The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  “How much interest can you pay?” Anne asked.

  Edes laughed, then she did too, as she and Philip left.

  They walked into the February sunlight. Melting snow ran in the street channels. Philip shook his head:

  “Annie, I repeat—you are a damned astonishing woman.”

  “Why should you be astonished, darling?” She settled her market basket over her arm. “You know our plans as well as I do. You’re going to get through this detestable war, which we’re going to win, and you might as well open your shop with two or three presses instead of one—and have something left to hire a couple of apprentices. Captain Caleb just might make that possible. So it’s all settled.”

  “Yes, I had that feeling a few minutes ago,” he laughed, admitting privately with some chagrin that he wished he’d thought of the idea himself.

  v

  In a tiny loft office at the head of Hancock’s Wharf, Philip introduced his wife to a momentarily dumbfounded Will Caleb:

  “Lord, you were barely more than a boy when you crossed on Eclipse. I hardly know you!”

  “Well, a good deal’s happened since that voyage, Captain Caleb.” Philip moved a chair into position for Anne beside the Maine seaman’s cluttered work table. “Right now I’m on leave from a Massachusetts regiment down in Jersey.”

  “The army?”

  “Yes.”

  Caleb had really changed very little, Philip decided. He had to be approaching sixty now. But he was still as trim and tanned as when Philip had sailed with him from Bristol. His beak nose and flowing white hair reminded Philip of the prow of one of the swift New England merchantmen on which Caleb had spent his life.

  Caleb said, “If you’re in the army, then you sure as hel—uh, your pardon, Mrs. Kent. You surely didn’t come here to sign aboard one of my privateersmen.”

  “No,” Anne put in, “Mr. Ben Edes mentioned that you were searching for investors to help underwrite the construction of two additional vessels.”

  Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve money to put into such a venture?”

  “Possibly—under a captain with an outstanding record,” Anne told him. “Both Philip and Mr. Edes say you’re every bit of that. We might be able to raise a sum of two hundred pounds if the proposition was suitable.”

  Philip almost strangled trying to protest. Two hundred pounds sterling represented just about two thirds of the total bequest left them by Anne’s father. He’d been thinking more on the order of fifty. It was painfully evident—again—that his business affairs were now securely in the hands of his wife.

  Captain Caleb likewise nearly broke out in a sweat at the mention of the amount. At once he unlocked a lower drawer of his desk and produced a bottle of rum and rolled-up plans. Anne declined the offer of strong drink but Philip, still nonplused, helped himself to a bracer. Caleb eagerly spread the inked drawings:

  “You know anything at all about seagoing vessels, Mrs. Kent?”

  “A little. My grandfather founded Sawyer’s.”

  “The devil! That’s where I’m going to have these two beauties built. Here, let me show you—”

  Anne bent forward with interest. To Philip the drawings resembled a confusion of spiderwebs. He recognized a hull plan and elevation, but not much else. He rapidly became lost in Caleb’s nonstop references to fore-and-aft rigging, hull displacement, sharper deadrise for greater speed and reduced tumble-home thanks to smaller-bore cannon, another weight-saving scheme.

  “All the newest designs, Mrs. Kent. And the best long guns we can purchase. The idea’s to crack on as much canvas as possible, for short cruises. Carry fewer provisions, less ammunition—speed, speed! Catch those lumbering Britishers! If we hit, we’ll hit big.”

  “What are the financial arrangements if you do seize an enemy merchantman, Captain?”

  “Works like this. A prize crew brings the ship back to an American port—I can’t afford agents in France and the Indies. Besides, the owners lose out if the prize is sold in a foreign port. That’s standard in the Articles for any privateer.”

  “All right, that’s clear.”

  “We publish the captured ship’s name in the papers and wait fifteen days. There’s a trial to determine whether she’s legally a prize—formality, mostly. Don’t imagine any Britishers are going to hop across the Atlantic to appear in court and fight the claim. Soon as the jurors condemn the captive as a prize, we pay off the trial costs and put her on sale—cargo and vessel. There’s auction expense to be deducted, but that’s a pittance. Whatever the auction brings, the Articles for each privateer of mine state that no more than a third is divided among the captain and crew. The remainder’s to be paid to the owners, in proportion, according to how much they put in.”

  Anne said, “I’d want all of that in writing. I mean the exact amount of ownership in each vessel.”

  “Each? You’d want to invest in both?”

  She nodded. “A hundred pounds per new ship. The designs are excellent, so by dividing the investment we double the chance of a return, and halve the chance of loss.”

  “Anything you say!” Caleb beamed. “I’ve papers here to completely describe the agreem—”

  “No, we’re not prepared to negotiate today. But you’re welcome to call at our home in Cambridge with the documents. Also your letters of marque which I’d of course like to see personally.”

  “I’ll be there inside of a week! With two hundred pounds promised—”

  “Not promised,” Anne warned. “Available.”

  “Yes, yes, understood. But still, that’ll be a big help. Enough so that I can pretty near raise all the funds for at least one of the new ships right away.”

  Anne rose and extended her hand in a business-like fashion. “Then do call at your convenience, and let’s discuss the terms.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I surely—”

  Footsteps on the stairs leading up from the wharf distracted them. A tall, swarthy man in a blue wool captain’s jacket stalked into the office, carrying documents. The man was perhaps ten years older than Philip; in his thirties. He had dark, tight-curling hair, heavy brows and a small white scar at the outer corner of his right eye. The scar pulled the skin downward to lend the eye a peculiar slitted look.

  Despite that, the man exuded cockiness. His expression had a certain arrogance that repelled Philip completely.

  “Pardon me, Will. Didn’t realize you had visitors.” The man’s nasal voice identified him at once as a New Englander.

  “Potential investors, Malachi,” Caleb said. “Mr. and Mrs. Kent of Cambridge—my associate, Captain Rackham, in command of Nancy, the other privateer I’ve already got on the water. I’ll be skippering Eclipse till the new ones are built.”

  “Pleasure,” said Rackham, bowing but obviously unaccustomed to it. Philip noticed how the man’s eyes worked their way from Anne’s face to the outline of her breasts. Uncomfortable, Anne fiddled with the cloth cover on her market basket.

  Caleb didn’t appreciate Rackham’s somewhat brazen interest either. To divert him, he asked sharply:

  “You’ve something for me, Malachi?”

  Rackham showed the papers. “A good morning’s work. Two more prize masters for Nancy, plus the cooper and the sailmaker you’ve been hunting for Eclipse.” He tossed the articles of agreement on the desk, then helped himself to rum. “But it can wait while we entertain our guests.”

  “We’re leaving,” Philip announced, taking Anne’s arm and steering her toward the captain, whose rakish figure blocked the head of the stairs.

  Rackham stared at Philip—considerably shorter—for a moment or so. Then he smiled with insolent charm:

  “Shame. Thought we might all become better acquainted, seeing as how you’re planning to join our venture.” He took account of Philip’s tricorn hat with its black army cockade. “Serving with the troops, are you, Mr. Kent?”

  He met Rackham’s gaze without blinking. “That’s right.”

  “Stationed
where?”

  “Jersey. I’ll be going back soon.”

  He said it without thinking. An instant later he regretted the damnable frankness. Captain Rackham seemed to have become extremely interested in the contents of his mug of rum. But Philip saw the seaman’s eyes flicker toward Anne with renewed interest.

  Or was he only letting his imagination get the better of him?

  Captain Caleb remained perturbed by the minor confrontation: Philip and his wife at the stairs, Rackham casually pretending he didn’t realize he was blocking their way. Caleb reached out, gently but firmly pushed Rackham’s shoulder.

  The taller captain stiffened, his quick glare giving Philip a clue to his temper. Caleb, however, was clearly in charge. Rackham took the shove and stepped aside without protest.

  “Philip, I wish you safety in Morristown,” Caleb said.

