The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  He concentrated on the distant red-haired figure that now seemed to be floating in a gathering mist. With a shiver, he realized the mist was not external; it was within himself. He clutched the testament tightly, whispered the word, “Father—” while the cheering thundered.

  The first of George Clark’s flatboats swung into the bend at the forks and, with sweeps churning back and forth, caught the current that would bear the little army down the Ohio, into the west.

  But Judson never saw. Slowly, he closed his eyes. His head lolled to one side, a faint smile fading away.

  One of the men holding the litter said, “I think we can put it down now.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Price of Heaven

  ON A SPRING AFTERNOON some eleven months later, two men climbed Breed’s Hill overlooking the Charles and the Mystic and Boston harbor.

  The older of the two, Philip Kent, walked with a slight limp that contrasted with the frolicsome skips and jumps of the small boy clutching his hand. The boy was dark-haired, handsome. His brown eyes sparkled as he surveyed the orchards and stone fences and wind-blown pastures of the peninsula.

  The boy tugged his father’s hand. “Papa, couldn’t we have a race?”

  “You know I can’t run a footrace,” Philip said in a sharp voice.

  “But we run together sometimes.”

  “Only because you insist, Abraham. And only at home.”

  The boy frowned. “All right, But can’t we go over to that other hill? I want to see the ships better—”

  “You’ll stay here. We won’t be all that long.”

  “Papa, please—”

  “I said no!”

  The Marquis de Lafayette adjusted his tricorn against the slant of the sun. On one of the hat’s upturned sides, Gil sported the white-centered cockade that symbolized the French alliance.

  “My good friend,” he said, “would it hurt to let your son roam? I shall be a little while examining the redoubt.”

  Philip shrugged wearily. “All right. You can run by yourself, Abraham. But no farther than the top of Morton’s—” He pointed. “And stay in sight!”

  Abraham gave a quick nod, a half-fearful look in his dark eyes as he watched his father’s severe face a moment longer. Then he turned away.

  Freedom quickly restored his spirits. He was soon racing through the grass on his way to the summit of Morton’s Hill.

  “A splendid lad,” Gil remarked as he watched the diminishing figure. “Four years old, isn’t he?”

  “Not quite. In September. But he’s bright for his age. Mrs. Brumple has already taught him to read a little.”

  The young Frenchman turned to gaze at the rooftops of Boston across the Charles. “Tell me. Are you and he—shall we say—on good terms?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that. I’m his father.”

  “Do you spend time together?”

  “I see Abraham whenever I can. And twice a week—Wednesdays and Sundays—very early in the morning, we both go out to Watertown.”

  Gil asked lightly, “What’s the attraction there, pray?”

  “My wife’s memorial.”

  “Ah, certainly. My deepest apologies—I forgot—”

  Recovering from his embarrassment, Gil pondered Philip’s blunt statements silently. Philip was thankful, because he’d heard quite enough on the subject of Abraham from Mrs. Brumple. Only the other morning, she had launched into one of those well-intentioned but infuriating lectures that would have caused Philip to order her out of the house if he hadn’t needed her to care for his son. Even now, he could recall the conversation—

  “Mr. Kent, sir, you’ll forgive me if I interject a comment—”

  “Of course!” Philip retorted, displaying the bad temper that had afflicted him of late. “I forgive you for it constantly, don’t I?”

  A forced, belated smile didn’t mitigate Mrs. Brumple’s irritation. “I certainly never intend to be critical, Mr. Kent—”

  “Yes you do, my good woman, so go right ahead.”

  “Really, sir, this is intolerable—!”

  Philip sighed. “I apologize. Please do continue.”

  “Well—all right. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about these continual trips to the place where your dear wife’s memorial is.”

  “You sound as if you don’t approve. I see nothing wrong in paying respects to Anne.”

