The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (56 page)

But if not, why would he go to the trouble of finding out? Unless—

Nerves taut, he crept up the front steps, crouched and peered through a slit where drapery and window frame didn’t quite meet. Terror soured his throat as he caught a flash of scarlet inside—

An officer’s tunic!

Waiting only long enough to confirm that with a second look, Philip whirled and darted back down the steps. The horse neighed, clopped its hoofs. Philip edged away, stole through the passage beside the house and across the tiny yard under the pale stars.

As he approached the closed barn door, his mind seethed with fury. What had happened had become all too evident.

First, he’d blundered, let himself be followed.

And Jemmy had been lying when he claimed he wanted no part of the desertion. The boy’s gutter mind had simply recognized a chance for bigger profit. How much had he gotten from the officers of the Thirty-third for informing on the would-be deserter?

Starting to roll back the barn door, Philip again cursed his own foolish mistake.
Who was in the house? What was happening?

With the door no more than half open, he heard quick movement. Something flashed toward his face. He ducked instinctively, drove his left hand up, battered Lumden’s musket aside. A second slower, and the bayonet would have pierced his throat—

“Lumden—hold still!” The terrified sergeant kept trying to wrench his musket loose.
“God damn it, stop! It’s me!”

At last Lumden recognized Philip. He lowered the musket with a trembling hand, whispered:

“Kent—what in the name of Christ went wrong?”

“The boy sold us out. My fault.”

“I thought I’d gone stark raving crazy when Daisy spied one of the regimental officers riding up to the front door—”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know, I ran out here to hide. Mistress Anne said she could get rid of him.”

Philip prayed Anne’s confidence would prove warranted. She, Daisy and Ware had carefully discussed and rehearsed the story they would tell if anyone from Lumden’s regiment came searching for him. The story was to be simple and, therefore, easily kept consistent. They would merely state that Lumden had vanished without any explanation.

But though the household had planned on the certainty of an investigation, they had
not
planned on it taking place until Lumden was well out of Boston. To have an officer pounce while the sergeant was still hidden on the premises was a development even the courageous and quick-witted Anne might not be able to handle.

Philip wished her father were home to help. But he knew that Ware, anticipating no difficulty with the departure, had left Launder Street at five, to confer, then dine, at Hancock’s.

Chafing his hands against the cold, Philip kept glancing toward the rear of the house. He saw lights but no sign of movement in the kitchen.

He had to trust Anne. Depend on Anne. Her good sense, her bravery—

“Why is the officer here now, Kent? You haven’t explained!”

“He’s here because that little sod from the Dragon must have gone to your regimental headquarters. The boy pretended the plan was too risky. Said he followed me here, saw you inside, guessed it was a desertion—wanted no part of it at any price. Obviously that’s not true. He saw a chance to get a higher price from someone else, just for reporting—look, we’re wasting time. Gather up your gear. We’ll slip out the back way. Go to the shop. Anne will be able to turn the officer away. But he’ll probably want to verify any claim that you’re not here—”

“But she may be telling him I
am
here!”

“I doubt it. She knows you’d be questioned. Hard. So you’d better not be around. Come on, I’ll help you—”

He bent in the darkness, fumbled Lumden’s pack straps into his hands—

And went rigid at the sound of a woman crying out in terror—or pain.

The scream came from the house.

Philip bowled past Lumden, snatched up the sergeant’s musket. He loosened the bayonet from the muzzle in seconds. With the length of steel glittering in his hand, he dashed across the yard and up the kitchen steps as the cry rang out again.

This time he had no doubt that it was Anne’s voice.

P
HILIP WASTED NO TIME
on silence. He kicked the porch door open, sped through the kitchen with barely a glimpse of Daisy O’Brian, round-eyed and uttering small, wordless sounds of terror.

She had good reason to be frightened out of her wits. As he reached the closed parlor doors, he caught the sounds of struggle on the other side.

His breath was a ghostly cloud in the chill darkness. The front hall was illuminated only by the faint light of the January stars through the fanlight. He pressed close to the carved wood of the doors, heard a pained exclamation from Anne—then a voice that dredged up memories of depthless fear and hatred:

“—will not lie to me further, madam! Has he fled or are you concealing him? Come, which is it?”

