The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (18 page)

Jefferson looked upset. “If that’s the way you care to phrase it, yes.”

“That’s the only way I care to phrase it!”

Jefferson stifled a sharp reply. Then: “Judson, the central argument makes sense, if you’ll just reflect on it a while—”

“I’ll reflect on it while I’m having a drink somewhere else!” He turned and stormed out, leaving Jefferson in the shadows by the dying fire, a red-etched figure, vaguely accusing. All he could think of as he rushed from the City Tavern was that he had once more been found wanting.

Winter rain slicked the brick streets and gathered in wind-riffled pools that reflected the butter glow of chimneyed streetlamps designed, people said, by Dr. Franklin personally. Muffled in his cape, Judson headed for Windmill Street, cursing fluently.

One minute he cursed Jefferson, deputized by Hancock and Adams to chastise him. The next minute he cursed himself, for again failing to live up to what was expected of him. Whatever the hell that was!

Jefferson’s warning couldn’t be ignored. Though still young, the red-haired Virginian had already made a considerable name for himself because of his grasp of divers fields of learning, from the natural sciences to the law. That Hancock had assigned him the task of speaking to Judson was proof of his rising status.

And once he cooled down a little, Judson had to admit that Jefferson’s argument was probably correct. The Congress
was
engaged in momentous and difficult work. The faction to which Jefferson and Judson belonged saw independence as the last available option in the face of the king’s continuous refusal to protect American liberties. But time and again, Judson had heard John Adams state that although he considered independence a cause with high moral purpose, the idea lacked support among ordinary folk in the colonies. If it were noised about that members of the independence group were thugs who bloodied the noses of Tories in public taverns, the legitimacy of the cause could be seriously hurt.

And right now, the radicals certainly couldn’t afford that.

Opposition to independence among the Congressional conservatives led by Wilson and the London-trained lawyer, John Dickinson of Pennsylvania, was formidable and determined. The conservatives would seize on every remark or incident that might change minds and ultimately swing votes. No, Jefferson couldn’t be faulted—

Especially now that Paine’s pamphlet had finally fired the imaginations of great masses of people, and begun to sway them toward the viewpoint of the radicals. All at once, Judson felt like a moral pygmy among giants.

By the time he neared Windmill Street and the plainly furnished rooms he rented from an elderly tinker, his sense of shame had deepened even further. He vowed he wouldn’t embarrass Donald again—for he had certainly done that too, along with alienating himself from the members of Congress whose convictions he shared. He would have to work hard to repair the damage.

Judson had undergone subtle changes in attitude since coming to the city beside the Schuylkill river. At first, appointment as Donald’s alternate had been little more than a welcome escape from the turmoil at Sermon Hill.

Then there’d been a period of confusion; a couple of weeks of familiarizing himself with the routine of the Congress; of sitting in on his first committee meetings, saying little. He was a junior member of two committees. One screened officer appointments for the twenty-seven new Continental regiments established the preceding November. The other supervised the newly structured Post Office Department, a Congressional creation which John Adams scorned as “frivolous” in view of the weightier matters to be considered.

Confusion and all, those first two weeks brought Judson a great sense of pleasure. He relished association with important men who had only been names before.

Then, because he did share Donald’s politics, he began to take an active interest in the seesaw struggle between the conservative and radical factions. He was now definitely aligned with those who wanted independence but lacked the votes, or even an initial resolution to be voted upon. The conservatives were using every device and argument to block the introduction of the latter. Despite the king’s rejection of the petition for conciliation, the conservatives and many of the moderates still believed that separation from England would not only be morally wrong for the colonies, but would also be economic suicide.

Judson climbed the rickety outer stair and let himself into the tinker’s musty parlor. Flinging off his wet cloak and hat, he headed automatically for the sideboard, and the decanter of claret he kept for Alice.

Well, not only for Alice—

Midway there, he stopped, stung again with the conviction that, by his actions, he’d betrayed the men—and the cause—he supported without reservation. He ran his tongue over his teeth, scowled, turned away and lit a lamp.

