The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (67 page)

“You can’t leave. I can’t survive if you leave.
Phillipe—!”

He was prying her fingers loose one by one. He didn’t enjoy the sight of her agony, because he saw in her eyes the madness that can come of a lustful dream destroyed.

“Alicia, you’ve forgotten something,” he said gently. “My name is Philip Kent. I’m not the man you wanted. I’m a Boston printer. The man who owned the letter—he died.”

Lifting the latch, he went out quietly into the darkness of the corridor.

Past ten o’clock, pushing the mare as hard as he dared, he reached the Delaware and roused the old ferryman in his shanty. With a lantern hung from a pole at the prow, the barge put out.

The river was flowing swiftly. The April night had turned cool. Philip stood with one hand on Nell’s muzzle, staring at the black of the far shore while, behind him, the old fellow grumbled at the tiller.

The deed’s done,
he thought. Done in haste, perhaps. Done in anger, too. And—yes—still done with some guilt, because of Marie.

He wished the purling water would carry the barge faster.
I must bury that guilt now,
he said to himself.
The guilt must go down to its death because I have lived her life too long
—

He had no illusions about the existence of a hereafter, the kind of which divines were fond of speaking. Yet in some silent, mystic way, he hoped that the change which had taken place in him tonight would be understood by the woman who had given him life—along with another gift he could no longer claim.

The barge coasted toward the Jersey shore, where the dim lights of isolated farms showed in the wind-soughing dark. He admitted privately that many a man would call him crazy for what he’d done.

Slowly, though, he took a new perspective on it. With Alicia, he had only spoken aloud the final resolution that had been building for months and months. He didn’t want what the parchment in Marie’s casket could obtain for him if it meant becoming like the Amberlys and their kind. Users of others. Masters of others—by decree, or tax, or deceit, or secret assassination. He despised them. He had become a different sort of man.

Looking back, he couldn’t mark the hour when he had changed. But he felt that the outcome of the nightmarish scene with Alicia had probably been foreordained. Only his conscious mind hadn’t known it until it happened.

The barge bumped against the rickety dock among the reeds. The old man tied lines, then hauled down the lantern. He had ruined yellow stumps for teeth, foul breath. But there was a certain sprightly gleam in his eye as he held the lantern aloft.

“Ye speak like a New England man, sir. Be ye riding home that way?”

“A New England—?” Taken aback, Philip smiled. When had the very sound of his voice altered?

He nodded in a friendly way. “Yes, I am. Out of Boston. I’m going there now.”

“There’s much talk o’ fighting soon. Will ye be part of it? Or are ye Tory?”

“No, sir. I guess I’m what they call a Whig. I’ll be on the fighting side.”

“ ’Tis a horrible thing—bloodshed. Battle. I lost a son on the Plains of Abraham, y’see—”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“—even so, we can’t give in to that fat old German farmer, can we, eh?”

“No, sir, that we can’t.”

Philip swung up on horseback, stepping the mare onto the splintered planks of the swaying dock. Hoofs thudded, hollow. Then the horse was on soft shore ground. Philip turned her head north under the April stars. Behind him, the old ferryman waved the lantern and cried Godspeed.

Philip kneed the mare’s flanks, absolved, at peace with Marie. His only worry was one that reached into the bottom of his heart—

He must find Anne. Now, above all, he must find Anne.

What if she’d gone from Concord with her father? What if hostilities had already started, and in the chaos of men mustering, he lost all chance to see her again?

What if she no longer wanted to see him? Because of the way he’d left her, he wouldn’t blame her—

Against all the advice of O’Brian, he urged the mare to greater speed. He soon had her galloping at the limit of her strength.

A
FTER THE RISING OF
the spring moon, Philip began to recognize familiar countryside.

The night was warm. The balmy spell had followed him all the way north from Philadelphia. Ideal weather, nothing worse than a couple of short rain squalls while he slept in the open. Tonight was no exception. Even so, he felt no lift in his spirits when he realized that he was less than ten miles from Concord.

He’d been riding ten days—or was it eleven? His skin was gritty. He’d washed his face and hands at spring-fed wells along the way—that is, he had whenever he’d been able to find a farmer who didn’t mind a bedraggled stranger stopping on his property. Several times he’d been run off with threats and, once, with a blast of a musket.

