The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (13 page)

While Judson watched from horseback a few yards away, Angus lighted a torch. The old Scot turned his back on his son’s obvious disapproval and applied the torch to the brush. Within minutes, there was a stench of scorching flesh. Cries of human pain mingled with the fire’s crackling.

A charred door fell outward. Dicey appeared, soot-covered, pleading for mercy. Angus Fletcher ordered her shot. A planter with a freshly loaded musket put it to his shoulder and obliged.

Judson wheeled his roan away from the carnage, wanting the solace of alcohol. As much alcohol as he could consume, as quickly as he could consume it.

First, though, he made inquiries of the loyal house blacks. Yes, the situation at McLean’s was under control. Peggy’s mother and father had been summoned from the Ashford plantation.

Perhaps thirty blacks in all had been slain outright. Scores more would be maimed by their punishment. Still, that represented a smaller economic loss than if the rebellion had gone unchecked even for another few hours. Judson heard men laughing and congratulating each other as he headed upstairs.

He locked himself in his room and started to drink himself insensible. For some reason it proved difficult. Long after he should have fallen into a daze, he heard the last dreadful cries from the smokehouse.

Or were they only in his mind?

Judson’s chin sagged onto his chest. He speculated in a thick-witted way that the burning alive of six prime bucks and wenches would no doubt be considered a good investment by old Angus. An example to insure tranquility for months, even years to come—

Presently the rum did put him in a stupor. Yet even then, he heard the slaves’ screaming.

And Peggy’s.

Seth McLean’s funeral was held at an immaculate white Presbyterian church six miles from Sermon Hill. The whole district attended—except for Seth’s widow. Three days earlier, her father had taken her away from the McLean house in a closed coach, so that she might recuperate—if that were possible—among her closest kin. In the interim, McLean’s overseer Williams was to operate the plantation.

Judson rode to the church ten minutes after Angus left Sermon Hill. He didn’t care to share the old man’s company.

When the pastor finished eulogizing Seth McLean and turned to speculating on Jehovah’s mysterious and unfathomable reasons for taking human life in its prime, Judson rose up in a back pew. He had been drinking since dawn. In fact he had taken his last pull at the doorway of the little country church. He created a disturbance by shouting at the pastor:

“Jehovah didn’t kill Seth. Or the nigras either. We did.”

Several of the church elders converged on Judson and hustled him from the sanctuary. He laughed in a crazy, embittered way as they hoisted him onto his horse and sent him away up the road. Then the elders went back inside, shaking their heads.

There, Judson supposed as he groped for another jug in his saddlebag, Angus Fletcher would be seated in the very front pew, his head bowed in abject prayer for the forgiveness of sins—

Patricularly those committed by his satanically inspired second son.

A gray December morning, with rain tapping the glass. Judson let the curtain fall on the misted view of the wharf beside the Rappahannock.

The wharf was empty. A factor had been found, and the canoes had come at last. This year’s crop had brought a modest profit. Trade with the ports of England hadn’t ceased completely. But most of the planters considered that inevitable—just as they now regarded war as inevitable.

Judson rummaged through the odds and ends of clothing remaining to be packed. He discovered he’d miscounted the pairs of linen underdrawers. He added two more to the pile.

He just wasn’t thinking clearly. Images of Peggy McLean kept intruding. First the Peggy he’d courted, warm-eyed and laughing. Then the harrowing face of the screaming girl he’d discovered in the McLean bedroom—

Finishing his counting, he saw the second picture again. He began to shudder. Only one remedy for that. He relied on it almost constantly these days. Since he had to face his father shortly, that justified a second drink.

He set the jug aside and picked up the folded sheets of parchment. Carrying these, he lurched down the graceful curving staircase to his father’s cramped corner office behind the conservatory.

Judson rolled back the sliding door and walked in. Then he rolled the door shut with a loud bang.

Framed against a window overlooking the slave cabins and the raw lumber already nailed up for the framework of a new smokehouse and curing barn, Angus Fletcher took his old clay pipe out of his mouth and scowled. The room reeked of Sermon Hill’s own fragrant leaf.

“You know I don’t care to be disturbed when I’m working on the accounts, Judson.” The old man waved the pipe’s long stem at several open ledgers.

