The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (68 page)

The two officers with him were similarly armed. One chuckled in a humorless way:

“A nice bag of rustics, eh? It’s well we took different sides of the road. Where are the rest?”

“Seizing the two ahead,” replied the first officer.

Shouts rang out. Philip’s belly tightened as he saw four more British officers ride from the thickets on the right side of the road. They filed their horses one by one through a gap in the stone wall, surrounding the others. Two more officers returned along the road to join them. One of the group called out:

“Major Mitchell? A catch here—”

“Good work!” answered the officer covering Philip with the glinting pistol.

Within moments, Revere, Dawes and Prescott had been driven back to where Philip sat captive. The four of them were ringed by the muzzles of nine side arms. Major Mitchell addressed the silversmith in clipped, proper English:

“May I crave your name, sir? And those of your companions?”

“I am Paul Revere of Boston.”

“Revere! Gentlemen, we’ve made a fortunate catch.” To the silversmith: “Who are your friends?”

“The others may speak or not, as they choose.”

“They’ll damned well speak or we’ll blow their God damn heads off,” another officer growled.

Mitchell raised his free hand. Then:

“What are you doing on this road, Mr. Revere? Riding express, perhaps?”

“I esteem myself a man of truth, sir. So to that, I can only answer yes.” With audacity that astounded Philip, the silversmith went on, “May I ask the nature of your mission?”

Major Mitchell chuckled, genuinely amused. Philip couldn’t help being surprised at the civility of it all. These redcoats were the enemy! Perhaps it was a measure of the reluctance of those on both sides to bring matters into open conflict that Mitchell deigned to answer at all.

“Why, Mr. Revere, we’re out chasing deserters.” His tone implied that he didn’t expect Revere to believe the statement. He added, “And that’s as much information as you’ll get. But I expect a good deal more—”

He pointed his pistol at Revere’s forehead, his voice less affable.

“I am going to ask you some questions, sir. If your replies are not truthful, I’ll shoot you down.”

Another of the men said, “There’s moonlight back in the pasture, Major. We can get a better look at them there.”

“Very well,” Mitchell agreed. He indicated the prisoners. “Turn your horses about. Ride through that break in the stone fence beyond the trees.”

Philip tugged the reins, fell in next to Dr. Prescott. The physician leaned over quickly to whisper something Philip couldn’t catch. An officer thwacked Prescott’s shoulder with the muzzle of his pistol.

“No talking!”

The young doctor swore under his breath.

As the four prisoners and their nine captors proceeded back along the road to the gap in the wall, another of the officers behind Philip exclaimed:

“By God, Mr. Revere, we’ve all heard of your riding. You will take your hands off those reins and let your horse walk.”

The first officers reached the stone wall. They positioned their mounts to either side of the opening, waiting for Prescott to go through. With a yell, the doctor dug in his spurs. His horse leaped the wall.

A pistol exploded. Men cursed. Another gun went off, streaking the night with a bright powder flash. Then a half-dozen things seemed to happen at once.

Revere jumped to the ground, dodged between the startled officers and vaulted the stone wall on the other side of the road. Dawes, with an almost jovial shout, turned full about and spurred past Major Mitchell, clouting him with a fist as he raced by.

The major reeled in the saddle. His pistol discharged in the air. Smoke and the fumes of powder swirled. The officers’ horses neighed and reared.

Philip saw the gap in the wall standing open. He kicked the mare forward, sighting on Dr. Prescott. Man and mount were a blur of silver out in the pasture, racing away from the stone wall.

Philip’s horse plunged through the opening. He sensed rather than saw a pistol whip up on his left; an officer fought to control his horse and aim at the same time—

The mare almost stumbled in brambles as she cleared the wall. The pistol crashed, the orange glare blinding Philip momentarily. He felt the air stir behind his head where the ball passed. Bent over the mare’s neck, he shouted to her for speed.

She escaped the brambles, sped across the loamy earth of the pasture, Philip still bending forward from the waist to present the smallest possible target. Another pistol exploded.

On the road—dwindling—sounds of confusion. Oaths. Commands bawled by one officer, then another. Revere had run off one way, Dawes had escaped another. They seemed to be the quarry Major Mitchell’s party wanted most. At least, glancing over his shoulder, Philip saw no immediate signs of pursuit.

The ground swept by beneath the mare as she tried to respond to Philip’s hammering boot heels. He could already feel her flagging. Ahead, where the pasture ended and a grove rose against the moon, Dr. Prescott had already disappeared.

Philip looked back again. One of the British officers was galloping after him, cloak streaming—

The mare reached the safety of the trees. Philip reined in. The pursuing officer stopped in the middle of the pasture, cursing loudly.

New shouts rang from the Lexington road. The officer in the pasture abandoned Philip for the more important fugitives, and cantered back toward the stone wall.

After twenty minutes of walking the mare through the wood, Philip finally picked up the road to Concord again. He surveyed it in both directions from the screen of trees. Then he bore left toward the village cupped among the hills.

The brilliantly white April evening was still warm and sweet. But he was cold. Pistol fire and Mr. Revere’s news—
The regulars are coming out
—had at last struck a heavy note of dread. Well before he rode into visual range of Concord, he heard the church bell begin to toll.

The alarm echoed from ridge to ridge, to wake the sleeping farmers, bring them hurrying into town. Philip recalled Dr. Franklin’s grim reservations about the ability of country folk to stand against crack British regiments.

Clang
and
clang,
the Concord bell pealed in the April stillness. He rode into the village to see a repetition of the sight glimpsed from the outskirts of Lexington. Men criss-crossed the street near Wright’s Tavern, lanterns bobbing. Doors opened as young men and old turned out—with muskets. Dr. Prescott, then, had gotten through ahead of him.

In the confusion outside Wright’s, he saw two boys on farm ponies start in the direction of the South Bridge. Sent to summon militia companies from the neighboring towns, undoubtedly. Philip had seen it all rehearsed before. Heard it planned at the militia musters. Yet tonight, as men bawled questions, orders and milled uncertainly near the tavern, he could sense a difference. Voices were hoarse with strain. This was no rehearsal. Tonight—
clang
and
clang
—the regulars were coming out.

He hauled his aching frame down from the mare, pushed into the crowd. By a lantern’s glare, he saw Dr. Prescott trying to answer a dozen questions at once:

“Yes, I think Mr. Revere is captured. Yes, he personally saw the regulars on the move. No, I don’t know how many. More than five hundred, he was sure of that—what? No, not complete regiments. Flanker companies from different regiments. The light infantry, the grenadiers—”

That information produced a murmur of apprehension from the Concord men, perhaps fifty strong by now. Most had muskets. They understood the implication of Prescott’s news. If General Gage had dispatched light infantry and grenadiers into the countryside, he was in deadly earnest. The flanker companies were the toughest, bravest fighters, the soldiers most accustomed to the heaviest combat—

A stocky man Philip recognized as Major John Buttrick, Colonel Barrett’s second in command, fought his way to the stoop of Wright’s. He raised his hand for silence. Gradually, the crowd quieted. Buttrick said:

“All those already armed remain here. Those not yet equipped, get your muskets and reassemble as quickly as you can. We have stores still to be moved here in town—we’ll need every hand.”

“Are we getting any help?” someone shouted.

“Yes! We’ve already sent to Lincoln for their minute companies. We should be in good force if the lobster-backs get this far.”

No one appeared encouraged by Buttrick’s words. Everyone from stripling to graybeard knew full well that even several companies of militia could probably not stand for long against thoroughly trained British troops. But no one voiced the fear openly.

Buttrick continued to issue orders. Philip’s attention was distracted. In the lantern light around Wright’s stoop, hostile eyes locked with his.

Lawyer Ware.

His nightshirt was carelessly stuffed into his trousers. His thin hair blew in the breeze. The protruding eyes that could look so comical now looked anything but that.

At Buttrick’s command, the crowd broke. Philip started for the tavern. Despite Ware’s threatening expression, he intended to find Anne. Ware stood on the stoop, waiting. Never had the little man looked so formidable—or so full of wrath.

Philip had gone half the distance to the glowering lawyer when Buttrick caught his arm.

“You’re Kent, aren’t you? From O’Brian’s place?”

“That’s right.”

“When you go to fetch your musket, make sure Barrett’s heard the bell. Sometimes,” he added with an empty smile, “Jim’s fond of the rum jug and sleeps too deeply.”

Then Buttrick was gone into the confusion of lanterns and shadow. Men were scattering to the various houses that held caches of supplies.

Lawyer Ware continued to stand on the step of Wright’s. As Philip approached, the little man barked:

“Gone to Philadelphia, were you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’ve come back at a most inauspicious time. I’m sure you regret it.”

“Regret it? Why?”

“I presumed you wanted to flee from danger—and your shameful actions.”

Philip didn’t fully understand Ware’s scathing words. They angered him. A vein stood out on his forehead as he shot back:

“I went on necessary private business, Mr. Ware. Is Anne inside?”

“Whether she is or isn’t makes no difference. I warned you in Boston, boy. I said I wouldn’t have her hurt. What you did—and what you must have said when you left—have brought her such grief as I’ve never seen before. I pressed her, but she refused to give me any details—except to say there was nothing more between the two of you. Go carry out your commander’s orders. And don’t try to see her again.”

“Mr. Ware—”

“Don’t. Ever.”

“Mr. Ware, listen! Anne understood I had to leave. Had to settle one matter before—”

“Understood?
No, she didn’t!”

Caught in the impulsive falsehood, Philip turned scarlet. He began:

“If you’ll let me explain—”

“I want none of your damned explanations! Neither does she. Annie risked her life for you when the British investigated the death of that officer. And your repayment was to leave her and give her grief. I warned you against it!” he repeated, his frail shoulders trembling.

“Let Anne be the one to say she doesn’t want to see me!” Philip said, reaching out to shove Ware aside. The lawyer’s veined hand darted for a trousers pocket—

And Philip was staring into the round black circle of a gun muzzle.

The beautifully worked silver scrolling of the pocket pistol flashed in the lamplight. The lawyer’s hand shook so badly that Philip expected the pistol might go off any second. Ware had it cocked. At close range, the ball could tear half his head away.

“I’ve kept this for emergencies,” Ware said. “Thinking that if I was ever caught by redcoats wanting to arrest me, I’d use it on them. I’ll use it on you if you don’t leave. Don’t ever let me see your filthy face again.”

“Damn it, Mr. Ware, I don’t understand why—”

“You don’t eh? Then you’re stupid! Wanting to protect you in some misguided way, Annie’s hid the truth. But she can’t hide the white look of her face. The spells of weakness that come on her more and more—”

Against the mournful tolling of the bell, Philip’s thoughts flashed to the last time he’d seen her. He recalled the strange, unnatural pallor very well.

Ware said, “I will make you one last promise, Kent. If my daughter is, as I suspect, carrying a child—”

“A
child!”

“—and if the child’s yours, I’ll find you, wherever you are. And I’ll kill you. Don’t make the mistake of doubting me.”

He spun and walked up to the door of Wright’s, wispy hair blowing back and forth across his forehead, the pocket pistol still shaking in his hand.

Stunned, Philip considered trying to lunge, disarm the little lawyer. At all costs, he needed to see Anne—

A voice bawled behind him, “Kent, damn you, get going to Barrett’s! That’s an order!”

Buttrick ran on. The door of Wright’s slammed. The bell shattered the night,
clang
and
clang
—

Philip stumbled toward the mare. As he hoisted himself to the saddle, he glimpsed Abraham Ware peering from one of the front windows of the tavern, frail, yet somehow almost Biblical in his wrath.

A child, Philip’s mind kept repeating, as if that would help him comprehend the astonishing fact.
Our child?

He tried to recollect when it might have happened. Surely it had to be the night before New Year’s. He had to see Anne! Suppose she and her father fled before morning. He might never find her again—

He almost turned the mare’s head back. But he encountered Buttrick once more. Again the major yelled for him to hurry. So he kept on toward North Bridge, past silent, hard-breathing men rolling flour barrels to a new hiding place.

As the mare clattered over the plank bridge, the church bell finally stopped its wild pealing. One thought thundered in Philip’s mind, so compelling he almost wept.

She knew the day I left her. She knew but she wouldn’t use it to hold me
—