The Bastard

by John Jakes

  His tone brought headshakes of agreement and a melting of Adams’ brief hostility. Philip had never seen the Long Room conspirators so grim.

  All at once, Adams slapped the table.

  “The front as it stands won’t do!”

  “Why not?” Revere countered.

  “We must have a message printed with the drawing. The other colonies must be shocked—assaulted!—with the implications of the damnable law. Even though the law’s directed only at us, they must be made to see once and for all that the intent of the King’s ministers is clear—to dominate and destroy any colony daring to resist.”

  He licked his lips, stretched out one veined hand to grasp a quill pen, then quickly inked a line at the lower margin of Revere’s artwork. Philip craned forward to read it.

  The Tree of Liberty Cut to the Root.

  Will Molineaux snorted. “That’s still an understatement, Sam. Hacked down, would be more like it. But I’m afraid the addition of a slogan won’t help this province one whit.”

  “You’ll discover otherwise, Will, as soon as Paul and his lads spread the word. The sister colonies will come to our aid. Rally around us with food, with supplies—”

  “I pray God you’re right,” Dr. Warren sighed. “For if that’s not the case, Boston’s lost her life from this intolerable act.”

  “Lost her life?” Adams’ lips jerked at the corners. “By no means! You know what the eventual outcome will be if the ministers dare to continue sponsoring laws to punish us. You know where that road will lead, as surely as sunrise follows the moon.”

  Will Molineaux’s dark Irish face looked even more troubled. “You mean armed resistance.”

  “More than that,” Adams corrected. “United resistance, by all the colonies. Then—independency.”

  Despite the heat of the lamps, the thick blue of pipe smoke, a sudden chill seemed to overwhelm the Long Room then. Adams had stated a possibility that Philip had never really contemplated before. Separation of America from the mother country—The very mention of it suggested an abyss of uncertainty and peril.

  And yet, Philip could see the logic, the inevitability. So could the others, as their faces showed. No one looked happy. But no one looked startled, either. In fact, Molineaux smiled with grudging admiration, murmured:

  “I’ve speculated on who among the group would be the first to speak that word. I imagine you’ve had it in your mind a long while, eh, Sam?”

  Adams’ head came to rest a moment. He glanced from face to face. With a small, prim smile, he replied:

  “I have. I will accept nothing less.”

  ii

  The Edes and Gill press hammered and clattered for the next seventy-two hours, pouring out the handbills that summarized the dire news from England. Over the objections of the elder Pitt, Burke and a few other conciliators who were shouted down, a new bill had passed Parliament, a bill reflecting the King’s personal wish that the province of Massachusetts be punished for destroying the tea, as well as for her long and open rebelliousness against Crown authority in general.

  The Boston Port Bill, proclaimed the handbill, forbade the loading or unloading of any cargo in the harbor, effective June 1, 1774. The sole exceptions were military stores and some foodstuffs and fuel supplies given special clearance by the Customs House—relocated to Salem by the same bill. George III would reopen the port only when the duties on the ruined tea, as well as the tea itself, had been paid for in full.

  Revere and his couriers sped out across Roxbury Neck, the only route of supply for the town, now that its all-important ocean commerce was to be cut off. Within days, the riders returned bearing communications that allayed the fears of the patriots that the other colonies would be indifferent. Edes’ paper circulated the heartening news:

  New York’s Committee of Fifty-one went on record with its “detestation” of the bill.

  The mild Quakers of Philadelphia urged moderation but swore support even to “the last extremity.”

  The Carolinas pledged rice and money. They recognized, Adams crowed, that it could just as easily be the bustling port of Charleston whose sea trade—whose life—was being strangled!

  Flocks of sheep appeared on the Neck, driven in from New York, Connecticut and elsewhere, tangible signs that thoughtful men well understood the Port Bill’s implications. Throughout Massachusetts, the other Committees of Correspondence began to implement the stockpiling and shipment of foodstuffs for Boston. The supplies were delivered in wagons and carts the public jeeringly called “Lord North’s coasters”—wheeled replacements for the coasting ships that would be banned from the harbor anchorages after the first of June.