He was again aware of some serious and fundamental flaw within himself. A weakness for the bottle was just one of its manifestations. Tonight, by heaven, he meant to start some corrective actions, however small. Such as forcing himself to leave the claret alone.

He took off his finely cut coat of plum velveteen, grateful that Alice wasn’t on the premises. He carried the lamp to the bedroom and picked up Paine’s pamphlet from the bedside table. Sprawling on the coverlet, he opened to the first page of text.

He read the whole book in less than an hour, relishing its polemical savagery. Then he went back to particular passages.

He laughed out loud at Paine’s characterization of monarchy as
the most prosperous invention the devil ever set on foot for the promotion of idolatry.
He agreed with Paine’s insistence on urgency:
The period of debate is closed. Arms, as a last resource, must decide the contest. By referring the matter from argument to arms, a new era for politics is struck; a new method of thinking hath risen. All plans, proposals, etc., prior to the nineteenth of April, i.e., to the commencement of hostilities, are like the almanacs of last year; which, though proper then, are superseded and useless now …

He likewise concurred with Paine’s assessment of the king’s behavior:

Even brutes do not devour their young, nor savages make war upon their families.

And his scalp prickled when the journalist urged total separation from the mother country in phrases that rang like great bells:

The sun never shined on a cause of greater worth. ’Tis not the affair of a city, a county, a province, or a kingdom; but of a continent
—
of at least one-eighth part of the habitable globe
—

Lying with the book resting on his hard belly, Judson thought of George Clark, wandering the western wilderness. Paine shared some of George’s vision. He devoured the rest of the passage again:

’Tis not the concern of a day, a year, or an age; posterity are virtually involved in the contest, and will be more or less affected even to the end of time by the proceedings now
—

Just what Jefferson had been saying.

Now is the seedtime of continental union, faith, and honor.

Then, almost with reverence, he turned to the final page. Unblinking, he gazed at the seven superbly isolated words Paine had contrived to have set by themselves—his last tocsin and challenge to his readers.

Staring at the words, Judson’s scalp prickled again. So rapt was his attention, he didn’t hear the light footfalls on the outer stair, or the soft clicking of the latch.

But suddenly he was aware that the sound of the rain was louder. He jumped up, laid the pamphlet face down on the bed, open to that final, astonishing page. He walked toward the dark parlor.

He recognized the footsteps of his visitor. In a moment, she entered the perimeter of light cast by the bedside lamp. Alice—throwing back the cowl of her cheap cloak of gray wool. Just as lovely as she was every time he saw her.

And just as drunk.

“Hallo, love,” Alice grinned. She weaved a little, one sooty hand pushing back a lock of hair that might have been a tawny gold color if she had ever washed it. She was wearing her usual much-mended dark brown skirt, and a shabby low-necked blouse grayed by greasy smoke.

Judson concealed his annoyance. “Hello, Alice. I wasn’t expecting you this evening.”

“Meaning my company’s not wanted?” Her smile, a shade malicious all at once, unsettled him. But that wasn’t unusual.

She sidled forward, placed her roughened hands on his shoulders, bent to give him a teasing view of her naked breasts. “Ah, but yours is, love.” The sight of her half-bared bosom started a familiar, tumid excitement.

She was a coarse girl; peculiar in many more ways than one. Maybe that was part of her fascination: she was a strange admixture of feigned refinement and gutter frankness.

At times she moved with the grace of the finely dressed ladies who took the air on Chestnut Street behind their jeweled vizards. But unlike those same ladies, she had a direct, unconcealed interest in matters sexual. She knew how to stir him. She wasted no time now, caressing his mouth with open lips.

Judson resigned himself, though not entirely unwillingly. He slipped an arm around her waist, smelling the tavern sweat mingled with the odor of the claret she drank from dawn to dusk—and later. He bussed her ear, murmured:

“You’re still speaking of my company, correct?”

“Certainly, isn’t that the dignified way to refer to this?” One hand crept below his waist to grasp and fondle.

Almost at once, her fingers produced the sought-for response. After she’d teased him a moment, she let go:

“Ah, but we have the whole night—I don’t mean to go out in this damnable weather again. So how about a glass for a lady, Mr. Fine Fletcher of Virginia?”