“Appears to me you’re smoking, not doing figures, Father.”

Angus sighed. “May God forgive you for your never-ending disrespect.”

“Oh, I think He’s too busy with more worthy folk to bother with the likes of me,” Judson grinned. He held up the parchment sheets. “I thought you’d want to know the contents of Donald’s letter. It came two days ago and you haven’t asked—”

Angus cut him off: “The activities in that nest of vipers are of no interest to me.”

“Well,” Judson announced with another muzzy smirk, “you needn’t count Donald among the vipers any longer.”

That caught the old man’s attention. With bitterness, Judson recognized concern breaking through the flint facade.
There’ll never be such concern for me,
he thought.

Angus asked, “What does Donald say, then?”

“That the gout is afflicting him severely. And the pleurisy. As soon as he can arrange transportation, he’ll be returning home.”

One veined hand darted out. “Let me see—”

“Sorry, there are parts of the letter that are personal.” Judson folded it and shoved it in his belt.

Angus Fletcher sucked on his pipe. “You delight in baiting me.”

“I guess I do,” Judson admitted in a moment of candor.

“It’s your pleasure, your sport. Along with drunkenness—”

“For Christ’s sake don’t start that.”

“How often must I tell you to refrain from blasphemy in my presence, Judson?”

“All right.” A weary shrug hid his sudden hurt.

Despite their differences—and the serious imperfections of each—Judson knew he should love this old man. And be loved in return. Sometimes the fact that both seemed incapable of it produced pain that was damn near unbearable.

Judson quickly regained control. His customary mask of smiling arrogance back in place, he continued:

“Truth is, you won’t have to suffer my blasphemies at all from now on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m packing to go to Philadelphia. I’m to serve as Donald’s alternate in the Congress until he recovers.”

Angus Fletcher sat down in his hand-hewn pine chair, dumbfounded. But not for long:

“Apparently there is no limit to your waywardness.”

Weaving on his feet, Judson replied, “Why, I’d say I’ve been an exemplar of virtue since that unfortunate business at the chapel—”

“An example of debauchery,” the old man snorted. “Besotted every waking minute—”

“I told you, don’t start—”

“off at that slut Lottie Shaw’s most nights oh, yes, I know about that, too.” Reaching out as if he wanted to conceal something private of his own, the old man closed the ledgers one by one, then stacked them. “It’s time we had an accounting.”

“No accounting necessary, Father. I’m leaving, that’s all.”

“How will you travel?”

“On horseback.” The purpose of the question eluded him.

Angus rectified that: “I can’t spare a single nigger to accompany you. Not one, is that clear?”

“Oh, I see. Surely. I’ll hire some piece of white trash, then. Send him for the trunk—”

“You are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord,” Angus Fletcher declared. “A disgrace to your heritage, to your upbringing—”

“Dammit, I’ve had enough of your prating!” Judson exploded. “My politics are no different than Donald’s!”

“Donald is a misguided innocent compared to you,” his father told him. “You shame me in front of the church congregation, you scandalize the Fletcher name with your concern for widow McLean’s welfare—no, don’t argue! I know how you’ve had someone from the house bustling over there almost daily to inquire about her! If she hadn’t been hurt the night of the rebellion, you’d never have ridden the fields to capture the niggers.”

“You’ve certainly outlined the charges well,” Judson said. If only the old man would speak to him kindly just once.
Once!
But that was a forlorn hope. And he recognized that effort was sorely lacking on his side as well. He went on:

“There’s not much I can add to your expert presentation of the evidence. I stand accused. Proudly, sir. Proudly—”

“When will you stop your insolence?”
the old man fairly screamed. Judson smiled his most charming smile. “The day you’re rotting in hell, which I sincerely hope is your destination.”

Paling, Angus Fletcher blinked several times. Water appeared at the corners of his eyes. In a peculiar, strangled voice he asked:

“What is it that you have against me, Judson? Why is it that you hate me so?”

“I’ve often wondered the same about you, Father. Goodbye—”

As he started to leave, Angus’ voice regained its old harshness:

“One moment more.”