  “Thank you, Captain, I’ll take that wish. Things may get pretty lively when the weather breaks. General Howe is slow-moving. But Lord Cornwallis is turning out to be fast and foxy—”

  Caleb saw them part way down the stairs:

  “Mrs. Kent, the pleasure’s entirely mine. Be assured I’ll call on you promptly with my proposal.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  From above, Captain Rackham called, “Well both come if you wish.”

  Philip said harshly, “That won’t be necessary.”

  Caleb glared at the other captain. Ignoring him, Rackham lifted his mug in a wry salute:

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  As they left the head of the noisy wharf, Philip said, “Anne, I disliked that Rackham fellow on sight. A low, scurvy sort.”

  “I agree. I didn’t care for the looks he gave me.”

  “Stay clear of him.”

  “I intend to. I’ll make sure I deal only with Captain Caleb. He’s obviously a man of good character. If we’re lucky, we stand to make a great deal of money.”

  “Yes, aside from associating with Rackham, I think the gamble could be worth it. And I’m not saying that just because I have no choice.”

  Despite his smile, he was troubled. In minutes, he had become less concerned about the financial risk than about Caleb’s partner—who would be within a few miles of his wife after he had gone back to Morristown.

  Anne sensed his worry. “Don’t fret,” she said, tucking her free arm around his. “I’ve handled worse than a ruffian sailor before. I can do it again if need be.”

  Still, the February sun seemed a mite more chilly, and the prospect of financial gain from privateer shares much less appealing.

  But he knew his wife. Anne was a determined woman. So he said nothing more about it.

  CHAPTER II

  Deed of Darkness

  SOMETIMES WHEN THE summers heat of Caroline County weighed too heavily in the cabin, Lottie liked to start their lovemaking outdoors. Tonight was one of those times. Judson heard her call from the darkness under Torn Shaw’s apple tree that had failed to come to bud in the spring:

  “Darlin’, hurry up!”

  Leaning in the cabin door, Judson tilted the jug of corn across the back of his thin forearm and drained the last of it. He dropped the jug beside the lolling yellow hound. The dog’s tongue dripped moisture drop by slow drop.

  A red-hued, steamy moon hung three quarters up from the horizon. Judson could hear Lottie preparing for him; soft sounds of her skirt and blouse being put aside counterpointed the harping of night insects. By now Judson had tired of Lottie. But he’d had no place else to live when he rode home from Philadelphia the preceding summer.

  He hadn’t even considered stopping at Sermon Hill. Simply out of the question. To postpone the return to Caroline County even further, he’d bypassed it and spent a week in the stews of Richmond. There, in a brothel, he’d encountered an acquaintance from his home county. Once the red-faced young squire had gotten over his embarrassment at being recognized, he and Judson fell to drinking, and thus Judson picked up word that Lottie’s marital status had changed while he was away. She couldn’t go home to her mother and father; they had married her off solely to get rid of her and create a little more room in a squalid shanty still crowded with six smaller children. So, Judson’s acquaintance related, Lottie had been forced to set herself up in business, accommodating any planter’s boy with a few shillings and a randy feeling in his breeches. Judson went to see her and they reached an accommodation; an accommodation helped along by Donald’s sense of responsibility.

  Early on, Donald visited the cabin—Judson having made no special effort to conceal his presence. Donald politely asked his younger brother to go somewhere else besides Caroline County. On that occasion, Judson—as usual—was half drunk. He bluntly refused Donald’s request, offering the very reasonable explanation that he had nowhere else to go.

  That stoked Donald’s anger:

  “I don’t care—and I don’t want any of your damned impertinence. You’ve disgraced yourself, Judson. In Philadelphia you completely betrayed the trust I placed in you—”

  “Oh, so you heard. I wondered.”

  “You’ve been back home three weeks. Express letters from Pennsylvania travel almost as quickly.”

  “Who wrote you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not going to lecture me about killing that damn Tory—I assume you know about that too?”

  “That information was also contained in the letter—” Judson’s older brother sighed. “But I won’t lecture. It seems you’ve gone far past the point where mere words will avail—”

  “For Christ’s sake stop talking like the old man.”