He waved to the sideboard. “Lady you aren’t. But help yourself.”

“Not a lady? Don’t lay wagers!” she laughed, flouncing off to the decanter with a peculiar look in her sky-blue eyes. He heard a mug clink. “Want some, love?”

He sank down on the edge of the bed, glancing with regret at Paine’s pamphlet. “No, I don’t believe—” Suddenly he saw Jefferson’s face. “Hell, why not?”

He listened to the sound of claret splashing out of the decanter. She drank too much; much more than he did, and his consumption was far from moderate. On occasion, she used foul language, but it usually sounded awkward. She was ruining herself physically and mentally, and she couldn’t be more than twenty-three or twenty-four.

Another curious thing: her cheeks were pitted. At one time she must have used the fashionable but ruinous cosmetics popular among highborn ladies. When and where had she been able to afford such concoctions?

Sometimes she made oblique jokes about a mysterious background in better circumstances. But Judson’s questions about it always went unanswered. In fact he knew nothing about her except her one name, Alice, and that she worked serving the riffraff who frequented a particularly disreputable tavern near the docks. He’d stumbled into the place one night after Christmas, feeling especially blue with memories of Seth McLean’s wife. In his stupor, Alice’s flaunted body appealed to him. A direct proposition led to a quick coupling upstairs in a sleazy room under the eaves—for a fee. Half of it, she said, went to the landlord.

Still a bit drunk, he’d invited her to come to his quarters in Windmill Street some evening. For no fee. Two nights later, at two in the morning, she arrived. He’d seen her at least twice a week since.

Alice carried the cups of claret back into the bedroom, handed him one, neglecting her tugged-down blouse, a casualty of their embrace. The half-circle of one rouged nipple showed like part of a flower. Alice toasted him, drank what he guessed was a full cup in four quick gulps.

“No trade tonight?” he inquired, mildly cynical.

“Nothing Peggy can’t accommodate.”

Judson paled. “Who?”

“Oh, the other slut the old bastard’s hired on—a stupid wench from Jersey. Peggy’s this fat—” She pantomimed the measurements. Judson wiped sweat off his forehead and lay back on the bed as Alice went on, “When she’s with a customer, you can hear her grunting all the way downstairs. Disgusting,” she declared with a sniff.

Then she laughed, harshly. Judson studied her beautiful blue eyes and wondered again whether she was quite sane.

Alice plumped down beside him. “I give the customers something more refined, don’t I, love?” Drinking with one hand, she teased his groin with the other. “It costs you nothing—and in exchange, I get to sleep in a bed that isn’t crawling with bugs. A lovely bargain, I’d say—”

“If you despise that place so much, why do you work there?”

“Oh, reasons,” she said with a vague wave of the cup. “Where else should a poor countryman’s daughter work?”

“I’ve never been convinced you’re just a poor countryman’s daughter, Alice.”

“Then what am I?” she teased, tossing her head. Her hair glistened with that greasy sheen he found repulsive—when he was sober.

“A very attractive young woman who, for some inexplicable reason, chooses to stay wretchedly dirty when she’d glow like the sun if she bathed—”

“Pooh,” Alice replied thickly. “Bathing’s for rich folk.”

“—and who,” Judson continued with mock seriousness, “drinks somewhat more than is good for her—”

“Now
that’s
a fine comment from a chap who tosses it down the way you do.”

“Well, I’m not trying to kill myself with it.”

Alice’s slightly glazed blue eyes glowed oddly. “You’re not?”

“Alice, tell me who the hell you are. What are you running away from? A husband? An indenture contract?”

“Nothing.” She repeated it, louder: “Nothing. Listen, Mr. Fine Judson Fletcher—I could ask the same of you!”

He looked away.

“Oh, come on love,” she said, more softly. “What’s made you so cross with me this evening?” She reached past his thigh for the pamphlet. “Is this the reason for the chilly reception?”

“There!” he exclaimed. “‘Chilly reception,’ Tavern trollops don’t command such fine phrases—”

Examining the pamphlet’s flyleaf, she ignored him: