The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (10 page)

Anne focused on the wood with difficulty. “I had to bite on that when the pains were strongest. Mr. Tait doesn’t believe in giving wine or beer during deliveries. But he must have quite a thirst himself. All he could speak of was hurrying matters along so he could swallow his pay. Philip—” Anne began to rock the infant gently. The fuzzed head all but disappeared under folds of rag. “How is it with you?”

“Bearable. Lonesome without you. The days just drag and drag—”

“No action on either side?”

“Shelling from the British, that’s all. Washington sent an expedition against Canada earlier this month. I’m not sure whether it’ll accomplish anything—or is supposed to. But all the men in camp—fifteen, twenty thousand by now—they’re getting restive. Either the British will break out of Boston, or we’ll overwhelm them and drive them out. It has to be one or the other, unless there’s a settlement.”

“A few days ago Papa said he thought any such hope was foolish.”

“I think so too. But my eight months will be up at the end of the year, and it won’t matter after that. I’ll be with you all the time.”

Her voice surprisingly clear, Anne said quietly, “What do you mean?”

“I mean when my enlistment’s finished, so am I. The colonies can’t win a war against Great Britain.”

“I agree—not with men who go home.” Her brown eyes sparked; the Anne he remembered.

“Annie, for God’s sake—!” he protested. “I’m a father now. With responsibilities—”

“I doubt you’re the only father in the colonial army.”

“But we’ve the future to think about!”

“Exactly what do you propose to do, Philip? Turn Tory?”

“Annie—!”

“I mean it. What are your plans?” She was challenging him, and he knew what it must be costing her in terms of discomfort. Her body shifted frequently beneath the covers Eph Tait had tucked neatly back into place. “Do you want to creep back to Boston and set up a press to print pamphlets supporting the king? I’d hate to tell our son that, wouldn’t you?”

“Annie, you know as well as I do—this rebellion has no support at all! Everyone says less than a third of the people in the colonies are in favor of it—”

“Does that make it wrong?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Does that give you leave to quit?”

“Dear God, you’re stubborn!”

“Yes, because when you came back from Philadelphia this spring, you made a decision. You chose your side. Will you forget that so quickly when things grow difficult? The man I thought I married wouldn’t forget it.”

Stung, he colored. There was a moment of strained silence. Then Philip let out a long sigh, and nodded:

“I guess you’re right. I’m sorry.”

With one of those tart yet loving smiles he knew so well, she said, “You’re forgiven. I don’t blame you for wavering. Papa’s told me about the wretched conditions and poor discipline in the army—”

“The
army
doesn’t even deserve the name. It seems all you can think about in camp is the next minute, then the next one after that. You eat, sleep, dig, dodge cannon shot—you lose track of what it’s all about.”

Still smiling, she touched his face. “That’s why you need a wife, my darling.”

He laughed, the tension broken. Just as during their sometimes-stormy courtship, it was Anne who put his frequently muddled and imperfect thinking into proper order and focus. That was just one of the many reasons he loved her so much.

She saw he was still troubled, though:

“Don’t worry, we won’t lose track of what we’ve planned for Abraham. A good house for our family—your own printing establishment—Kent and Son. How does that sound?”

“Grander than anything in this world.” He hugged her. The baby began to squall again.

Humming a little, Anne soothed the newborn infant back to sleep. Awestruck, Philip stared at the lumpy bundle that represented his flesh and hers. He knew he was only one man among multitudes who had experienced the same supreme moment of joy and wonder down through the centuries. Yet he couldn’t help feeling moved, as if he were biblical Adam gazing on creation’s first-born son—

“By God,” he breathed at last, “he is a big boy, isn’t he?”

“Seven or eight pounds, Mr. Tait said. But I wish you wouldn’t look at him quite so much.”

Philip’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”

Warm and loving, she caressed his face again.

“Because I’d like for you to kiss me.”

When Philip’ and Experience Tait walked back toward the American lines at dawn, Philip told his new friend that he’d changed his mind. If the war should last beyond December, he would re-enlist.

Tait’s crazed eye seemed to glow like a small moon in the first flush of eastern light. “Damn fool,” was his reply. “That’s how fine young girls like your wife turn into widders. Guess I’ll do the same thing, though.”

