The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (36 page)

He had come to his belief over a long period of years, with much doubt along the way. But he did have an unashamed conviction that the cause was just. To leave would betray both the cause and the conviction.

And, finally, it would betray Anne.

A deserter who appeared suddenly in Cambridge would not be the man she’d taken as a husband. He’d wait for the next letter. It would contain less disheartening news. Confirmation that Caleb had brought his captain to heel. Surely it would—

With struggle, he almost convinced himself of that.

J
UDSON FLETCHER RODE
like a man pursued.

Lather streaked the flanks of his horse. He knew he’d already pushed the animal much too hard, covering the sixty-mile distance with only very brief stops. He’d been in the saddle most of the night, his stained coat not nearly warm enough to protect him from the bite of the late October air.

From the east, first light gilded the shocked corn standing in the fields. A yawning farmer loading fat pumpkins into a wagon gave him a startled stare as he hammered along the dirt road, plumes of breath streaming from the horse’s muzzle.

What if I’m too late? What if he’s gone?

It was Donald, day before yesterday, who had dropped the casual remark that sent Judson speeding south. Donald had come by the Shaw cabin with another purse; the dole was delivered more grudgingly with every visit.

Judson’s appearance had worsened over the summer. He’d lost more weight. He was lethargic; sullen; constantly unshaven.

Still, as always, Donald dutifully tried to spark some reaction from his brother with reports on various aspects of the war, starting with the loss of Philadelphia to General Howe’s army in September. That had caused sharp criticism of General Washington even among his fellow Virginians, Donald said.

One bright circumstance offset the fall of America’s largest city: the surrender of Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne’s expeditionary force at Saratoga just a couple of weeks ago.

Expecting reinforcements in the form of troops under General Howe, Burgoyne had instead been virtually abandoned in the York State, while Howe pursued his conquest of Philadelphia—then settled in, presumably, to enjoy the favors of his mistress. Outnumbered three to one by the Americans under General Gates, Burgoyne asked for terms. It was the sole piece of encouraging news in an otherwise bleak cavalcade of disasters and defeats:

“Unless you wish to count the end of the verbal war over the Articles of Confederation,” Donald told his brother. “I understand a draft is just about ready.”

For over a year Congress had been debating the wording of a document that would organize the thirteen states into some kind of working relationship; stipulate areas of authority; divide financial responsibility for the war fairly—

“They finally worked out a plan where expenses of the central government will be apportioned according to each state’s surveyed land, which I suppose is fair. We won’t properly be a country until every one of the thirteen ratifies the draft Articles, though. Considering how long it’s taken to get the material written and agreed upon, that may not happen till the next century! Even if the Articles are accepted, they leave much to be desired.”

Judson’s vague murmur was enough to prompt Donald to continue:

“Every state retains its sovereignty, and the Congress is granted jurisdiction only in certain limited areas. It can declare war—but can’t wage it unless each state approves. There’s a proviso saying Congress may borrow money, but not a single word about how the central government may
raise
money to repay the loans. In short, if the Congressional fiddler wants to play a tune, the states collectively pretty well tell him yea or nay.”

“I’d hardly compare that kind of document to a military victory,” Judson observed sourly.

“True. But what other accomplishments can we brag about?”

“Why not save your breath altogether?”

“I probably should. The Articles are a patchwork. Too many basic questions dodged while everyone’s diverted by lofty sentiments about ‘perpetual union.’ The best you can say is that it’s a start. It seems to me that a more clearly and thoughtfully drawn statement will be required before very long. Some sort of formal constitution—”

Judson’s apathetic stare showed he’d completely lost interest. Donald smiled sadly:

“I’m not precisely enthralling you with all this, am I?”

Judson shrugged, as if to ask what else his brother expected. Donald sighed. Then:

“Well, perhaps something more personal will pique your interest. Your friend George has been at Williamsburg for a fortnight now—
by the Lord!
A response at last!”

It was true. Judson’s blue eyes finally showed something other than contempt or indifference:

“What’s he doing there?”

“Damme if I can tell you. Something big’s afoot, though. He’s been attending secret meetings with a special committee appointed by Governor Henry—Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Wythe and several other Burgesses. The meetings last for hours at a time. They must be debating something besides another request for powder to defend the Kentucky forts.”

“Have you seen George personally?”

“Yes, I talked to him at the Raleigh Tavern before I rode home.”

“How does he look?”

“Very fit. But worried. Conditions in the west are growing worse. All the tribes rising against the settlers—my guess is that George came east to raise some additional militia units. He wouldn’t tell me specifically.” A pause, as Donald eyed his disheveled brother. “He asked about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Exactly what I tell Father. As little as possible. I imagine Tom Jefferson and some of the others talk more freely—”

Judson glanced away.

“George sent you his regards. Also his regrets that he couldn’t stop by for a visit. I got the impression he’ll be bound back for Kentucky soon after the secret meetings are concluded.”

At that exact moment, Judson felt as if a door had opened; perhaps the last one remaining for him.

It was a desperate, perhaps foredoomed hope. But confinement on the tiny piece of cabin property had grown intolerable. Too often, he found his thoughts turning to the means for suicide.

He said nothing to his brother about the sudden idea that fired his mind and restored his energy all at once. But shortly after Donald had gone back to Sermon Hill, Judson was mounted and riding south.

Now, in the October dawn sparkling with hoarfrost, he pounded into Williamsburg. Flashed by the lovely rose-brick residences of the merchants and the gentry. Thundered through the farmer’s market where a flock of geese honked and waddled to escape the flying hoofs. He rode straight to the yard of the Raleigh Tavern, its leaded windows reflecting the autumn dawn in diamond-shaped patterns of yellow fire.

Looking more like a scarecrow than a man, Judson dismounted and turned the exhausted horse over to a groom for feeding and stabling. As he walked toward the tavern entrance, he was acutely aware of the hammering of his heart.

In the dark-beamed foyer, he found a sleepy boy swishing a straw broom over the pegged floor. Judson’s eyes showed huge gray circles of fatigue. His fair beard, scraped off in preparation for the trip, had already sprouted again, unevenly. The sweep knew in a glance that Judson wasn’t the sort of gentleman who belonged at the Raleigh.

“Son, you’ve a guest here—”

“Got eight or nine,” the sweep replied, leaning on his broom. “Most are still in bed. And the landlord don’t take kindly to loud talk at this hour.”

Checking a burst of anger, Judson lowered his voice:

“The guest I’m referring to is named Clark. He hasn’t left, has he?”

The boy took his time answering:

“Would you be meaning Major Clark, the militia commander from Kentucky?”

“Yes, dammit! Is he still here?”

“I tell you the landlord’ll tan me if you keep on swearing and yelling—”

Judson glared. “Then stop being cheeky and answer me straight!”

The sweep took a step backwards, poked his broom toward the arch leading to the public room:

“Major Clark come down about twenty minutes ago to eat breakfast. Hops up way before daylight every morning. Guess that’s the style out west. You’ll find him around the corner by the fireplace, I reckon.”

“Thank you very much!”

Boots hammering, Judson spun away. He’d made it in time.
In time!

Suddenly he halted, catching a whiff of the wood fire burning somewhere on the other side of the wall. The aroma wasn’t nearly as strong as his own sweaty stench. He must look a sight.

He stepped to the wall where an ornamental silver plate hung on display. He bent, examined his blurred reflection, tried to smooth his tangled hair. He’d lost the tie-ribbon on the frantic ride. God, he was totally unpresentable—

But there was nothing to be done. In the public room, a chair had scraped. Boots squeaked the plank floor as someone approached the arch. Judson straightened up with a jerk, aware of the trembling of his hands as he confronted the tall figure of George Clark, red hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck.

“Judson—?”

“Hello, George.”

“Good Lord, I couldn’t believe it when I thought I heard your voice. You’re the last person in creation I expected to see this morning! What brings you to Williamsburg?”

