The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (17 page)

Who would be the next to be scythed down?

When Philip speculated about the prospects for his infant son, the very act seemed macabre futility. Conceived in the joy of passion—born under a mantle of hope and love from his parents—what did the child have to look forward to save growing up in a country shattered by rebellion?

The struggle could conceivably drag on for years; wars often did in Europe. That America could win her fight seemed to him chancy at best. That she could win quickly was virtually unthinkable. There was no purpose in dwelling on the boy’s future, or the inheritance either. Dead men had no use for handbills and calling cards. What printing equipment could you buy in a grave?

Possessed by pessimism, Philip felt a sudden, unexpected need to seize the small pleasures of the moment. The feel of his wife’s warm shoulder beneath his arm. And something else:

“I want to see my son.”

An hour later, Anne served a supper of cold lamb, fresh cheese, stale bread and hot tea. Though the fare was less than luxurious, there was plenty of it. Yet despite the poor rations he’d endured on the three-hundred-mile journey, he didn’t feel like eating.

All at once, out of his need, fear, uncertainty, he reached for Anne’s hand.

She looked at him and understood. At long last, a soft smile eased a little of the fatigue in her eyes. She was as uncertain and hungry as he.

Rising, she blew out the lamp in the corner of the parlor where they had sat down for their meal. Gently, lovingly, she took his other hand in hers.

“I should use a razor first,” he said with an awkward little laugh. “Scrape off this bristle. It could do damage to a lady’s cheek—”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Just come—” She led him to the door.

In their large, high bed, their son sleeping nearby and cooing occasionally, she was warm and eager. Arms tight around his neck, she wept when he first kissed her. The touching, the caressing, and then the rhythm of their bodies seemed to drive back some of the world’s lowering darkness.

But afterward, he couldn’t sleep.

He stole out to the parlor, lit a lamp and spent more than two hours composing one short letter to Experience Tait’s wife in Albemarle County, Virginia. Even if it had cost every last shilling of Abraham Ware’s money to have it posted and delivered, he would have paid.

“G
ENTLEMEN,” SAID DR.
Benjamin Franklin, the tankard in his pudgy hand shimmering in the light from the hearth, “I give you our honored guest. By birth, an Englishman. By choice, an American. By disposition and God-given talent, a journalist of the first rank. In the manner of most authors who delve into politics in these treacherous times, he has chosen to see his pamphlet brought into the world anonymously. But to judge from the reception accorded it since publication one short week ago, I predict its distinguished creator will not long be able to conceal his identity. Certainly he may be named and honored by those gathered here. To a man, I believe we hold his inspired prose and irrefutable logic in the utmost regard.”

Franklin turned toward the rather seedy-looking guest: a man with a large nose, a rough complexion, luminous sad eyes and the general air of one who, near age forty, recognized his own failure in life. Tonight, the guest smiled.

Dr. Franklin saluted him with the tankard:

“I give you Mr. Paine.”

Stick ferrules hammered the floor of the private dining room of Philadelphia’s City Tavern.
“Hear! Hear! Hear!”
Those among the twenty selected guests who lacked canes made noise with their boots.

Gradually, the hammering and stomping faded, replaced by a hubbub of conversation. In the fireplace, two halves of a heavy log fell, scattering sparks. Franklin sat down beside the guest of honor. While serving as commercial agent for various colonies in England, Franklin had apparently met Mr. Paine, and induced him to come to America after Paine suffered assorted disasters in customs collecting, corset manufacturing and marriage.

There were calls for a speech. Applause greeted the suggestion. Thomas Paine rose, flushing:

“Gentlemen, thank you most sincerely. But I’ve prepared no remarks. I only wished to enjoy dinner and fellowship with the men I consider the most enlightened of all those holding sessions at the State House.”

More applause, cane-thumping, boot-stamping, mingled with jokes and laughter. At his table near the fire, Judson Fletcher was hellishly warm. He was starting to sweat out all the dark brown ale he’d swilled down. But he joined enthusiastically in the uproar.

Certainly it was a select group from the Congress gathered at the City Tavern this rainy evening in late January. A select group of patriots—or a select group of the insane, depending on your side of the political fence.

Judson had gravitated to the group because Donald had been part of it. Around him sat politicians whose names were known in every one of the colonies. Franklin. The portly, high-voiced little Braintree lawyer, John Adams, seated at Paine’s left. From Virginia, the Lee brothers, and gangling, red-haired Tom Jefferson, who occupied a chair just across the table from Judson. Once in a while, Judson was troubled by the realization that these refined, well-educated men were determined to push the colonies straight down one and only one perilous road.

John Adams jumped to his feet. “Then I will speak for you, Mr. Paine.”

The Massachusetts lawyer always struck Judson as self-important. The guest looked relieved, though. Adams went on:

“To paraphrase Mr. Jefferson there, we as a Congress and as a people want neither inducement nor power to declare and assert a separation from Great Britain. It is the will alone which is wanting—”

“Oh, we have the will to gallop the other way, Wilson style,” said Francis Lightfoot Lee, referring to the Pennsylvania sponsor of a Congressional resolution of January ninth passed by a coalition of conscientious conservatives and the frankly faint-hearted. According to Judson’s somewhat bleary recollection, the resolution declared that the colonies had “no design” to set themselves up as an independent nation. Consequently the mention of Wilson’s name produced a few hisses, including a loud one from Judson.

Tom Jefferson, relaxed and pensive with his long legs stretched out toward the flames, gave Judson a speculative look, then glanced away. Judson belched.
Wonder what that was all about?

Adams was continuing:

“—but with the publication of Mr. Paine’s pamphlet, a great step forward has been taken toward solidifying public thought. We owe him a debt beyond our collective power to repay.”

Once more the diners noisily expressed their approval as the Braintree lawyer sat down, pleased.

Judson had to admit that Adams, who was perhaps the most determined exponent of independence in the Congress, hadn’t exaggerated. In the days since the release of Paine’s tract of some fifty pages and fourteen thousand words, it had become a publishing phenomenon. People literally fought their way into Robert Bell’s small shop in Third Street to purchase copies; either the version in a deluxe binding, or the one in less expensive paper covers.

Judson had finally gotten hold of one of the latter just this afternoon. So far he hadn’t done more than examine the title page. But he knew a little about the book’s history.

Aitken, the local printer for whom Thomas Paine did menial shop work, had deemed his employee’s material too inflammatory to print. But help and advice from Franklin and the ultra-radical Samuel Adams of Boston—not present tonight; even radicals like his own cousin John considered him a mite
too
radical—had led to the connection with Bell.

But Bell, who took the risk of bringing out the first edition, wasn’t enjoying exclusive benefits—or profits—from his venture. All over Philadelphia, and in other cities as well, other presses were churning out copies. The eager public didn’t care whether an edition was pirated or not. They just wanted to read it.

So did Judson. He was anxious to get away from this stultifying if augustly populated room, return to his rented quarters in Windmill Street near the river and dive into Paine’s pamphlet.

Scraping chairs and the opening of the doors to admit serving girls to clean up the litter of plates, cups and glasses indicated he might be getting his opportunity.

He judged the hour to be past nine. He hoped Alice wouldn’t choose to spend the night with him. Her whims were unpredictable; dictated largely by how much claret she’d consumed.

She was a damned attractive wench, of course. A welcome diversion despite certain puzzling, even alarming quirks of personality, and a history that was a total enigma—

But he didn’t want Alice tonight. He was eager to go to bed with no companion save Mr. Paine’s
Common Sense.

Reaching for his hat and stick as the gathering broke up, he was startled by a hand on his sleeve:

“Judson? A word with you—”

Tom Jefferson stood well over six feet. He met his fellow Virginian’s smile with a calm, almost remote expression. Judson’s smile disappeared.

He had gotten on exceptionally well with Tom Jefferson ever since arriving in Philadelphia in mid-December. The other members of the Virginia delegation—the Lees, Ben Harrison, Jefferson’s law tutor George Wythe, Braxton, Nelson—all were cordial enough. But Jefferson was closer to Judson’s own age than the rest of them. Just a little over thirty, Judson guessed.

Not much for oratory, but reputed to be the best phrase-turner in Congress, Jefferson still spoke with a quiet directness that demanded a listener’s attention. His laugh, when he was in the mood, could roar. Tonight he obviously wasn’t in the mood—as Judson had noticed a while ago, when the wealthy young man gave him that odd look.

“By all means,” Judson said with a slight bow. “Shall we go to the public room? I’d drink another ale before braving that rain.”

Jefferson shook his head. “I believe enough’s been drunk for one night.”

Instantly Judson tightened up. The polite reply had delivered its barb—as he was sure Jefferson intended. Annoyed, Judson picked up a tankard left by someone else. He gulped the warm, flat ale remaining in the bottom.

That defiance out of the way, he wiped his lips with his lace-trimmed cuff and smiled engagingly:

“Then let’s talk here, Tom. What did you want to discuss?” He suspected he knew.

Jefferson didn’t avoid Judson’s gaze. “You, Judson.”

The smile stayed in place. “A fascinating subject! Go on.”

“As you know, we’ve welcomed your presence and your liberal spirit in the Congress. In that sphere, you’re as much a credit to Virginia as your brother.”

Judson’s smile soured then. “Shall we skip the preliminaries? I smell that compliment for what it is—a preamble to something less flattering.”

Jefferson’s lips thinned a moment. “Very well,” he said. “We have received word of a rather distressing exhibition of patriotism at The Keg the other evening.”

“It wasn’t an exhibition of patriotism, it was a brawl.” Judson cheerfully exhibited the bruises and healing scrapes on the back of his right hand. “I just went in the place for a drink. I had no idea it was the refuge of every young Tory in town. I had two or three, and then a couple of sweet-smelling chaps remarked that German Georgie would soon make the Congress regret it ever convened—by signing his treaties with the landgraves who are to supply him with German mercenaries.”

Judson shrugged: “One thing led to the next, and when I got done with ’em, two of the pretty young gentlemen looked less pretty than when they first opened their mouths.”

The lanky Virginian’s nod was dour. “So it was reported. I only want to remind you, Judson—friend to friend—that we’re engaged in deliberations of the most serious nature. Our every act will be scrutinized for years to come—”

“A lecture, then. This is a lecture!”

“Judson, calm down.”

“No, by God, I won’t listen to—”

“Yes you will,” Jefferson said, so softly that Judson caught his breath. “Your private life is your affair. But publicly—”

“Publicly
what?”

“We ask that you do nothing further to bring criticism to our cause.” To ease the situation, he smiled a quick, glowing smile. “I don’t doubt that in certain yet-to-be-written histories, we’re damned beyond redemption as it is.”

Jefferson seemed to relax then, the stiffness going out of his shoulders. But his clear eyes watched, awaiting a response. Judson bridled his temper with difficulty.

“You keep saying
we,
Tom. You’re not speaking personally, then?”

“Not entirely.”

“For the delegation?”

“And some others. Let’s just say I was requested to pass the message along. I didn’t relish doing it—in case that wasn’t obvious. But I agreed because, in principle, the gentleman who asked me to do it was right.”

Cheeks livid, Judson blurted, “Name the gentleman.”

“Judson, there’s no point—”

“Name him!”

Jefferson sighed. “Mr. Hancock—with the concurrence of Mr. John Adams.”

“Hancock!
That pompous dandy—!” Judson was sputtering.

But his anger cooled almost at once. The handsome and extremely rich Boston merchant, formerly the chief financier of patriot activities in Massachusetts, was the duly chosen president of the Congress. This was no mere slap on the wrist by a nonentity. For a blink of time, Tom Jefferson’s lean face seemed to be replaced by that of Angus Fletcher—

Around the private dining room, shadows sprang up as the serving girls snuffed candles. All the other men had gone. Winter rain struck the window glass.

In a more temperate voice, Judson asked:

“You say John Adams also joined in the request?”

“You must understand why, Judson. What we’re undertaking here in Philadelphia will be considered so heinous in some quarters of the world, our personal motives and behavior must be above reproach.”

“In other words, we can drink and curse and whore as much as we like behind closed doors, just so long as the public face is hypocritically spotless?”