As a result, he carried most of the grime of his journey with him—all over. His body ached from the up-and-down jolts of the ride. He’d long ago decided he would never be a good horseman, any more than he’d be a good sailor. He was a landsman, through and through.

Knowing it wasn’t far now to the little village where, with luck, he might find Anne, he still couldn’t throw off his lethargy. He slumped in the saddle, offended by his own sour smell. His senses were uniformly dulled.

The moon bleached the surrounding pastures dead white. Ahead, he glimpsed the houses in tiny Lexington. More than a few showed lamps. That was odd. Surely the time was close to midnight—

He yawned. All at once he blinked. He noticed miniature, moon-touched figures on the neat central green of the village. The figures, some with lanterns, seemed to be scurrying every which way.

Immediately he suspected some kind of trouble. A British foray, perhaps. A raiding party on the way, hunting military stores.

Or perhaps they’d already arrived. He decided to forego satisfying his curiosity. Tugging the mare’s rein, he cut across a pasture, intending to bypass the village.

As he rode, another peculiar fact struck him. Once north of Boston, he’d observed a great many countrymen on the roads this evening. Most had hailed him cordially, receiving a tired hail in return. He really hadn’t paid much attention, or wondered about it at the time. But now, thinking of the running figures in Lexington, he began to ask himself why so many people were abroad. Was this some special occasion? A holiday?

Actually, he didn’t even know the exact date. April seventeenth? The eighteenth, maybe. He’d lost track. But he wasn’t familiar with any holidays around that time. Perhaps the fine weather had brought people out. Sent friends to gather at the taverns. And young men to court at neighboring towns and farms—

Soon Lexington lay behind him. He located a break in one of the low stone walls that flanked the level road to Concord. Less than five miles now. He yawned again. Stretched. The insides of his legs were nearly raw under his breeches.

Almost drowsing, he suddenly sat bolt upright. He heard a racket on the road ahead. Someone whacking on wood—

He peered under overhanging trees, made out a farm-house set back from the left side of the road, where the stone wall ended. He slowed Nell’s pace, riding more cautiously. The night was redolent with the smell of spring earth. He discerned a horseman—

No, two.

Wrong again. There were three, sitting restless mounts in front of the house.

One of the men hallooed and once more whacked the porch post with a crop.

A door opened. A candle gleamed. The householder wakened by the noise appeared as a blur on his doorstep. Reining the mare to a stop by the end of the stone wall, Philip sat dead still. He couldn’t tell whether the mounted men wore uniforms.

“Curse ye for raising such a noise at twelve o’clock!” the farmer complained. “Who are ye? What do ye want?”

The tallest rider maneuvered his horse forward so the farmer’s candle lit his profile and tricorn hat.

“You’ll recognize me, Mr. Hunnicutt. Dr. Prescott of Concord—?”

“Oh, aye. But I don’t know those two with you.”

“Express riders out of Boston. I met them near Munroe’s Tavern in Lexington. They came to alert the Clarke household, where Hancock and Adams have been staying. I told them that since I reside in Concord, I’d best ride along and verify their identities.”

“All right, but why waken sober folk at midnight, Doctor?”

“Because, sir—” Philip stiffened, recognizing the new voice instantly. “—after arranging for sexton Newman to hang warning lanterns in his steeple at Christ’s Church tonight, Mr. Dawes and I came out of town—he by the Neck, myself across the Charles in a rowboat with wrapped oars—to alarm the countryside.”

“Alarm?” the farmer repeated, sounding fully awake.

“Yes, sir. The regulars are coming out.”

Philip’s hand tightened on the reins as Revere went on:

“I fear you’ll have noise a-plenty in a very few hours. The British are moving across the Charles in boats.”

“My God! Ye can’t be mistaken?”

“No. They’re coming. No less than five hundred and perhaps as many as fifteen hundred. Dr. Warren’s intelligence said their destination is Concord.”

“No doubt they’re after what military stores are left there,” said the man identified as Dr. Prescott.

“Arm yourself accordingly.” Revere added.