Judson’s mouth went dry. His friend looked lean, clear-eyed, deeply tanned—and dismayed as he took in Judson’s stained apparel and unhealthy pallor. All Judson could say was:

“George, it—it’s fine to see you—”

He shot out an unsteady hand. George Clark clasped it in a hard, callused grip. Now that he’d ridden all this distance, Judson’s courage failed him. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his friend the reason for the trip.

He was afraid George would laugh in his face.

Even the sweep leaning on his broom was sensitive to something awkward in the confrontation between the fine-featured young gentleman who looked as if he’d just crawled out of some hole in the earth, and the younger but somehow more poised frontiersman wearing a thigh-length fringed hunting shirt and leggings of deerhide. Apparently both were at a loss for words.

All at once Judson blurted, “Donald told me you were here. I rode most of the night—”

“By God that’s a mark of friendship! My end of it’s been sadly neglected, I’m afraid.”

“I know you have pressing responsibilities, George. No time—”

“And too few men. And too little powder. And every tribe putting on the bloodroot—but come on, come to the table. Join me in something to eat—”

A bit reassured when his friend laid his arm over his shoulder, Judson accompanied George into the public room. As they approached a table near the fireplace, Judson said:

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me already. What was that word—? Bloodroot?”

“The braves use it to paint their faces for battle.”

George pulled out a chair for Judson, signaled a yawning servant girl, slipped into his own chair in front of the immense breakfast he’d been eating. Half a loaf of cornbread and most of a crock of country butter had been put away, plus part of an eight- or nine-inch stack of griddlecakes dripping with clear colorless syrup.

“All the tribes are going to war against Kentucky,” George explained. “The Mingos, the Shawnee, the Piankashaws, Delaware, Wyandots—the year of the three sevens hasn’t been good to my part of the country. The year of the bloody sevens, Kentuckians are calling it.”

The serving girl’s shadow touched the table where George’s browned hand closed around his coffee mug. George glanced up.

“My friend’s hungry, my girl.”

Younger than I am,
Judson thought with despair.
Younger, and he acts twice my age. Twice as composed and sure of himself
—

“May I bring you something, sir?” the girl asked Judson.

“Only something to drink—” he began. When George’s eyes widened in surprise, he added quickly, “What my friend’s having. Coffee. Put milk in mine, please.”

The girl shuffled away, yawning again.

“I was pleased to have the chance to talk with Donald when he was here,” George said. “If he’d shed some of that weight, his gout might bother him less.”

“Well, there’s precious little pleasure for him at Sermon Hill besides eating and drinking.”

“He’s helping your father operate the plantation, then?”

“When he’s not meeting here with the Burgesses.”

George hesitated. “You’re not at Sermon Hill—?”

“No.” Judson’s mouth twisted. “Father and I had one of our famous disagreements—this one a little more permanent than the others.”

“How permanent?”

“I don’t intend to go back to the place, ever. Furthermore, I’m not allowed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Judson waved, as if it didn’t matter. “I rode off to Philadelphia to replace Donald in the Congress for a time—”

George nodded. “Tom Jefferson told me, during one of our meetings.”

“What else did he tell you? That I botched my duties, the way I’ve botched everything in the last—?”

The serving girl’s return stopped Judson in mid-sentence. Embarrassed by the outburst, George glanced toward the fire. Judson wiped his damp forehead, accepted the mug of steaming coffee, drank a third of it in a series of gulps. The coffee was nearly scalding and took some of the chill out of him.

It didn’t lessen his tension, though. He was more and more convinced George Clark would reject his proposal out of hand.

“I always suspected I didn’t fit in around here,” Judson said finally. “Now, I know it.” The words had a lame, whipped sound.

There was no reproof in his friend’s eyes, only sympathy:

“Donald said your views on the slave question helped bring on the trouble with your father.”

“It’s much more than that. As I told you, I disgraced myself in Philadelphia. I shot a fat Tory to death when he challenged me to a duel—even though Jefferson and the president of the Congress warned me to steer clear of that sort of affair. There was also a scandal over a woman—”
And some things since that I’m too ashamed to speak about even to you.
“I’m not proud of any of it. Ever since I came back, I’ve done nothing but live day to day. No purpose, no ambition—”