The familiar voice sounded heavy with sudden exertion. Anne let out another little cry.

“Other commanders may delegate unpleasant business like this, madam. But I punish personally. I punish both those under my direct command and any who abet their treachery—”

Philip pried the doors apart with his free hand and stepped into the parlor’s dim lamplight.

He knew the voice—and the man—beyond all doubting. He saw other details only marginally—

Anne’s gown disheveled; ripped down the right sleeve, where the officer held her with his left hand—

The man’s scarlet tunic, seen from the back. But even from that viewpoint, Philip recognized the additional height, the wider shoulders—

The officer wore his sword in an unusual position. On his right hip.

Because he would have to wield the weapon with a hand that was not crippled—?

Anne glimpsed Philip across the officer’s shoulder. She couldn’t conceal her reaction. The officer heard Philip’s quiet voice even as he started to turn.

“Yes, that would be like you, now that you no longer have to act secretly. Now that your uniform gives you the authority to strike in the open.”

Like an image from a half-remembered nightmare, Philip saw the face at last. The features so like his own. The small, cloven U mark near the left brow. For a moment Roger Amberly’s expression remained blank. Philip waited at the doorway, bayonet held near his waist.

The stunning recognition hit.

“My God in heaven.
Charboneau?”

He saw the ruin of his half-brother’s hand. The fingers were permanently tightened into a claw, much as Lumden had shown him. The hand had a shrunken, bloodless appearance, as if it had not only locked in its crippled position, but withered from lack of use. It looked tiny, dangling at the end of an otherwise normal arm.

The disfiguring mark turned darker, almost black. Roger Amberly’s face became a show of confusion—disbelief and rage mingled as he struggled to comprehend the reality of the man confronting him. The young officer’s splendid red coat with its cuffs and lapels of willow green stained the scene with vivid color.

Never taking his eyes from his half-brother, Roger relaxed his grip on Anne’s arm. She retreated a step, watching tensely as Philip sought to control the rage in his own mind and heart.

“Charboneau?” Philip repeated. “You’re wrong, Colonel. Charboneau died in London. Or was it on the Bristol road? If not one, then the other—as you intended, correct? Charboneau’s mother is also dead—because of your harassment. It’s a man named Philip Kent you must deal with now.” He gestured savagely with the bayonet. “Get outside, so I don’t spill your God damn blood in this house!”

To Roger’s credit, he stood still, composed. “Philip—what?—Kent?” he said. His mouth took on its familiar, mean twist. “Well, a new name hardly conceals the insufferable bastard boy I met formerly. And I find you in a traitor’s house to boot. Oh, yes—” The slight turn of his head was for Anne’s benefit “—The dwelling of Mr. Abraham Ware is well known to the general’s staff as a place where these so-called patriots hatch treason.”

Very slowly, he reached across with his left hand, gripped his sword hilt, suddenly freed the blade with amazing speed. His eyes loomed huge and dark in the shifting flicker of the two lamps. His loathing poured like a torrent through one more sentence he spoke:

“It shall give me considerable pleasure to write my good wife, Alicia—with whom I believe you were briefly acquainted—that circumstances presented me with the opportunity to finally bring about your long-overdue death.” Without warning, he ran at Philip, left arm extended, sword reaching out—

Philip had no time to think, only to react in order to save himself. He twisted aside. Roger’s sword gouged into one of the doors. For a moment Philip smelled his blood kin: the scented powder in his hair, the damp odor of his woolen coat, the sudden sweaty odor that danger produces in all men. The half brothers stood no more than a foot apart for one frozen instant. Roger’s midsection was fully exposed by the force and extension of his lunge. Philip brought his right hand up and stabbed the bayonet into Roger’s belly and pulled it out.

Roger’s mouth dropped open. His shoulders sagged. He did a peculiar step to the side, his boot heels clicking. Then he stared down at the pierced wool to the left of his brightly polished buttons.

A darker red appeared in the cut in the fabric—and spread, staining. Struggling for breath, Roger let out a labored exclamation.

Now that his initial thoughtless fury had been drained away in the single driving blow of the reddened bayonet, Philip turned cold. Roger was dying on his feet—

It took him a moment to fall. Blurring, his dark eyes seemed to search for Philip, his bravado replaced by a horror-struck look of hurt, by the realization that he might be mortally injured.

Philip felt weak, almost sick. His enemy no longer looked formidable, only helpless. Roger’s sword struck the pegged floor to one side of the carpet. With a last, bubbling grunt of pain, he dropped.

Thrusting the bloody bayonet under his left arm, Philip cried, “Help me, Anne!”

She stumbled forward, grabbed Roger’s right shoulder. The two turned Roger so that he lay on his back. Mouth open, eyes shut, he gasped like a beached fish. All at once Philip realized the full significance of what had happened—and what had to be done.

“We must get him out. He mustn’t bloody the place, because someone will surely come to ask about him. I’ll take him through the back. Dispose of the body. You—” He spoke with difficulty; he was still trembling “—you go to the street and untie his horse. Get it going—away from here.”

“When—when Daisy announced him,” Anne said in a faint voice, “I could hardly keep my hands still, they were shaking so badly—”

Philip held up one of his own. “Like mine.”

“Yes. I knew who he was. But he was in such a fury he didn’t notice immediately. How did he get here, Philip? How did he know—?”

“The boy from the Dragon gave us away. Probably took a higher price for telling Lumden’s officers he planned to desert. Did you admit anything to Amberly?”

“Nothing. I denied having seen George all day. I denied any knowledge of his desertion. But your brother kept staring at me—he frightened me terribly. I think he knew I was lying. I could tell the first moment he walked in that he was all you’d said, and more.”

“Well, we’re done with him.” The implication of those words still rocked him to the center of his being. “The horse, Anne. But quietly. So none of the neighbors are roused—”

Philip slid Roger’s sword back in its scabbard, began to haul the still form by the collar. He dragged the body through the black hallway, seeing. Anne limned briefly against the radiance of lamps alight in the house opposite. Then the front door shut.

By the time he reached the kitchen, he thought he heard horseshoes ring on cobblestones. He winced at the loudness.

Daisy rushed to the kitchen door when she heard him coming, looked at the closed eyes, saw the widening stain at the belly of the uniform and ground her knuckles against her mouth. She started those small, incoherent sounds again. Philip realized she might easily become hysterical.

His eyes locked with hers. “Daisy.”

“Wh—what?”

“Make no sound or we’re undone. I need George’s help. I need his help to carry the body so we don’t leave blood.”

He let go of Roger Amberly’s collar. There was a sickening thump when the powdered head struck the floor. Philip drew the bayonet out from under the arm of his surtout, walked by the round-eyed girl, laid the bayonet on the kitchen table.

“Daisy, fetch Lumden. And find me rags to wipe this thing clean. Then burn the ra—
damn you, girl, do what I say!”

Still dazed, she stumbled out into the darkness. She returned in a few moments with the astonished sergeant.

Staring down at his commanding officer, Lumden seemed pleased—but only for a few seconds. His gray eyes misted with shock. And perhaps pity.

Still struggling against a feeling of numbness, unreality, Philip cleared his throat, said:

“We’ll take him through the alleys. Several blocks—as far as we can go without being detected. Then we’ll come back here, clean this place and get out.”

“We?”

“I’m going with you. That’s the only way you’ll ever escape Boston now.”

“Kent, it’s not your affair. I mean—I’m the one wanting to desert—”

“But you can’t get across the Neck by yourself. And Amberly must have told someone on his staff what he planned to do. Take his boots, man. Hurry!”

Philip bent, gripped the limp shoulders. He tried to keep his eyes away from the slack lips, the waxy eyelids, the bloodstain that had now spread beneath Roger’s jacket to redden his white trousers at the groin and down the inside of his right leg. With a heave, the two men lifted the body, struggled it off the porch and carried it around the barn. After a survey of the crooked alley behind the property, they turned to the right.

They crossed a deserted street, running with their burden. They plunged into another alley. In about two minutes they carried the officer some three squares from Launder Street.