Judson turned back; recognized the familiar sternness of the lined face. That moment of hesitation and hurt in which they might have reached out symbolically to touch one another was gone. He felt overpoweringly thirsty.

In a level tone, Angus said, “You do not approve of my loyalties to the government which has made it possible for the Fletcher family to prosper. You do not approve of the system of labor that keeps this plantation operating profitably. You certainly never respond to my suggestions for improving your lax morals. It seems to me there is nothing more for you at Sermon Hill—”

He leaned over the desk, pressing his knuckles on the closed ledger on top of the stack:

“Am I plain enough? Nothing—not a farthing.”

“I take it this is your way of informing me I’ll have no consideration in your will?” It was an upsetting thought, though not entirely unexpected.

“That’s correct. You have already tried me beyond all reasonable limits. Go to Philadelphia—step off this property for that purpose—and I will never permit you to set foot on it again.”

“Oh—” Judson tried to muster another grin, couldn’t. “A little bait dangled? If I repent, everything will be well?”

“What’s the harm in that? I’d redeem your soul if I could, since you won’t do it yourself.” All at once the old man sounded tired. “You seem bent on destroying yourself.”

“Thoughts like that are too deep for me,” Judson said with a loose shrug. Inside, something broke with tearing pain. He shut his eyes a moment. Then he reopened them, managing at last the kind of totally cavalier smile that could light his face. He reached for the door. “Goodbye, sir.”

“You do understand what I intend, Judson?”

“Of course. ‘And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee, for it is profitable for thee—’”

“Stop.”

“‘—that one of thy members should perish—’”

“Stop, goddamn you!”

But Judson kept on, loudly: “‘—and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.’ All right, I’ll do the service in hell in your place. For the moment! That way, you can keep fancying yourself spotless and sanctified. Until you arrive to join me.” He walked out, rolling the door shut with a bang.

Rain rattled on the windows as he hurried through the conservatory. Suddenly he thought he heard a muffled outcry from the office. A cry of grief. His heart leaped—

He hesitated. Thought about going back—

But he didn’t.

It was much too late.

Half an hour later, Judson Fletcher left Sermon Hill. His cloak belling behind him, his tricorn cocked low over his forehead to keep off the worst of the rain, he galloped down to the river and turned southeast in the direction of the ferry that would take him across to the road leading north. At a front window of the great house, one curtain was held aside by an unseen hand until Judson’s flying cloak vanished in the December mist. Then the curtain was slowly put back in place.

A
BITTER GALE OFF
the Atlantic flung sleet through the November twilight. Philip turned in at the front gate of the Vassall house on Brattle Street, Cambridge. He was chilled clear through, and nervous. Only an hour before, one of his occasional visits with his wife and son had been concluded in unexpected fashion.

Philip had arrived in Watertown to find Anne feeding their stocky infant at her breast. Her color was good, her strength increasing daily. Apart from a continuing concern about the likelihood of full-scale war, what troubled Anne Kent at the moment was her father’s poor health.

The lawyer had lain abed for more than three weeks. Wracked by chills and constant coughing, he lacked appetite and was steadily losing weight. During the hour Philip spent with his family, the raspy cough from Ware’s bedroom was a worrisome counterpoint to conversation.

On his way back to his regiment, Philip stopped at the tiny shop near the Charles River where his former employer, Ben Edes, had reassembled his press after smuggling the pieces out of Boston in a rowboat. With a few fonts of type, Edes was struggling to publish his patriot newspaper, the
Gazette,
on a more or less regular basis.

But when Philip arrived, he found Edes setting up the press to print paper currency; special currency authorized by the Massachusetts provincial legislature.

There had already been talk in Philip’s regiment that such money might be used to pay the soldiers. The possibility caused grumbling and resentment. Money made legal only by the legislative act of a colony in rebellion might not be worth much. Certainly it wouldn’t be as readily spendable as the sterling pound. The new currency was being printed in desperation, to purchase needed supplies and materiel for the army. Edes, who looked tired, emphasized the point by showing Philip several plates for various denominations. When Edes turned the plates over, Philip recognized Revere engravings, prints of which had been sold at the old shop in Dassett Alley. Revere had worked one new design on the back of his popular depiction of the Boston Massacre.