“You said you had a wife didn’t you, Eph?”

“Yep. And fourteen youngsters back in Albemarle County.”

“Fourteen! My Lord, you don’t look that old.”

“Started when I was fourteen years old. Besides, it ain’t how old, it’s how stiff.” He gave Philip a lewd nudge in the ribs, and belched. Presently, noticing Philip’s dour look, he asked:

“What the hell’s got you down now?”

“Oh, just that I really thought about quitting—until Annie helped me see things straight again.”

“Heck, don’t feel bad. I’d sooner be back home huntin’, far as that goes. The Blue Ridge is mighty pretty this time of year. And it’s too dang cold up in these parts. But I guess I’d rather have my kin remember me as a fella who died free an’ sassy, instead of kissin’ that old Dutchman’s royal ass just to stay alive.”

“That’s about how Anne put it,” Philip told him.

“Oh hell no she didn’t!” Eph said. “She’s a lady. Ladies don’t cuss half as colorful as us Virginians.”

“You’re right about that,” Philip said with a tired smile. Far away, he heard the ominous thump of the Boston batteries beginning the day’s bombardment. The sound erased the smile as if it had never existed.

D
ONALD FLETCHER’S HIRED
coach brought the weary delegate back to Sermon Hill in mid-August. The father’s greeting of his elder son was brief and perfunctory. What few meals the three family members took together in the long, airy dining room of the main house were strained and virtually devoid of conversation.

Donald, a steady-minded but phlegmatic man, took to spending most of his holiday in his younger brother’s company. Whenever possible, the two snatched meals in the great kitchen, away from Angus. The company of the black housewomen who tended the huge iron stove and brick hearth was far more relaxing.

In Judson’s opinion Donald didn’t look well. He’d gained weight. His normally soft face was puffier than ever. His eyes were perpetually reddened with fatigue, and he could neither mount nor dismount without the assistance of a slave at the stirrup. From mid-calf downward, his left leg was swathed in heavy bandages. Yet he persisted in drinking the wine the physicians claimed only worsened his gout.

Donald had married late, at age thirty. His wife, the daughter of a prosperous tobacco factor with headquarters in Richmond, had gone to her childbed thirteen months later—and both she and her infant daughter had died there. After that, Donald’s only pleasure or release seemed to lie in his involvement in the political affairs of the colony. This in itself guaranteed continual strain at Sermon Hill.

Angus Fletcher refused to discuss either politics or the management of the property with his older son, even though Sermon Hill, at least, should have been a subject of frequent conversation. Theoretically Donald would inherit when the old man died. In private, Donald told Judson that he suspected Angus had already entertained thoughts about altering his will. In fact, he believed Angus might well have Sermon Hill sold off after his death, the proceeds to be distributed among an assortment of distant relatives still living in Scotland. Their names and whereabouts were carefully recorded in the family Bible Angus kept at his bedside, Donald said. Angus had shown him the list of relatives several times. Perhaps as a threat.

Donald seemed resigned to whatever happened. Besides, he was interested in more significant matters. These came up for discussion one muggy day in early September.

The brothers were taking a turn around the countryside on their horses. Near noon, they ended the ride at the wharf beside the river. Three plantation wagons were being unloaded by blacks under the supervision of Reuven Shaw’s drivers—specially appointed slaves who served as his assistants. As the brothers rode down the pier, Judson noticed many a black face turned in their direction. He also saw not a few resentful stares.

“Lord, you can almost smell the anger,” Donald said, his voice heavy with the wheeze he’d developed in Philadelphia.

“Yes, but the old man won’t stay Shaw’s hand one iota.”

“I understand they caught the nigger with the drum.”

Judson nodded, his blue eyes ranging along the hazed river. By this time of year, the hand-hewn tobacco canoes should have appeared—forty feet long, five wide and lashed together in threes and fives to carry big loads. Because of the trouble, no one as yet knew whether the canoes would come to load the casks. The agents of the factors—most of whom were Tory sympathizers—hadn’t shown up at the plantations in the neighborhood to begin finalizing purchases.

“Who had it?” Donald asked.

