The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (36 page)

Shaking, teeth chattering, he was wandering somewhere in the city’s North End again, just at sunset, when two figures whirled around a corner and crashed into him.

Philip stumbled, fell to hands and knees on the cobbles. His sword and the casket slipped out of his fingers.

He was vaguely aware that the splat of his palms in the mud oozing between the stones of the street had sent droplets of the sticky brown stuff flying—

Straight onto the spotless white breeches of a soldier who now loomed over him.

The man was silhouetted against the ruddy evening sky and the leaded windows of an inn a few steps away. “Damme, Lieutenant Thackery,” he said, “the clumsy young bastard dirtied my trousers!”

“Then we shall make him pay for a laundress, Captain.” The second man grabbed Philip’s collar, dragged him up. “Come round to the headquarters of the Fourteenth West Yorkshires in the morning, boy. Bring sufficient money to—here, hold on!”

He reached forward to grab Philip again. The latter had pulled away to retrieve his two possessions. The lieutenant’s fierce grip brought Philip out of his feverish daze—and face to face with eyes that were distinctly unpleasant:

“Pay attention when a King’s officer gives you instructions. Unless you prefer to have the order delivered in a more memorable way.” The lieutenant’s other hand dropped suggestively to the hilt of his dress sword.

Philip glared at the slender officer, then at the beefy captain whose white breeches did indeed display quite a few large mud spots. Something weary and uncaring made Philip utter a low growl and knock the restricting hand away.

“Damme, a scrapper!” cried the heavy captain, careful to back off and let his subordinate handle the altercation. Handle it he did, his mouth tightening, ugly.

Philip heard footfalls coming along the cobbles behind him. But he didn’t dare look around. The lieutenant’s sword slid from its scabbard and winked in the glow from the nearby tavern.

“He’s probably sporting a liberty medal under those stinking clothes,” the lieutenant said, flicking Philip’s sleeve with the point of his blade. “He’s certainly insolent enough to be one of ’em. Do I have leave to thin their ranks slightly, sir?”

The senior officer grumbled assent. But the lieutenant didn’t even wait for it, whipping his sword up. The blade caught the late-slanting sunlight, started down on a path that would lay open Philip’s face—

Feet planted wide, head ringing, Philip still had presence enough to block the glittering steel by spearing the lieutenant’s right wrist with his left hand. Grunting, he held the sword arm off for an instant while his other hand plucked the oyster shell from his belt. He raked the shell’s edge down the lieutenant’s left cheek.

Howling, Lieutenant Thackery danced back on the slippery cobbles. Blood dripped on his buff lapels. The captain cursed and began to unlimber his own sword as the owner of the footsteps Philip had heard earlier ran up behind him.

The man seized his arm. “Need assistance, youngster?”

Philip stared into the lean, middle-aged face of a black-haired man with flushed cheeks. Philip could do no more than swallow and nod. Lieutenant Thackery was advancing toward them now, sword up, blood pouring down the left side of his jaw.

“Stand out of the way, sir, because I’m going to gut him through. You see what he did to my face—”

“Improved it considerably,” remarked the black-haired man. His lilting speech sounded like that of the Irishman, Burke. “What started this, lad?”

“I happened to splash mud on the other one’s trousers,” Philip gasped out. “An accident—”

“God damn it, sir—move aside!” the lieutenant roared.

The gaunt, black-haired man shook his head. Positioning himself at Philip’s elbow, he said, “Sirs, let me remind you of where you are. The Salutation—” he indicated the inn just up the street “—is crowded with my friends. If you truly wish to engage, I can guarantee that a substantial part of the North End will be after your heads before three blows are struck. You’ve heard the whistles and horns blowing before, haven’t you?”

“The whistles and horns of your damned Boston mobs?” the captain fumed. “Indeed we have.”

Unruffled, the other said, “Well, I’ve some ability at summoning them out. I am Will Molineaux, the hardware proprietor.” His announcement, as well as his fiery black gaze, was clearly inviting a fight.

The captain swabbed his perspiring face.
“Molineaux?”

“Yes, sir, the same.”

“Leave off, Thackery,” the captain ordered the lieutenant. “He’s the leader of the whole damned liberty mob in this part of town.”

