The Rebels Page 6

  Most of the men, Philip included, lived in shelters made of whatever materials they had purchased, brought from home, or stolen. Philip’s Twenty-ninth Massachusetts infantry regiment, camped between Cambridge and the earthworks at the center of the American line overlooking the Charles River, made do in shanties knocked together from warped boards. But as he walked, Philip saw many other types of structures, from sailcloth tents sagging under the drizzle to crude shelters of fieldstone chinked up with turf. Some units simply lived on the ground between constantly soggy blankets.

  To add to the confusion, it was often impossible to tell officers from enlisted men. General Washington had tried to outfit the volunteer soldiers in some semblance of a uniform. Amid the flurry of organizational orders and new commissions issuing from the house formerly hunting shirts. No action had been taken on the request to the Continental Congress for ten thousand smock-like hunting shirts. No action had been taken on the request before the assembly adjourned early in August. Washington had meantime authorized officers to adopt scarves, cockades, second-hand epaulets—whatever they could find to identify themselves.

  Not that it made much difference to the men who served under them.

  The army encamped at Boston consisted mostly of farmers and artisans, all waiting to see whether a full-scale war would break out, or would be defused by moves toward reconciliation already taken by the Congress that represented every colony except Georgia. The men who made up the army didn’t understand military discipline and in fact resented it. Philip recalled hearing a prediction that this attitude might prevail, and prove disastrous. The prediction had been made by his friend Henry Knox, the fat Boston bookseller who was somewhere in the lines acting as a sort of supervising engineer in charge of artillery. Philip had not seen Knox all summer, though.

  No one knew how many volunteers had arrived in Massachusetts since the outbreak of hostilities. Philip had heard figures ranging from twelve to twenty thousand. The reaction of these summer soldiers to the commander-in-chief’s various orders forbidding such activities as gambling and “profane cursing,” and demanding attendance at “divine services” twice daily, ranged from indifference to outright defiance.

  A few shrewd commanders recognized the problem and tried to deal with it. One such was Iz Putnam of Connecticut, the old Indian fighter who had defended the king’s interests during the American phase of the Seven Years’ War. Putnam invented schemes to sharpen his men for combat and keep them diverted at the same time.

  Since the terrifying shelling of Breed’s and Bunker’s Hills in June, most of the Continentals had learned they had little to fear from the barrages of the British batteries in Boston. But the artillery fire was almost constant in clear weather. So Putnam sent his men darting out of their earthworks to recover spent cannon shot, in short supply on the American side. The prize for each round was a tot of rum. An explosive shell earned two tots—provided it didn’t blow up the man who went after it. Philip wished that the Twenty-ninth Massachusetts had that kind of imaginative commander.

  Now, as he slogged along in the mud, his mind began to veer from camp life to the other world he lived in whenever he could. The world of Watertown—and Anne. He paid less and less attention to the men idly attempting to wipe their muskets dry inside lantern-lit hovels. He dodged the bones of an evening fish ration flung into his path. Unseeing, he passed two volunteers urinating in the open—the accepted custom. He went by tents and lean-tos noisy with quarreling, drinking and forbidden dicing. In some of the temporary dwellings, feminine giggling could be heard, indicating that “immoral practices”—likewise prohibited—were in full swing. Head down, hands in the pockets of his sodden coat, he thought only about his wife.

  She was near her term; immense of belly. She’d been extremely weak the past month or so, abed most of the time in the rented rooms Lawyer Ware had taken in Watertown.

  But even more disturbing, the Connecticut surgeon whom Philip had located with such difficulty in midsummer, and hired to take over Anne’s care on a once-weekly basis, had been shot and killed the preceding week after an argument about cards.

  Philip had paid the cheerfully greedy doctor with money saved from his earnings at the Edes and Gill print shop. He’d gotten the money from Ben Edes personally. Edes, who had set up his patriot press in Water-town, had been keeping the funds for Philip. Now the money was of no use. The doctor was permanently unavailable.

  In the past few days Philip had searched frantically for someone to replace the doctor. The quest so far had been fruitless.

  Wiping rain from his cheeks, he turned a corner past another hovel. He glanced up suddenly at the sound of a brawl in progress between a double row of tents a few steps further down. Damnation! He should have watched his route more carefully. Avoided this most contentious section of the American center. Now he was caught.

  He walked rapidly, determined to pass the twelve or fifteen men punching, kicking and yelling in the middle of the muddy street. He kept close to the line of the tents, eyed the combatants. Virginians to a man.

  The Virginians had become the marvel of the camps when the first contingent reached Boston in July, boasting a march of six or seven hundred miles in three weeks, with no one ill, no deserters. They were tall, peculiar, violent men with skins the color of browned autumn leaves. Their clothing—especially their voluminous white hunting shirts and their headgear: round, broad-brimmed hats or caps with dangling fur tails—excited comment wherever they walked.

  The Virginians automatically pushed aside all men smaller than themselves, and many who weren’t smaller. Their height and tough bearing gave them the authority. So did their strange weapons: guns much longer and narrower through the barrel than the familiar smoothbore muskets.

  The backwoodsmen from Virginia called their weapons Kentucky rifles, though they claimed the pieces were manufactured in Pennsylvania. Using the rifles, they challenged all comers to shooting contests—and always won—shattering bottle targets at impossible ranges of two or three hundred yards. Philip’s Brown Bess could barely fire half that distance before spending its ball.

  Though the rifles took longer to load than muskets, and could not be fitted with bayonets, they were deadly accurate. So were the eyes that aimed them. Eyes that had supposedly gazed on distant country where blue mountains climbed toward a sea of cloud, and tribes of the red-skinned, savage Indians roamed.

  This evening, the Virginians were having at each other again. That too was a familiar occurrence. Men gleefully booted the groins of their opponents, stepped on faces, bit ankles or wrists. Half the fighters were on their knees or backs or bellies, covered with gummy mud. But they kept slugging and thrashing and getting up again. And—to Philip’s astonishment—for the most part, they were laughing.

  He moved faster, determined to get clear of the brawl post haste.

  He skirted the churning mass of men while other Virginians lounging near the tents eyed him with arrogant curiosity. Further down the camp street, a phaeton turned the corner, heading away from the brawlers. Suddenly one of the phaeton’s three cloaked occupants lurched to his feet. He grabbed his driver’s shoulder. In a moment, the team was charging back toward the fight, which continued without letup.

  One side of the battle abruptly grew like a living organism, rolling outward until Philip was virtually on the edge. He had to jump aside to avoid a whizzing fist. Someone shoved the small of his back:

  “Hey, Zech, if you need somebody to punch, here’s one of them wise men!”

  Philip had been pushed by a spectator. Off balance, he cursed and fisted his hands. He got angry when men from other colonies taunted the Massachusetts soldiers with the epithet applied to the Boston radicals. But before he could swing on the man who’d shoved him, he inadvertently stumbled into the melee. A huge, hard hand blasted into his stomach, doubled him over—

  He dropped to his knees, madder than ever. But the burly Virginian who’d punched him had already turned his attention
to one of his own—a tall, skinny, mud-slimed man with a mouthful of crooked teeth and one eye that pointed off at the oblique. Positively the ugliest specimen Philip had ever seen.

  Philip’s attacker kicked the tall fellow in the groin. The man grimaced as he lost his footing, toppled into the mud. He floundered on hands and knees. His burly opponent bellowed a laugh, laced his fingers together, intending to chop them down in a murderous blow to the other man’s exposed neck.

  Philip could have avoided further involvement by sneaking away. But he was tired, and thus not hard to provoke. Finding steady footing at last, he grabbed the burly man’s shoulder, pulled hard.

  The man wheeled, aborting his vicious blow at the tall fellow’s neck. The burly man took one look at Philip, smiled an oafish, infuriating smile and resorted to his favorite tactic—a lightning kick between the legs. Philip clenched his teeth to keep from screaming in pain.

  “Dunno who the hell you are, little boy,” the burly man growled. Philip realized the man was ugly drunk. “But this here’s Virginny territory. You go play someplace else ’fore I spank you good.”

  Shaking, Philip said, “Come on and try.”

  The tall, ugly fellow darted up from behind and bashed his opponent in one ear. The burly man didn’t appear to feel it. Only his eyes showed a reaction. He stabbed his hand down past a tangle of thrashing, mud-covered arms and legs. Instantly, Philip saw what he was after—

  A spade someone had used as a weapon.

  The man seized the spade’s handle—but Philip wasn’t the target. The burly man swung the spade toward the tall fellow, howling:

  “I’ll take yer head off, Eph Tait!”

  Philip made another two-handed lunge at the burly man’s forearm. The Virginian with the cocked eye ducked and the spade hissed on through the air. Except for Philip’s restraining grip, it would have completed its arc—

  To smash into the face of the officer who had climbed from the phaeton.

  The spirit seemed to drain from the burly man in a second. His mud-daubed face lost color. All he could breathe out was a raspy, “Oh, heavenly Christ—”

  Philip was equally alarmed, to put it mildly. No man in the American lines could fail to recognize the towering officer. His thrown-back cloak revealed a dark blue coat with buff facings, a buff waistcoat and, above the white breeches, his purple sash of rank.

  He had somehow lost his hat. Rain glistened in his clubbed reddish-brown hair. He was in his early forties, with huge hands, equally large feet whose size was emphasized by his big boots. In fact the man looked almost ponderous. But he moved with startling speed as he seized the spade and hurled it to the ground. Philip noticed a light pitting of pox scars on pale cheeks that bore traces of sunburn—or the flush of anger. The man’s gray-blue eyes raked the brawlers:

  “I expect better than this from Virginians! Where is the commanding officer?”

  The fighting had all but stopped. One of the mud-covered men shouted:

  “Dead drunk—as usual.”

  “To your quarters, every damn one of you. And think about this while you wait for the orders for punishment I intend to issue before this night’s over. I have made a pretty good slam since I came to this camp. I broke one colonel and two captains for cowardice at Bunker’s Hill. I’ve caused to be placed under arrest for trial one colonel, one major, one captain and six subalterns—in short, I spare no one, particularly men of my own colony, and you will find that reflected in the redress of this disgrace. Dismissed!” he shouted, suddenly pointing at Philip. “All except you.”

  Philip stood frozen, swallowing hard. The officer’s temper had moderated. His speech took on a softer quality; the genteel, almost drawling quality of his native Fairfax County:

  “You don’t belong to this regiment, do you, soldier?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Philip Kent, General.”

  “Your unit?”

  “Twenty-ninth Massachusetts.”

  “Why aren’t you with your unit?”

  “I have my commander’s permission to visit Watertown, sir. My wife’s there—she’s expecting a baby and not doing well—”

  “I can vouch for this man’s identity, General Washington.”

  The new arrival stumping up on fat legs brought Philip momentary relief from the absolute terror he felt under the blue-gray stare of the chief of the American forces. The new arrival was a pie-faced young man with a white silk scarf wrapped around his crippled left hand. He weighed close to three hundred pounds and wore civilian clothes.

  Shooting a quick glance at Philip—a warning for him to stand fast—he continued:

  “He served with me in the Boston Grenadier Company before the trouble broke out. If he says his wife’s in Watertown, and that he’s been given leave to see her, it’s undoubtedly the truth.”

  “I’ll take your word, Knox,” Washington said. He smiled faintly. “Especially since this soldier’s hand on that fool’s arm—” He pointed at the burly drunk being lugged away by two companions. “—saved me from a broken skull. My thanks, Kent.”

  Washington whirled on the goggling laggards:

  “Inside, the rest of you. Smartly—smartly!”

  The Virginians ran, including the toothy, cock-eyed fellow who seemed to be trying to grin some sort of appreciation at Philip. Washington pulled his rain-drenched cloak down across his blue-and-buff uniform and turned to stride back to his phaeton. Henry Knox lingered, his round young face beaming:

  “I’d heard you were out here, Philip.”

  “But not in officer’s territory.”

  “Oh, I’m not there myself. Only on the border. Neither fish nor fowl, it seems. Still, I’m happy to serve where I can be useful.”

  “Your name’s been widely circulated, Henry. I understand General Washington’s impressed with your knowledge of artillery.”

  “I trust he will increase his reliance on what little I’ve learned,” Knox said, no longer smiling. “Only cannon can defeat the British garrison in Boston.”

  “I’ve also heard you may be commissioned a colonel.”

  Knox made no comment. But he couldn’t hide a prideful look. Before he’d shuttered his Boston bookshop to join the American army, Henry Knox had deliberately turned the shop into a haven for British officers of the occupying force. He had a purpose: to draw out the enemy’s best thinking on the subject that fascinated him—the proper use of artillery. “Lucky you had a good reason for your presence,” Knox observed finally. “The general’s determined to birth an army out of this dismaying collection of ruffians. He was correct when he said he spares no one—least of all himself.”

  “Well, that may be true, but—” Philip hesitated.

  “Go on with what you were about to say.”

  “Maybe I’d better not. It concerned the general.”

  “You can be candid. God knows everyone else in this camp is!”

  Still Philip held back. Knox smiled wearily:

  “Did you intend to tell me that most of your compatriots have doubts about the general’s ability?”

  Embarrassed, Philip nodded. Knox waved:

  “Don’t worry, I’ve heard that ten times over—from high and low. I’ve heard it all. That he was nothing more than a militia colonel before. And that while fighting the French and Indians, he lost several engagements. But I tell you this, Philip. Judge him by what he does now, not by his past.”

  “I suppose that’s the fair way,” Philip agreed. It was pointless to go into all the widely expressed reasons many soldiers considered Washington a poor choice for his high post.

  Aware of the general watching impatiently from the phaeton, Knox himself changed the subject:

  “So you’re on your way to see your wife, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I do believe I heard you’d married Mistress Ware—”

  “Back in April.”

  “And she’s with child. You’r
e to be congratulated.”

  Philip didn’t smile. “As I said, she’s been sickly—”

  “Knox!” Washington’s shout from the phaeton hurried the fat young man’s departure:

  “I hope that condition reverses itself promptly. Give Anne and her father my compliments. I’m glad to find you again,” he added as he waddled off. “I might have need for a couple of quick-witted men for a scheme I’m hatching—”

  With a wave of the silk-wrapped hand, he was into the phaeton, a cloaked mountain hulking beside the general and the other officer as the carriage vanished in the murk.

  Philip turned and hurried away from the Virginia encampment. He had only a few hours—and he was already late.

  ii

  “Anne?”

  Kneeling beside the bed, Philip kept his voice to a whisper:

  “Annie? It’s me—”

  Slowly, Anne Kent’s eyes opened. Her head moved slightly on the sweat-dampened bolster. The brown eyes reflected the flame of a candle by the bedside. Rain pattered the roof of the cramped upstairs bedroom in the house on a shabby side street in Watertown.

  His mouth dry, Philip closed his hand around his wife’s, felt its heat. Her chestnut hair glistened with sweat just above the forehead. The light dusting of freckles on either side of her nose—prominent when her skin was wholesomely tanned by sunshine—had almost faded into invisibility.

  Suddenly Anne rolled onto her side, gasping while her hand sought and touched the great mound of her stomach beneath the comforter.

  Fearful, Philip bent closer. He smelled the staleness of her breath. “I’ll find you a doctor, Annie. I’m trying hard as I can—”

  Her glazed eyes showed no sign that she heard. The hand on the comforter knotted convulsively.

  Gradually the pain passed. She relaxed again. Philip’s voice sounded hoarser than ever:

  “Annie, look at me. Don’t you know me?”