The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (23 page)

“Start back to back from this line. At the count, begin your paces. At ten, turn and fire.”

Pistols held muzzle up, the two men took their positions. Judson was worried about his powder and the priming in this damp weather. The tall man called out:

“One.”

Both duelists started forward, walking away from each other. Judson consciously tried to steady his gun hand.

“Two. Three.”

Trees along the murmuring river dripped from yesterday’s storm. Rising before daylight, Judson had found the streets already crowded. People were turning out to learn more about the incredible action taken in the State House. Independency had been voted, so everyone said—

“Four. Five.”

Judson fingered the cock of his pistol, aware of his own raspy breathing.
What had happened to Alice?

“Six. Seven. Eight.”

Judson’s boots squashed the sodden ground. Muggy with mist, the morning seemed funereal. An appropriate day to die—

Goddamn it, stop thinking that way!
He had only to take his time; remain calm. Trumbull would surely miss—

“Nine.”

All at once, a torrent of rage against everyone and everything ripped through him, threatening to loosen the hard-won control of his pistol hand.

“TEN.”

Fighting to stay steady, he pivoted. Watched the Tory ropewalk owner raise his pistol, aim—

Judson stood motionless, presenting the right side of his body, a narrow target. The tremor in Trumbull’s forearm already spelled the outcome. The pistol discharged with a spurt of red, a lick of smoke. Trumbull took a backward step as Judson listened to the ball whiz past a good yard from his chest.

The stupid wretch, to push it this far—!

He could aim to wound and the affair would be settled. That would be the sensible way. Slowly, Judson swung up his dueling pistol, extended his arm full length, sighted down the muzzle. The tall servant tensed, clearly afraid his master might bolt.

Trumbull stood his ground, but only with obvious difficulty. Judson’s face wrenched into vicious pleasure as he noticed a wet stain at the crotch of Trumbull’s trousers. He sighted for Trumbull’s left shoulder, started to squeeze the trigger—

And saw not some ridiculous, craven Tory, but his own father, a spectre in the river mist—

Without conscious thought, Judson swung the muzzle slightly left and fired. Trumbull squealed, tried to dodge. But he wasn’t fast enough. The ball caught him in the side of the temple, opening a splintery hole that looked black in the bad light.

Cries of shock and horror sounded from the coach. The tall servant fanned his cloak aside, his right hand diving toward his belt. Judson enjoyed a brief moment of self-congratulation. He had anticipated some such treachery. The tall servant drew a pistol as he stepped across the body of his fallen master—

But Judson had already produced a second pistol himself, from a hiding place under his coat. He held the pistol at full cock:

“My duel was with him. I shot fairly. Walk to the bank and throw your gun in the river.”

The tall servant didn’t move.

“Throw it away or I’ll kill you,” Judson shouted. “With those fine gentlemen in the coach as my witnesses that I was attacked first.”

The bluff worked. Fuming, the tall man strode through the mud to the high grass along the shore. He flung his weapon into the water. Judson laughed, his face as white as a skull in the murk. He aimed the second pistol at the ground, fired, and when the explosion died away, tossed the weapon to a point halfway between himself and the servant.

“That’s the one you promised to take back,” he yelled. He walked to his horse, mounted quickly and booted the animal toward the rutted road leading to Philadelphia.

Despite the fairness of the duel, Judson had no illusions about the stories that would be circulated. He’d had no seconds—no witnesses of his own. Philadelphia would be hot for him now. He could become the victim of much more than slanted gossip.

The horse’s hoofs shot up great sticky slops of mud on the road to the city. Feeling the aftershocks of the duel at last, Judson sweated and trembled and wondered numbly who, after all, he had shot to death beside the Delaware.

Weary, he unlatched the door to his quarters on Windmill Street—and pulled up short just inside the entrance:

“Alice! My God, what’s happened to you?”

All filth and rags, she swayed in front of him.

“Judson—this was the morning when—”

“Where have you been?
Where?”
he exclaimed, rushing forward.

She fended his hands. He realized with a second shock that she was feverish. Her eyes failed to focus properly. Her shabby clothing was brown with mud; ripped in half a dozen places. There were ugly moist sores at each corner of her mouth.

“Never mind,” she said, with an expression of such utter misery Judson could barely bring himself to look at her. “Is my aunt’s husband—?”

“Dead.” Judson swallowed. “I gave him a fair chance. Alice—” He walked toward her. “Let me get you into bed. Clean you up. You’re ill. Christ, girl, have you just been wandering the streets—?”

As he reached for her, she uttered one short, wild wail and dashed past him, out the door and down the stairs.

He ran after her, shouting her name. But she eluded him in the morning mist.

He ran a block up Windmill Street in one direction, a block the other.

She’d disappeared.

Knowing that he could have done little to correct her unbalanced mental condition, he still felt a deep sense of responsibility for her safety. Not love; nothing like love. It was just that she had no one else to protect her against herself. As he had no one else.

He pondered alternatives. Should he take his horse and search again? No, he’d tried that before, with no success.

But he couldn’t simply abandon her when she was clearly in a deranged state. Starting up the steps to get rid of his damp, mud-fouled clothes, he looked down, struck by something he’d missed before—

Marks of bare feet on the bleached plank steps. A toe; an instep; traced in something damp and reddish-brown.

He crouched, fingered it.

Blood.

How long had she been walking like that? In pain? He bent his head and wept his grief.

He searched for her the remainder of the day, unsuccessfully. At dusk, exhausted, he found a tavern. He barely heard the animated conversation—and loud arguments—that seethed over the latest rumors from the State House. Yes, the Congress
was
close to adopting a final draft of its declaration—

Uncaring, Judson drank himself steadily deeper into darkness—

And woke with a lump on his head, and his purse empty, in an alley two blocks from the establishment where he’d passed out.