The lieutenant flared, “Sir, I refuse to cower in front of—”

“Leave off, I say! Or you’ll have a cut across your throat to match the one on your face.”

Swearing bitterly, Lieutenant Thackery rammed his sword back in place. The unnerved captain gestured him to follow up the street.

But Thackery, his uniform cuff pressed to his cheek and already bloody, had to deliver a parting thrust.

“One of these days we’ll have laws permitting us to hang you rebel scum!” he shouted.

“No, sirs,” Will Molineaux shouted back. “Because we shall see you swinging from Liberty Tree first.”

He laughed uproariously as the taunt inspired the fat captain to disappear around a corner, practically running. The bleeding lieutenant vanished into the gloom after him.

The older man turned to Philip. “That captain’s a rarity. The King’s own quartered in this town are not cowards. Tyrants, yes. Swaggering bullies, frequently. But not cowards. You did a bold thing, my lad. Some would have truckled.”

“I—” Philip had difficulty speaking. His whole body felt afire. The Irishman’s features grew distorted, elongated. “—I may have acted out of ignorance, sir. I’ve only come to Boston city a few days ago.”

“And look half-dead from the experience. Where d’ye live, may I ask?”

“Nowhere. I’ve been seeking lodging—employment. I can find none at all.”

“What’s your name?”

“Philip Kent.”

Molineaux’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a runaway bondsman?”

“No, I am not.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Just with my word.”

Mr. Molineaux studied him a moment longer, then pressed the back of one hand to Philip’s forehead. “You’re sicker than hell, that’s clear. I’m bound up the street to the Salutation. Some gentlemen who convene there are not friends of His Majesty—or His Majesty’s military forces. Landlord Campbell holds those sentiments too. So come along and we’ll see if he’ll give you a bit of sweeper’s work. He’ll be pleased to do it, is my guess. He’ll fancy a fellow who tweaks Tommy’s beak the way you did.”

Molineaux helped Philip retrieve his belongings and accompanied him to the Salutation’s doorway, over which hung a creaking sign painted with the figures of two splendidly dressed gentlemen bowing to one another.

Virtually all those gathered in the cheerful taproom wore old, tar-stained clothing or nautical coats and caps. “A rowdy lot of sailors, hull builders, caulkers and mast-makers,” Molineaux commented as he led the unsteady Philip through the smoke to the bar, where a stocky man presided over the kegs. “But a good, freedom-loving lot. Hallo, Campbell.”

“ ’Evening, Mr. Molineaux.”

“Campbell, here’s a chap on whom I hope you’ll lavish your hospitality. Young Mr. Philip Kent.”

Molineaux described the street incident in a rather loud voice. Those at nearby tables listened. At the end, Philip drew a round of applause. Campbell grinned, promised Philip a meal, lodging in the tavern’s outbuilding, and a few days of manual work to earn his keep while he looked for other employment.

The tobacco haze and tar and alcohol fumes were making Philip more and more dizzy. But he thanked Campbell, then turned to thank Will Molineaux. He discovered the latter already moving toward a shadowy doorway at the very rear of the taproom.

Molineaux had been joined by a shabbily dressed man of middle years. The man’s hands and head trembled with palsy. Where the man had come from, Philip hadn’t noticed.

Philip started after them. Campbell caught his arm. “Where you going?”

“Into that back room, to speak my appreciation to the gentleman who—”

Campbell shook his head, no longer smiling. “That’s a private chamber, Mr. Kent. Provided so Will and Mr. Adams—” He indicated the palsied fellow disappearing beyond the closing door “—and a few other close friends can confer without disturbance. No one in my employ enters that room unless I send them. Keep that in mind while you’re ’round the Salutation. Now do you want to eat or do you want to sleep?”

“As a matter of fact—both.”

“Come along then. I’ll wake you at sunup and start you working. Even a Son of Liberty must earn his way. I’d say you’ve joined the organization whether you realized it or no.”

With a comradely arm across Philip’s shoulder, he conducted him to the kitchen and, soon after, to the welcome sanctuary of a smelly, rickety outbuilding. There, Philip dropped into exhausted sleep on straw, while a milk cow lowed nearby.

What began as a short stay at the tavern on the corner of Salutation Alley and Ship Street lengthened into a week. Then into another. As Philip’s natural strength gradually overcame the feverish illness, he sought every possible means to make himself indispensable to the landlord.

He hammered up plank siding to repair the outbuilding where tipsy guests sometimes slept off their revels before tottering home to their wives. He clambered over the roof to nail new shingles onto the Salutation itself, Campbell having idly remarked that during heavy storms, water dripped from the beams near the taproom hearth.

Campbell obviously liked the young man’s eager industry. But what held Philip at the Salutation with Campbell’s unspoken consent was not merely finding a temporary haven, important as that was. What held him was a realization that had come to him when he woke the first morning after his arrival.

The seedy, palsied fellow glimpsed in company with Will Molineaux bore the name
Adams.

He’d inquired about the man when Campbell had a moment’s leisure. He was told the gentleman’s first name was Samuel. So it
was
the same radical politician whom Mr. Fox had described at Tonbridge and Lord North had scorned at Kentland!

At first, Philip could hardly believe that such a frail, badly dressed person could be a serious threat to George III—let alone the fomenter of rebellion.

On the other hand, he supposed it took neither good looks nor rich apparel to produce a temperament opposed to royal tyranny. Perhaps the requirements were just the opposite: ugliness and poverty. In any case, the frequent visits of Mr. Samuel Adams and like-minded men to the private room at the Salutation fired Philip with curiosity and a determination to get into that room at the first possible chance. So he searched for ways to keep himself busy, reported failure to Campbell after his occasional expeditions to look for work elsewhere—no lies required there—and awaited his opportunity.

It came one afternoon during Philip’s third week on the premises. Embarrassed, Campbell confronted his helper with the news that he could think of no other work that needed doing. The opening gambit to politely asking him to move on?

Instead, Philip immediately suggested, “You could let me serve the gentlemen who meet in back, sir.”

“What?”

“I can be trusted to say nothing about what I hear. And I want very much to meet Mr. Adams.”

“For what reason?”

Aware of how incredible it would sound, Philip still brazened ahead: “The Prime Minister of England once told me I behaved like one of his pupils.”

Polishing a tankard, Campbell gaped. “The Prime—?” He guffawed. “Oh, you had an audience with him, did you?”

“No, sir, a chance encounter. At my father’s home in England.”

Campbell squinted at him in the buttery yellow sunshine falling through the leaded windows. “You speak good English, Philip. I think I recognize some French overtones too. But I still find it hard to believe that a lad who arrived penniless in Boston could have encountered that sow-faced North.”

“But I did, Mr. Campbell.”

“Where do you really come from, Philip? More important—from what are you fleeing? Or should I say
who?”

“From my father’s family,” he answered at once, deciding that candor was the only workable course now—and that the chances of being harmed by it were slim. “My father’s a nobleman. I’m his son by a woman he never married. He promised me part of his fortune, but when I journeyed to England from my home in France to claim what was mine, my father’s family tried to have me killed. I came to America to escape them.”

“Why America? Why not back to France?”

“I worked in a London printing house for a time. I got to like the trade, and thought I might have a better chance to pursue it here. And I met a Dr. Franklin—”

“The trade representative for Massachusetts.”

Philip nodded. “He convinced me to come to the colonies. He said that in America, people were resisting those who wanted to enslave and oppress others.”

Campbell now looked thoroughly astonished. “ ’Fore God! The Prime Minister and Ben Franklin too!”

“The doctor was extremely kind to me. I spent a whole evening in his rooms, talking with him about America.”

Campbell studied his hands. “You visited his quarters on Marrow Street in London, then.”

“No. Craven Street.”

Campbell relaxed, nodded. “Of course—Craven Street. I was mixed up.” But the words were a shade too casual; Philip knew he had been tested.

He went on, “The doctor really had many good things to say about the freedom here, Mr. Campbell.”

“Preserving that freedom requires struggle, Philip. Just as important, it requires secrecy. What is said in that back room would not find favor with Governor Hutchinson. Or the Tory citizens of this town, for that matter. But damned if it doesn’t sound like you have good credentials. I joked about it the night you arrived, remember?”

“I surely do.”

“But now I really do think you have the makings of a fellow who might wear one of these—”