  “But must Abraham go with you each time? Twice weekly?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Well, sir, this is a personal opinion—and you may find it odd coming from one who constantly deplored her husband’s lack of piety. But I feel that your insistence upon Abraham visiting Mrs. Kent’s memorial so often is harmful to him.”

  “Harmful?” Philip arched his brows. “In God’s name, woman, how?”

  “Sir, please accept this in the spirit in which it is offered. The Lord’s name should never be taken—”

  “Yes, yes, I realize! I’m sorry. Now please get to the point.”

  Mrs. Brumple clamped her lips together and nodded. Unhappily, Philip realized he’d roused her combative spirit:

  “The point is this. A small boy should associate his father with cheerful events and surroundings, not exclusively with graveyards—no matter how revered the departed.”

  Philip replied quietly, earnestly, speaking the deep hurt that was always with him—and was especially painful during long, wakeful nights in his solitary bed:

  “Mrs. Brumple, I loved Anne above all other people in this world. I repeat—her memory deserves to be honored.”

  “I wouldn’t have it otherwise, sir! You miss my meaning entirely. Your visits have become a fixation! The boy barely remembers the dear lady, and he only thinks of you in connection with situations of sadness—bereavement. I cannot help but believe it will warp his nature if it continues indefinitely.”

  Curtly, Philip said, “Thank you for the advice. I will give it serious consideration.”

  Ye gods, how the old goose annoyed him sometimes! He certainly didn’t intend to give her words even a moment’s serious consideration—

  But now, standing with Gil and watching Abraham’s whirls and turns in the long grass, the discussion slipped back into his mind, and he felt a twinge of guilt.

  He’d seen the fear in his son’s eyes when he spoke harshly to him a few moments ago. Perhaps he was giving excessive attention to mourning—and, more important, forcing the boy into the same pattern.

  But dear Lord, he did miss Anne! Was it so wrong to pay homage to that undying affection?

  Gil continued to study him with thoughtful hazel eyes. Somehow the glance prodded Philip to expand his defense of himself and his relationship with his son:

  “I don’t deliberately leave Abraham to his own devices, you understand. But I’ve all I can handle running the presses and watching those damned apprentices. Also, as you’re well aware, I’ve sunk a great deal of money into the preparation of my first book.”

  Gil nodded, tugging the slim volume from the roomy pocket of his coat. The book was bound in lustrous brown leather over boards. Philip had invested in the paper and other materials necessary to produce the sort of book Royal Rothman had suggested—a deluxe edition of Tom Paine’s American Crisis essays.

  More essays were still coming from Paine’s quill, of course. But Philip had collected all those previously issued as individual paper-bound pamphlets, re-set them in a highly legible typeface, run off the sheets and sent them to a bindery. He was gambling on being able to eventually sell two thousand copies to private collectors and circulating libraries.

  He had received the books from the bindery three weeks ago, and thus far had disposed of perhaps two hundred copies, on consignment to Boston book shops. Less than fifty had been sold. He had expected to do much better.

  “If business doesn’t improve,” Philip said at length, “I may go out of the trade altogether.”

  “What?” Gil exclaimed. “You’ve only ju
st started!”

  Philip stared over the sunny hillsides shadowed by a passing cloud.

  “Yes, but Anne’s death changed a great many things, Gil.” He swung to face his friend. “I didn’t tell you everything when I showed you the shop this morning. Selwyn Rothman, whom you met, is pressing me for a long-term commitment. A lease on the space I rent by the month. I’ve put him off because I frankly don’t know whether I want to continue. A few months after I opened the shop, I ordered a signboard to be hung outside the entrance to Rothman’s loft. Although the sign’s completed, I’ve never called for it. The sign painter’s apprentice devils me about it practically every other day—”

  Gil looked genuinely concerned as he returned the book to his pocket. “If you abandon your enterprise, what will you do?”

  Philip shrugged. “I might have a stab at a different trade. In another city.”

  “Printing is all you know!”

  “That’s true. But without Anne, I’ve damned little heart for it.”

  “My friend, it saddens me to see you grieving so deeply,” Gil said. “It makes you sound like an old man at twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-six. That’s about half an average lifetime, don’t forget.”

  “Still, you talk like a veritable ancient. I’ve been only a week in Boston, but I’ve noticed it almost constantly. A change since we last saw each other—a distinct and unhappy change.”

  “I’ll remind you that any new business is taxing. Especially when you wonder if you should continue with it. I wasn’t aware of sounding ancient, however.”

  Sensitive to Philip’s sarcasm, Gil veered the subject slightly:

  “I was quite impressed by your shop, I might say.”

  “Over and above the gamble on the book, I have to fight like the devil to get orders. Old Rothman’s a fine gentleman, though. He’s used all of his contacts to help me. But other people would pay him much more than I do for the loft space. So he’s pressing me about a lease. Gently, but pressing nevertheless.”

  “The chandler is the father of the young man from your mess, am I not correct?”

  “Yes. Royal’s still with the army—”

  Philip sat down on a stone fence, folding his hands around his knee. It seemed to him that he heard drumming in the sunshine; distant drumming. Voices crying “Push on—!”

  He shivered. But the illusions refused to depart. He heard Anne’s laughter—

  He searched for the spot where he’d rowed to their very first picnic. Centuries ago, it seemed. Melancholy, his eyes lingered on the strip of beach.

  “Philip, you mustn’t think of giving up so quickly,” Gil said suddenly. “I venture Kent’s will prosper if you only give it time.”

  “I’m fearful no one can really prosper till we have peace again. And the war goes on.”

  “Ah, but in our favor! Such a change since a year ago! The splendid Colonel Clark’s victories—both British posts in the northwest taken, and that perfidious Hamilton forced to surrender at Vincennes! Captain Paul Jones sailing his Ranger into Whitehaven in England and spiking the very guns of their fort! Now the rumors of conciliation attempts being undertaken by Lord North—let us hope the Paris commissioners stand fast. Nothing short of independence. Full independence!”

  Philip rubbed his right leg absently. “They’d better not settle for anything less. Thank God for the French, anyway. Without your country, we wouldn’t have a fraction of the negotiating power that we do now.”

  It was true; especially since the preceding December, when King Louis XVI’s council had elected to recognize the United States as a fully independent nation.

  “So it is a bright picture!” Gil said with false cheer. “And I hope to brighten it more by taking this leave and returning to Paris. I am going personally to the king, to request a larger fleet, additional troops—believe me, Philip, it is only a matter of time before the war is decided in America’s favor. Of course, until it happens, there will continue to be pulling and hauling on both sides—”

  “They have captured Savannah. And they seem to be mounting a campaign down south.”

  “Yes, but Clinton’s strategy is most interesting. More important, I believe it is significant.”

  “I honestly haven’t paid that much attention—”

  “Since Monmouth Court House, the British have not committed an entire army to the field anywhere. I think they scent stalemate or defeat in the wind—just as I scent victory. If not this year, then within twenty-four months. Thirty-six at most. I’d wager on it.”

  “I hope you’re right”

  “France’s entrance into the war has turned this to a global struggle. The sort of struggle England can least afford. We are harassing her from the Indies to the Indian Ocean. She can no longer give full attention to you rebellious Americans—”

  Gil’s jab at his friend’s shoulder, lightly delivered, produced no response. Nor did another forced smile. Philip continued to stare moodily at the sunlit hills, the ships at anchor, the raw buildings of the new Charlestown rising where the old one had burned.

  Gil perched on the stone fence alongside Philip, frowning now:

  “I begged General Washington’s permission to sail from Boston in part because I wanted to see you, my friend. I’m afraid I almost regret doing so.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t pretend I’ve been in the best spirits since I came home last summer.”

  “One cannot mourn forever, Philip.”

  Philip didn’t answer.

  Gil sighed, tried to start the one-sided conversation on yet another tack:

  “I would like to see the remains of the redoubt where you fought.”

  Philip raised a listless hand. “There.”

  “You won’t come with me?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Damme, you are a gloomy one!” Gil indicated the small figure scuttling across the sunny landscape. “If you have no thought for yourself, have a thought for that child. You’ll pardon me for saying so—” Philip glanced around sharply, hearing the echo of Mrs. Brumple. “—but sometimes you treat him as if he were some Hessian’s brat instead of your own son.”

  “I told you, Gil, I have a lot to do these days. For one thing, I’m rushing to finish a circular to promote the Paine book in other cities.”

  “Yet at the same time, you are uncertain whether it’s worth the effort!”

  Philip said nothing.

  “No wonder the boy suffers,” Gil murmured.

  Philip jerked his head up, defensive again:

  “Mrs. Brumple is a very adequate housekeeper. She feeds Abraham—sees to his clothing, his naps—he doesn’t want for anything. Our—” The unconsidered word seemed to bring a shadow across Philip’s eyes. “—our investment in the privateers paid off handsomely. Of course much of it’s tied up in equipment and loft rental and the new book. But I’ll always make sure there’s enough left for Abraham’s needs.”

  “His material needs. A woman you have hired as your housekeeper is no substitute for a father’s attentions and affections.”

  Philip rose quickly.

  “Did you come here to see the redoubt or to lecture me, Gil?”

  Gil flushed. “The former. Again I beg you to excuse my impertinence.”

  Philip sighed. “If you’ll excuse my temper. It must be obvious that I’m having trouble with it lately.”

  Gil asked softly, “With the boy?”

  “With everyone.”

  The admission was a hard one, but truthful. The months since he’d come home from the camp at Haverstraw Bay had been confused, hectic—and miserable. Everything he had confessed to the young marquis he felt twice as deeply inside:

  Once, he had looked forward to every step involved in establishing his business. The purchasing of two second-hand presses—the hiring of two devils—the long hours spent meeting delivery deadlines on his first hard-won orders for handbills and broadsides all seemed devoid of the joy he’d anticipated from the
days when he first caught the excitement of the printing trade at the Sholto shop in London.

  Reality, somehow, hadn’t matched his expectations. Without Anne to share it, his life was nothing more than a succession of tiresome days and fretful nights. It was an emotional strain to make his frequent visits to the cemetery in Watertown, though he felt he had no choice.

  He’d erected a headstone in Watertown, alongside the one marking the resting place of Anne’s father. He’d erected it even though no mortal remains would ever fill the grave—

  Gil had been eyeing his friend speculatively for several moments. Now, finally, he jumped to his feet.

  “Philip, I regret to say I must renege on one arrangement we made.”

  Philip’s dark eyes narrowed. “What arrangement?”

  “My promise to take your letter to your father the duke, and see to its smuggling across the Channel to England.”

  That, at last, got a strong reaction:

  “You promised to do it! I haven’t written him in a couple of years—”

  “Yes, I realize that. However—” Gil pursed his lips, shrugged. “—you are not precisely being a cordial companion. I frankly resent being treated in such boorish fashion.”

  For a moment Philip believed his friend was wholly serious. Then he saw the faintly mocking gleam in Gil’s hazel eyes. He didn’t immediately comprehend the reason for it, though.

  “Here I am,” Gil continued, “faced with my final night in America—my ship due to sail shortly after sunrise—and I will go to this very fine late supper which has been arranged in my honor, but the whole evening will be spoiled by memories of my friend’s glum spirits.”

  “If this is some elaborate joke, Gil, I fail to understand it. I’m not trying to ruin your damn supper party!”

  “Never mind—just take my word, you have. I cannot do a service for someone who treats me so shabbily. However—” He arched his brows, studying the slow-sailing clouds. “—if, for example, you were to show your sincere interest in my well-being—”

  “How?”