  In that wheezy, unhealthy voice, Donald said, “Nastiness seems to be your stock in trade, Judson. Let’s get back to the issue. If you insist on spending your days here—”

  “I told you I’ve no place else!”

  “—then be so good as to be reasonably discreet. Keep yourself and your whore out of sight as much as possible.”

  Judson shrugged. “That won’t be hard. I don’t have a penny left. Before I came back and made my arrangement with Lottie, I spent my last on a little—ah—holiday in Richmond.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll make a bargain with you. Don’t flaunt yourself all over the county and I’ll return from time to time—” He fished in his coat, pulled out a small purse that jingled in his hand.

  Judson grinned suddenly:

  “You came prepared for a little bribery!”

  “Because I suspected you wouldn’t go away,” Donald admitted.

  “Shrewd. You always were the clever one of us, Donald. The one Father half admired—”

  “Have the decency to let that subject drop. I am sick to death of what you’ve permitted yourself to become. I should turn my back on you—just as every respectable citizen in this county will do—”

  “When it’s a chance encounter in public,” Judson smirked, recalling the young squire in the Richmond brothel. The point escaped Donald. He went on:

  “I should abandon you, but I find I can’t. Not completely, anyway.”

  This time, Judson laughed aloud: “Then the bloodline is improving from father to son! The old man takes the opposite view. At least where I’m concerned.”

  “Spare me your hatred, for God’s sake!” Donald flung the purse on the ground. “I will see you again—here—if you’ve kept your distance. As I say, I can’t properly explain why I should take the trouble when apparently all you want is to go down to ruin—” The puffy face wrenched. “It’s my curse to be unable to forget we’re brothers. But believe me, Judson—any public scandal and I will forget. Forever.”

  Scooping up the purse, Judson bowed low. “You, Donald, have the misfortune to be an honorable man.”

  “No, damme—only a very weak and foolish one.”

  With that he summoned the black who’d been sent to wait out by the road. The black helped Donald mount and the two rode away—

  The conversation came to mind this
July evening in 1777 because Judson suddenly recalled that his most recent purse from Donald was almost empty. He took an unsteady step into the dooryard, wondering if his brother would pay another call soon—

  More immediate concerns re-focused his thoughts. Lottie’s voice whined in the shadows under the dead apple tree:

  “What the devil are you doin’, Jud? Stop thinkin’ about it and come do it, sweet—”

  How many Virginia gentlemen have their own private whores? he thought mockingly as he shambled toward her in the humid dark. Raised from the depths of her foul degradation courtesy of my soft-hearted brother, she accommodates my every wish here on my splendid private estate—

  He glanced past the corner of the cabin, saw the white puff of a rabbit’s tail. The rabbit was hunting edible leaves in the pathetic garden patch Judson had tried to plant in the spring weather. Hardly any of the seeds had sprouted.

  Dying. Everything dying—

  In a year Judson had lost about twenty pounds. Gone from fashionable slimness to near-emaciation. His unkempt beard had sprouted fairer than his hair. His mouth, moonlit as he crossed the yard, looked softer than ever. Sweat ran down his bare chest toward the first swelling of an old man’s belly. He wore only ragged trousers—

  Well, what difference did it make? He had nothing to dress for; no purpose beyond sheer, perverse continuation of his existence. His days and nights passed in a haze that was like the haze of the summer moon. Indistinct, vaguely unreal—

  For a year he’d roamed the back roads with the yellow hound; fished in creeks; worked as little as possible, and slept a lot. When he tired of that, he played one-hand card games with a worn deck he’d bought from a peddler’s wagon. When his need or Lottie’s grew too fierce, fornication brought a moment’s release. But not much more.

  And of course Donald’s money bought distilled popskull from the dirt farmers in the county—

  “Wish you’d saved a drop of that corn for me,” Lottie complained as he reached the tree. “I’m so damn dry—”

  Judson dropped his breeches and squatted beside her, his hand reaching out to begin the wearying routine.