Stumbling up, he staggered into the nearest street. A newsboy was ringing a handbell. Judson walked by, then caught the lad’s cry:

“—
alarming death of relative of Trumbull family!”

He snatched a sheet, read it over the boy’s whining protests. The story was brief, the ink still wet:

A woman had been discovered floating near one of the river piers the preceding evening. A Mrs. Alicia Amberly, widow of the late Lieutenant Colonel Amberly of His Majesty’s army, and niece by marriage of Mr. Tobias Trumbull who had likewise met his death the same day in an affair of honor. Trumbull’s distraught wife had identified the drowned girl, apparently a suicide, as heiress to the fortune of the Earl of Parkhurst of Great Britain.

Judson flung the paper back at the boy and strode on, too drained to hurt any more. Now the issue was whether he himself wanted to survive amidst the wreckage he had created.

But that was another weakness among the countless ones afflicting him: he lacked the strength to expunge his guilt by doing away with himself.

He thought about it many times in the next couple of days, sitting alone in the silence of the rooms at Windmill Street, drinking. Outside, bell boys passed frequently, shouting that the text of the independency declaration had finally been approved by the Congress.

That finally stirred Judson out of his torpor. He found a coin, went into the street and purchased a broadsheet—another quick print job, he saw from the bleary type. Going back upstairs, he read the news:

On Thursday, the fourth, the
Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen States of America
had been duly agreed upon, and signed by the Congressional president, Hancock, “in a hand big enough for John Bull to read it.” Judson reckoned this to be Saturday morning already. Quickly he read on.

Official signing of the declaration by all the Congressional delegates would not take place for at least a month. A much-corrected copy of Jefferson’s text had been turned over to a printer named Matlack for proper engrossing on a clean sheet of parchment. Additional copies were being rushed to the army and other major cities. On the eighth, the broadsheet declared, the people of Philadelphia would be made aware of the document’s contents by a public reading in the State House yard.

Judson suddenly felt hungry. Hungry and awake. In no better spirits, but stubbornly alive. The high drama had reached its conclusion. He reckoned he’d go along to that reading and learn how it had all come out. As he poured himself still one more drink, he decided that a minor actor who had botched his small, almost insignificant role still had a right to be present for the denouement.

Despite the horrors of the past days, Judson couldn’t help feeling a shiver of pride at the thought of what had been done in Philadelphia City. If he was of no consequence on the world’s stage—and he knew he wasn’t—at least he had been privileged to share a bit of the last act. The thought was enough to make him put the decanter aside and think of hunting up a bite of food to renew his strength.

Monday he would be in the Yard. Time enough after that to let the circumstances of his dismal existence reclaim him.

A thousand people or more jammed the area around the State House on Monday morning. The crowd packed the Yard and spilled out into the streets, everyone talking excitedly. Some looked fearful. Others boasted that now the colonies would whip King George’s soldiers for fair.

Judson tethered his horse at a crowded hitch-post, wormed his way to the Yard entrance and gained a favorable position with some shoving and scowling. The attention of the crowd was focused on a circular platform normally used as a base for the telescopes of the Philosophical Society. But this morning, the person clambering up with parchment sheets in hand was no scientist bent on studying the heavens. Judson recognized a man he’d seen around the State House before: John Nixon, of the local Committee of Safety.

Judson scanned the faces, smiled in a weary way. Very few well-to-do people were present. Mostly plain folk of the working classes, to judge from their garb.

Then, a row or two ahead, he noticed three familiar backs: Tom Jefferson, Dr. Franklin, John Adams. They were talking in an animated way. Judson didn’t want to be seen by them. Yet something compelled him to edge forward sufficiently to pick up some of the conversation.

“—and it ought to be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival!” Adams was saying. “It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance! Solemnized with pomp and parade! With shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other—from this time forward!”

Judson heard Jefferson answer, “You have a good right to be proud and thrilled, John. You were its chief architect.”

“I never thought I’d see the hour come,” Franklin said with a deep sigh. “Remember what I observed about the clocks?”

“Certainly,” Adams told him. “That pulling thirteen colonies into concerted action was like trying to force thirteen clocks engineered by thirteen distinctly dissimilar clockmakers to chime all at once. Improbable indeed!”

“But not impossible, as it turned out,” Franklin said. “We’ve done it, by God.”

Said Jefferson with a wry smile: “Let us devoutly hope we survive the consequences.”

“Come, come, Tom,” Adams chided, “no flagging now! We must all hang together—”

“Or surely we’ll all hang separately,” Franklin said, amused.

Nixon clamored for the crowd’s attention, finally got it. A wave of silence rippled outward from the round platform. The man’s clear, strong voice sent each word through the gates and into the mob thronging the street:

“Herewith the unanimous declaration of the thirteen United States of America, voted upon by the delegates of the various states in congress assembled last July fourth
—”

Applause, some cheering. Nixon waited. In the interval, Judson heard Jefferson say to Adams:

“I’ve seen some of the copies run off from the one at Matlack’s. My God, what they’ll think of us when those copies arrive in Boston or Richmond—!”

“What’s wrong with them?” Adams asked.

“The spelling! The punctuation! They follow neither the approved draft, nor reason, nor the custom of any age known to man—”

Adams laughed, then shushed the young Virginian as Nixon resumed:

“When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation
—”

Total silence now, the throng hanging on each syllable. Judson had the eerie feeling that he was being watched. He turned his head slightly, saw the tinker from whom he rented his rooms clinging to the top of the Yard’s brick wall. The little old man frowned, his white locks blowing in the July breeze. He seemed to be trying to communicate something to Judson with his glance. Exactly what, Judson couldn’t fathom. He returned his attention to the reading: