. The warm, meaty stench of the pumping blood sickened him.

  He flattened on his belly, burrowed in the grass of the ditch bank, wiping frantically at the mess on his face. He heard Adams fall.

  Minutes went by. Philip lay panting, wanting to vomit. Gradually the nausea passed. He tried to stand. Still too tired. He’d had too much. He’d just lie here, forget it all—

  He thought of Lucas Cowper.

  He fought the shock and the overpowering lethargy as if they were enemies as real as Adams had been. At last he was able to stand up. Weakly; dizzily. But he was upright. He made four passes at the belt sheath before he got the knife back in place.

  Clenching his teeth and shuddering, he forced himself to step over Mayo Adams’ corpse, walk toward Cowper till he found him.

  He knelt, touched sticky fingers to Cowper’s lips. He felt faint breath.

  “Lucas? Lucas, I’m going to pick you up—”

  One hand curved under Cowper’s neck. As he raised Cowper’s head a few inches, the young farmer screamed and thrashed. The starlight whitened exposed bone in Cowper’s ruined upper arm. Philip knew he had to get Cowper on his feet and moving or his friend would surely bleed to death. The responsibility somehow helped him find strength:

  “We’ll, get to a hospital, Lucas. They’ll have a hospital set up someplace ahead. Chester Creek, maybe. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there and get you fixed—”

  He literally dragged Cowper to his feet. The young farmer cried out again as Philip maneuvered him. Finally Cowper’s right arm was draped over Philip’s neck.

  Left arm around Cowper’s waist, Philip crouched and retrieved his Brown Bess. Supporting Cowper’s limp body, fighting the pain and dizziness in his own, Philip started to walk. Step by labored step, he climbed to the road and turned east in the September darkness.

  ii

  At Chester Creek bridge, he caught up to a Conestoga wagon that had broken an axle. The teamsters struggling to repair it stopped long enough to help raise Lucas Cowper, unconscious now, to a place on top of the rolled-up command tents. When it became apparent that the battle was lost, the tents had been struck at headquarters not far from Brandywine Church.

  The teamsters told Philip to pull himself up into the wagon too, and ride the rest of the way. He was glad to do it.

  Only half aware of the repaired wagon starting to roll again, he leaned his forehead against the plank side and laid one hand on Lucas Cowper’s feverish forehead. The wagon swayed and bounced as the drivers negotiated the rutted road. Each jolt made Cowper writhe, though he never woke up completely.

  It took the wagon over an hour to travel beyond the village of Chester and reach the temporary night camp—and the hastily erected tent that resembled a corner of hell more than a hospital.

  iii

  “Raise his head so he can take the rum. That’s good. Son? You awake?”

  Stretched out on bloody planks placed on wood trestles, Lucas Cowper shivered and opened his eyes. Philip stood directly behind Cowper’s head at the end of the crude operating table. An orderly was already at work ripping away Cowper’s shirt.

  Philip hardly dared look at the arm. It was a ruin of blood, severed muscle, bone slivers. Any time the orderly touched it, Cowper grimaced.

  The surgeon was middle-aged. He wore a white apron stained as red as a butcher’s. He pressed a brown glass bottle to Cowper’s lips. Cowper choked. But some of the liquor got down his throat. Gradually, a little of the glaze left his eyes.

  He heard the sounds of the tent. The sounds Philip tried not to hear—

  The cursing of the overworked doctors. The grisly grind from the next table, where two surgeons twisted the wood handles of a T-shaped cylindrical saw whose toothed bit was boring a hole in a casualty’s shaved skull.

  And above all, there was the screaming.

  The tent stank of urine, excrement, sweat, putrefying flesh. In the aisle to Philip’s left, a severed foot and a length of intestine floated in a tub of pink-tinted water. Although exhausted, the surgeon treating Cowper tried to speak gently, patiently. His voice carried the soft rhythms of one of the southern states:

  “Can you hear what I’m saying to you, son?”

  Feebly, Cowper answered, “I—I can.”

  “You feel anything in that arm?”

  “Hurts—plenty. Can’t—move it—”

  “Well, the ball destroyed too much muscle and bone. I’m going to have to take it off at the shoulder.”

  The surgeon held out one hand. An orderly dropped a new musket ball into the dirty palm. Grasping the ball between thumb and forefinger, the surgeon held the ball up where Cowper could focus on it:

  “I’m going to put this between your teeth. I want you to bite down hard. Then you won’t feel it so much.” The surgeon’s pale, stubbled face showed the lie behind the words.

  All at once Cowper tried to straggle up:

  “What did you say about my arm, doc—?”

  “That I can’t save it, son. I have to saw it off.”

  “Please don’t. Oh God, please! I’m left-handed, doc. I need both hands to work a plow—I’m a farmer, I can’t run a farm with one arm gone—”

  Cowper was shrieking now. Philip turned away, closed his eyes a moment, tightened his hands on Cowper’s shoulders as the wounded man tried to wrench himself off the bloody table.

  “Goddamn it, you’ve got to hold him down!” the surgeon shouted to Philip. The orderly shoved the rum bottle between Cowper’s teeth, up-ended it until Cowper fell back gagging and slobbering from the liquid gushing into his mouth. Against his wi
ll, Cowper swallowed several times. The wild wrenching subsided.

  More wounded men were being carried into the tent on litters, put down in rows near the entrance. There were six surgical tables working; the steady grind of the trephining saw filled Philip’s throat with bile again.

  Cowper’s lids fluttered closed as the rum began to take effect. The surgeon shoved the musket ball between Cowper’s teeth:

  “Bite.”

  Cowper didn’t respond. Using both hands, the surgeon pressed his jaws together:

  “Bite, son, bite—that’s it.” He dashed sweat from his eyes. “Give me the saw.”

  An orderly passed him the instrument. It still showed stains from the last amputation. The surgeon walked around to the left side of the table, stumbling once. Another orderly caught him, held him until he was able to stand on his own.

  The surgeon scrutinized the exposed shoulder joint for a moment, then put the center of the notched blade on the spot he’d selected. With quick back and forth motions, he began to saw.

  Blood ran. Muscle parted. Bone rasped. Cowper turned white, started to writhe. An orderly clamped hands on Cowper’s mouth so he wouldn’t cry out and swallow the ball. Grate and grate, the saw cut deeper—

  Philip expended every remaining ounce of his strength to hold the farmer’s shoulders. At last, the awful rasping noise ceased. The severed limb thumped into the dirt beside the table.

  The surgeon passed the saw to an orderly, wiped his forehead again, looked around, turned almost as red as his apron:

  “Where the hell is the tar?”

  “Had to heat up a new batch, sir. Here it comes—”

  Two more orderlies struggled to bring up a small cauldron of bubbling pitch that had been heated on the fires burning in the hospital yard.

  “Watch your eyes,” the surgeon warned those around the table. An orderly took a stick and tilted up one side of the cauldron. Hot tar cascaded onto the bleeding stump just below Cowper’s shoulder, cauterizing, sterilizing—

  Cowper woke again, screamed and fainted. The pitch slopped and hissed on the board table, clotted sticky-black on the end of the stump. The blood-flow stopped.