“The drum? One of Seth McLean’s field hands. Built it on the sly, out of woodshed scraps and a goatskin. Seth burned it, then had fifty laid on the culprit. The punishment damn near crippled the man. It wasn’t much easier on Seth. But he said it had to be done.”

Donald scratched his veined nose as Judson walked around and helped him dismount. In the process, Donald nearly fell.

Leaning on his younger brother, he hobbled toward the end of the wharf where the Rappahannock lapped softly. The sky was graying in the northwest, promising storm before the afternoon was over.

Donald tried his best to stand upright, bracing himself on the cane he always carried. Without looking at Judson, he said:

“You don’t sound convinced that Seth did the right thing.”

“Living around this place, how can you be certain of anything? Except the old man’s dislike for both of us.”

Donald chose to let that go for the moment. “Is Seth of the opinion the slave problem’s quieted, then?”

“Gone under the surface, would be more like it.” Judson slapped a gnat on his sweaty neck, turned to stare into the west, a blur of hills beneath the blackening clouds. His expression conveyed his disgust over the entire situation.

Donald shifted his weight to favor his bandaged foot. “If you find Sermon Hill so opprobrious, why do you stay on?”

The younger brother shrugged. “Where would I go instead?”

“That’s what I wish to discuss with you.”

Judson’s head snapped up, his blue eyes hooding with suspicion; Donald had sounded almost schoolmasterish. He, in turn, saw Judson’s temper flaring. He held up a hand to reassure him:

“Surely you’ve expected it. The old man’s been quite pointed in the few talks I’ve had with him. You’re drinking too much. And he says you’re worthless—wait, that’s his word, not mine—when it comes to running the place.”

“I wouldn’t deny that,” Judson replied coldly.

“Then what does keep you here?” Donald’s face showed sympathy. “McLean’s wife?”

“Goddamn it, Donald, you know that’s over!”

“On a practical basis, of course I do. But a man doesn’t heat a wound in his heart all that easily. I speak from some experience,” he added after a moment. “However, I won’t press you if you prefer not to speak about it.”

That was good, Judson thought sourly, because he’d only have been forced to tell more lies. And it was hard to lie to the one member of the family with whom he could discuss things on a halfway intimate basis. Hard, but not impossible. Very few actions frowned on by so-called respectable people were impossible for him any more.

“Jud,” Donald resumed, leaning on his cane and staring at the river turning glassy under the fast-moving clouds, “this siege between you and Father will only come to a bad end. You need to leave Sermon Hill for a while.”

“I repeat—to go where?”

“I’ve a suggestion about that. Nothing definite as yet, but I feel compelled to mention the idea for your sake as well as mine.”

Judson sat down on the end of the wharf, lolling one of his expensive Russian leather boots in and out of the water. Behind him, he heard the grunting of the blacks unloading the huge casks of cured leaves. One of the drivers shouted angrily. A whip popped twice. The offender yelped. Judson preferred not to turn and look. He waited for Donald to continue:

“As you know, I must return to Philadelphia in a week or two. The long hours of the Congress, the rich food, the drinking—they haven’t served me well. I lay abed three weeks during the last session. I got about the rest of the time only with great difficulty. There’s important work to be done when the delegates reconvene—particularly if the king rejects the petition on reconciliation. I’d like to go north confident that if my strength fails, someone trustworthy could be appointed to fill my seat.”

Realizing at last what his brother was getting at, Judson almost burst out laughing. Donald’s intense, pain-wracked expression checked the impulse. Judson said instead:

“You mean I’d be your replacement?”

“If a replacement became necessary, yes.”

Stunned by the idea, Judson sat in silence. Finally he shook his head:

“I’m flattered you’d even consider me, Donald. But I doubt very much that the members of your delegation would welcome someone like me.” A mocking smile. “A gentleman who’s seldom sober, and hence surely doesn’t deserve the name.”

“But you are my brother. More important, your politics are proper.”

“If not my morals?”

“See here, do you suppose the morals of the delegates are all that spotless? I’ve sat at table with Dr. Franklin and watched him turn to stone consuming Madeira. I’m not attending a conclave of angels, you know—only of men. So long as you create no public scandal—stay within the bounds of decency—”