With a touch of his tricorn, the silversmith wheeled his horse and started out of the yard. Philip nudged the mare forward as Prescott said to the farmer:

“One more thing, Mr. Hunnicutt. A patrol of at least nine British officers passed through Lexington a while ago. They appeared to be bound this way—advance scouts, perhaps. Did you by any chance hear them pass?”

Hunnicutt said he hadn’t. He’d been sleeping soundly.

“Well, they still may be ahead of us,” Prescott said. “Good night, Hunnicutt.” He rode out beneath the trees where Revere and his companion waited, both turning now as Philip’s horse approached.

Hunnicutt vanished indoors. His voice sounded loudly, shouting to his wife. Philip was too tired to feel fear over the grim news he’d heard. He clattered up to the trio barring his way in the road, saw steel wink—a dagger or hunting knife—in the hand of Dawes. The lanky man was a Boston cordwainer. Philip had seen him once or twice with Revere at the Dragon.

“Who is it?” Revere called sharply as Philip reined in a few yards from them.

“It’s Kent, Mr. Revere. Philip Kent, from Ben Edes’ shop.”

The silversmith gigged his horse into an open, moonlit place in the road. “Come forward so I can see your face.”

Philip did. Revere relaxed, saying:

“Edes told me you’d left the city. Where are you bound?”

“The same place as you. I’ve just come from Philadelphia.”

Dawes slipped his knife out of sight. An owl hooted in a dark grove farther down the road. Young Dr. Prescott stepped his horse in closer to study the new arrival, asked Revere:

“You know and can vouch for this man?”

“Yes. He’s a high Son of Liberty.” Revere managed a tired smile. “Not to mention one of my dental patients.”

“Then come along,” Prescott said. “Time’s running short.”

With Dawes and Dr. Prescott riding abreast ahead, Revere fell in next to Philip, who said, “So the regulars are coming out at last?”

“In force.” With cynicism, he added, “Are you surprised?”

“No, I guess not. But as I said, I’ve been away a while. I’ve no idea of what’s happened in town—”

“Something’s been afoot for several days. Officers combing the countryside, some in disguise, some not. Tonight our mechanics’ committee detected the beginnings of a most peculiar activity. Light infantrymen and grenadiers of various regiments started turning out of their quarters and slipping off to boats that were recently moved to the Back Bay shore. There’s been a lot of talk about a major troop movement. But no one knew exactly when it might come. This evening, we got our answer. One of my lads saw two mongrels lying bayoneted in the street.”

Philip shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re killing the dogs to prevent their barking. To conceal all signs of what’s supposed to be a secret expedition.”

“I rode around Lexington,” Philip told him. “I saw lanterns—men running on the green—”

“The minute companies are being called out. Hancock and his whole retinue—plus Mr. Adams—are packing to leave. They’ll have their necks in ropes if the soldiers catch ’em—”

Abruptly, Revere reined in, responding to the upraised hand of Dawes farther up the road.

Philip inhaled the soft scents of the spring countryside, heard the gentle nickering of the horses—and drew a deep breath, his lethargy shattered. In this mild night, all silver and peaceful, the dreaded confrontation was in the making.

The night should be wracked with storms,
he thought.
Rains, lightnings, thunder-peals
—
somehow, it’s all wrong in such pleasant weather
—

He heard a whisper from Dawes, who was pointing down the road to Concord:

“Two men riding, Paul. I thought I saw metal trappings. Could be some of those officers.”

“If there are just two, then the nine have split into teams. Let’s see what they’re up to—”

Dr. Prescott started to object. But Revere was already spurring his horse forward between Dawes and the physician. The two followed, Philip bringing up the rear.

Momentarily, he caught the sound of hoofbeats ahead. He couldn’t see the riders. Trees arched thick over the road here, weakening the moonlight. The distant ridges around Concord further solidified the darkness of the background.

All at once, Philip heard what sounded like a voice in the woods on his left. He turned his head as twigs crackled. Suddenly three mounted figures broke from the shadows. Philip stood in the saddle, shouted:

“Revere—!”

“Keep your horse standing where it is,” said the foremost rider. His cloak was thrown back, making his scarlet jacket dimly visible. In his right hand he held a military pistol at full cock.