  But an even more severe shock lay in store. Governor Hutchinson announced he would step down, return to England, be replaced by a newly appointed official who bore a triple title: Vice Admiral, Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of Massachusetts. It was taken as a sure sign of worsening relations between colonists and Crown that the provincial government was to be turned over to a military man, General Thomas Gage.

  With him, the last incoming vessels reported, he would bring fresh regiments from Britain. Not to mention warships of His Majesty’s fleet to enforce the closing of the port. In hamlets throughout the province, Philip soon learned, the militia companies were organizing and drilling in earnest. And accumulating what muskets, powder and shot they could.

  The troubled spring grew even more troubled as the days wore on.

  iii

  Resplendent in his red uniform jacket, Captain Joseph Pierce called the Boston Grenadier Company to attention.

  Up and down the length of Long Wharf, other local units snapped to—including Hancock’s Boston Cadets, the merchant himself personally commanding. Fifes began to shrill, drums to beat out riffles and tattoos.

  At the head of the wharf, a huge crowd of welldressed Tories, many seated in carriages, started to applaud and wave handkerchiefs as the brass fieldpieces under the charge of Captain Paddock crashed smoky aerial salutes over the rain-dappled harbor. A nasty day made nastier by this false show of pomp and friendliness, Philip thought.

  He was uncomfortable in the uniform procured, like all those of the Grenadier Company, with Hancock’s financial assistance. He felt foolish and damp to boot, clad in a heavy red coat, white trousers and a tall, tapered black bearskin cap with gleaming brass frontplate. He wriggled his nose as the stench of perspiration and wet wool thickened moment by moment.

  The rain fell steadily from a gray sky this thirteenth of May, all but hiding the furled topsails of the man-o’-war anchored out in the harbor. By turning his head slightly in that direction, Philip could just make out the cutter being rowed from the fighting ship to the stairs of the wharf. The thwarts were crowded with oarsmen and cloaked officers in tricorn hats. General Gage and staff.

  When Henry Knox had issued the orders for the Grenadier Company to muster and join in the official welcome for the man responsible for enforcing the hateful new law, Philip and quite a few others had openly questioned the advisability of such a move. Wouldn’t the company’s presence demonstrate respect? Loyalty?

  Knox was quick to dismiss the complaint:

  “Several factors demand our attendance. First, Gage may not be so bad as Sam Adams would like him painted. He’s a man of moderate temper, by all accounts. With a fondness for the colonies. His wife was born here. She’s a Kemble, from the Jersey state. And while most of us share the current mood of outrage, many would still rather see some method of accommodation worked out between Massachusetts and London. If it can’t be done—” He shrugged. “You may all be certain of one thing. Our presence on Long Wharf day after tomorrow will be completely understood by our friends. The joy that will seem to reign will be recognized for what it is—expedient hypocrisy. Mingled, of course,” he added with an amused expression, “with the Bostonian’s inbred instinct for extending traditional courtesies to any gentleman. Until he proves himself otherwise.”

  So here they
were, miserable in the rain, as General Gage and his staff mounted the wharf stairs, accepted the salutes of the militia officers and proceeded down the line of ranked companies for an inspection.

  Gage’s broad, middle-aged face showed careful restraint of any emotion. But the expressions of his officers left little doubt about their opinion of the local military. From his place in the second rank, Philip saw eyebrows raised, small scornful smiles exchanged. Philip didn’t bother to conceal his reaction.

  Gage moved slowly toward the head of the wharf, where the Tory crowd had broken into loud cheering and clapping. A colonel behind Gage noticed Philip’s insolent expression, paused and called Knox’s attention to Philip’s trousers:

  “That man’s breeches are disreputable, Lieutenant. I see mud spots. In England, he’d be flogged.”

  “Yes, sir,” Knox answered. “But we lack supplies of pipe clay for whitening, sir. And I beg the colonel’s permission to remind him this is not England.”

  The officer’s cold stare traveled back from Philip to Knox.

  “No, but it shall begin to seem more and more like England as the days pass, be assured of that.”

  The colonel stalked off. Philip hawked and spat on the ground.

  The colonel spun, scanned the ranks. Philip stared straight ahead into the rain. Knox looked dismayed. After a moment, the colonel uttered a controlled curse and continued on.

  Members of the Boston Grenadier Company around Philip smirked and growled their approval. One man in the front rank even whistled sharply between his teeth. The break in the colonel’s stride showed that he heard the mocking sound. But he did not wheel to confront the offenders again.

  As the drums and fifes struck up a martial air, the companies faced around to begin the dreary march to the State House as Gage’s honor guard. Knox took the opportunity to fall in beside Philip and complain, “Kent, will it hurt you to behave with military courtesy for one hour?”

  “I am not a King’s soldier!” Philip said from the corner of his mouth. “And I can promise you that if we ever see action against them, I won’t be wearing one of their own damned red coats.”

  “Nor will any of us,” Knox retorted. He was obviously irritated by the continuing coarse comments from the men around Philip. “Sergeant!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Count the cadence for these hay-foots!”

  With another glance at his prime troublemaker, he added, “For the moment I am persuaded it would be better if we’re never forced to fight. Try to build an army out of an ill-tempered band of apprentices who won’t take orders from anyone? I pity the general who’s handed that assignment.”

  He strode away to the head of the column.

  iv

  The colonel’s prophecy that Gage would enforce stronger Crown rule in Boston was soon fulfilled. The word “intolerable” started to appear frequently in the Gazette’s pages, to describe a new series of Parliamentary decrees.

  The Administration of Justice Act almost guaranteed a not-guilty verdict for any Crown official tried for employing violence in putting down an act of rebellion. On the recommendation of the Governor, such an official’s trial could be moved to England to ensure “fair” judicial proceedings.

  A second act, passed in May, virtually dismantled the Massachusetts provincial government. Judges, sheriffs and even justices of the peace would be Crown-appointed in the future. That meant juries could be packed with Tories, since they were selected by the sheriffs. Finally, in a move designed to rob the radicals of their single most important instrument of political persuasion, the traditional Massachusetts town meetings could only be convened with the Governor’s approval—after he had ruled upon the permissibility of all items on a proposed agenda.

  Like all the citizens of Boston, Philip and Anne Ware found that each day in the late spring and early summer seemed to bring some new development—or the sight of another man-o’-war bearing down from Nantasket Roads, loaded to the gunwales with more redcoats.

  The day after the Port Bill went into effect, the Fourth Infantry—the King’s Own—debarked, along with the Forty-third, fresh from Ireland. Up from New York sailed the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. A royal artillery company soon spread its tents on the Common. In all, nearly five thousand military men swelled the population.

  And their arrival had a direct effect upon all the colonies, thanks to yet another Parliamentary measure passed in June. Its provisions applied not merely to Massachusetts but to every locale up and down the seaboard where royal troops might be garrisoned.

  In private, Adams and the Long Room group gleefully celebrated what they considered to be the King’s latest, enormous blunder. But those who were directly affected by the provisions of the Quartering Act were less amused.

  “A stinking lobsterback in my own house!” Abraham Ware exclaimed, fairly dancing up and down in front of Philip and Ben Edes one muggy day in late June. “Imagine!—I am commanded to feed him, to give him a bed, to treat him cordially at all times! Well, the only bed he’ll get is in my barn, by God.”

  “You’re not alone, Abraham,” Edes told him. “The troops are being jammed into private homes all over Boston. Not to mention the taverns and warehouses. In fact, anywhere their damned officers choose. Has your—ah—guest arrived?”

  Ware shook his head. “But I understand I’m on the list for quartering someone from the very next regiment coming in. The Thirty-third. By Jesus, just see if I so much as speak to the swine!”

  “Well,” said Edes with a rueful smile, “personal inconveniences aside, the Quartering Act’s had one good outcome. There’s the news of it, just in with Revere—” He gestured, and Ware followed him to the press.

  The popeyed lawyer peered down at the type locked into the form. “I can’t read your damned lead backwards Edes!” Philip helped out:

  “It says that New York and Philadelphia have answered Boston’s appeal—and in the fall, there’ll be a great congress of representatives from all the colonies. The congress is supposed to decide what’s to be done about the Intolerable Acts.”

  The information partially mollified the little lawyer. But he still left the shop grumbling about being forced to board a British soldier at his own expense. “The moldy hay in the barn is the best meal I’ll offer him!” was Ware’s pronouncement as he departed.

  v

  On a blindingly sunny August morning, several hundred citizens—including Anne Ware and, with Ben Edes’ permission, her frequent companion these past summer days—crushed into Bromfield’s Lane. The crowd was awaiting the opening of the front door of the splendid home belonging to the speaker of the Massachusetts House.

  Before the mounting block stood a handsome coach with red and yellow wheels and four chestnut horses. A liveried driver and groom sat on the box. Two black footmen in similar attire waited by the coach door. Four more servants on horseback controlled their mounts prancing nervously at the edge of the crowd. Philip noted the gleam of pistol butts in the holsters of this quartet of outriders.

  Anne seized Philip’s arm and pointed excitedly. “The door’s open. There’s Papa!”

  The crowd broke into applause and cheering as Ware appeared, engaged in conversation with a fellow lawyer, the soberly dressed John Adams of Braintree. The next man to emerge from the site of the farewell breakfast was almost unrecognizable, so clean and opulent were his claret-colored suit and the snowy ruffles at collar and cuffs. Silver buckles on the shoes of Samuel Adams twinkled in the August light. The golden head of his long cane guttered.

  All of these items, Philip knew, had been donated so that Adams might appear fittingly dressed when he attended the great Congress, to be convened at a place called Carpenters’ Hall in the Quaker City on the fifth of September. As the Gazette had duly reported, only one colony of the thirteen, Georgia, had balked at sending delegates to the meeting, whose express purpose was to agree upon a response to the repressive laws—especially the Quartering Act and the new Quebec Act of early summer. This last had expanded t
he boundaries of Canada to a distant western river, the Ohio. “Canada,” as Philip understood it, now contained land to which speculators in Virginia and Connecticut, as well as Massachusetts, laid claim.

  Soon Molineaux, the dandyish Hancock, the smiling Dr. Warren and others in the party came out to mingle in the crowd. Someone marveled that the Massachusetts contingent, including delegates, servants and outriders, would number close to a hundred men.

  While Sam Adams conferred with his cousin John and with Hancock, who was remaining behind, Abraham Ware searched the crowd for his daughter. He located her, waved and fought his way forward. Philip drew aside to let Ware give Anne a farewell hug and a few admonitory whispers. At one of these, Anne’s brown eyes flashed with delight as she glanced at Philip.

  He experienced one of those rare moments in which he had no doubt about his enjoyment of their relationship. Being with Anne—strolling the town or gossiping in her kitchen about the latest turn of events—had become both natural and automatic. He seldom thought about the nature of their liaison, and he never discussed it. Nor did she. Each had accepted the other’s terms. Whenever there was an opportunity for them to discreetly steal time for lovemaking in the Ware barn, they did so with pleasure, and without debate over the significance of the act.

  Anne hugged her father one last time. Her face glowed, the freckles along her nose showing dark against the brown sheen of her skin. Philip realized Lawyer Ware was peering at him with a peculiar concentration. Pulling his daughter by the hand, the little man approached Philip to say: