The Bastard

by John Jakes

  The approach of winter made it increasingly apparent that the Port Bill would indeed prove disastrous. Gage interpreted the act as even prohibiting ferryboats from crossing the river. Thus the price of partridges or mutton or cod carted the long way around, by Roxbury Neck, grew astronomically. Decent quantities of firewood and sweet-smelling lamp oil could be afforded only by the very rich—mostly Tories, who were delighted to see the Whigs suffer, and who were not overly concerned when the poor did, either.

  Philip, of course, never forgot the presence of Lieutenant Colonel Roger Amberly in Boston.

  He questioned Lumden as to where the regiment’s commander was domiciled, and learned that it was in a huge house on Beacon Hill, a house whose owner had strong Tory leanings.

  Philip loitered outside the house on several different evenings, shivering in the dusk and hoping to catch a glimpse of the man whose death he planned in endless variations. He speculated on ways to arrange what would look like an accident. Other times, he thought of using what little money he’d put by to hire one of the South End mob men to act as executioner.

  But luck never gave him so much as one look at his enemy in all the hours he stood in the bitter wind, pondering alternatives.

  The answer to one major question still eluded him. Was he actually capable of doing what he told himself he wanted to do? The question unresolved, his plans remained just that.

  He finally abandoned the evening spying and let himself be consumed by the routine at Dassett Alley—and by Anne. Perhaps, he thought more than once, he was hiding from his own weakness; from a basic inability to cold-bloodedly kill another human being—

  After that first day in August when Lumden revealed the name of his commander, Anne never raised the subject of Amberly. Nor did she mention Alicia. Philip was grateful. He finally did admit to himself that he lacked the will to do deliberate murder.

  A part of him cried out for it. But something else, equally strong, held him back.

  ii

  “Oh, God, there’s going to be war, all right,” Sergeant Lumden declared glumly one night in late December. “Have you heard the news from New Hampshire—wherever the devil that is?”

  “Fort William and Mary,” Philip nodded, turning the tankard of rum punch in his hands to absorb its warmth. “They’re talking of nothing else down at the Dragon.”

  Red-haired Daisy hovered by the hearth. Much of her usual good humor seemed lacking this evening. Philip wondered why—until he caught up to the fact that she could scarcely keep her eyes off the mild-spoken British infantryman with the forehead mole. And she looked worried.

  Philip drank a little, chose his next words carefully:

  “In fact, I’ve even heard gossip that a Boston man, riding express for five shillings a day, carried a warning of the expedition to New Hampshire, so the stores could be carted off.”

  Gossip was hardly the right word. Philip knew full well that Revere had done the riding. But he wasn’t sure how far Lumden could be trusted, likable as he might be.

  General Gage had intended to strengthen the New Hampshire fort with several boatloads of troops slipped quietly out of Boston late one night. His plan had evidently been picked up by the alert ears of some informer at Province House. It was no secret that each side had its anonymous spies planted on the other.

  A patriot named John Sullivan received the warning from Revere. He encircled the fort with a band of men, overcame the small British garrison without so much as a single injury to anyone. Gage’s reinforcements arrived to find all the fort’s arms and powder gone.

  “And I agree with you, Sergeant,” Philip finished. “It does bring war that much closer.”

  Lumden eyed Philip morosely. The latter changed the subject, saying to Daisy, “You’ve no idea when Mistress Anne and her father will be back?”

  “No, sir. They left on some errands.” She moved to the table. Philip noted that her breasts rose and fell quickly. Why was she nervous?

  The pretty, red-haired cook pulled a stool to the table, sat down and leaned her elbows on the wood. She look intently at Philip.

  “But I’m glad you chose to call, sir. Geor—the sergeant has been meaning to speak to you for several days.”

  Philip shrugged as if to say the sergeant should go ahead. Lumden did, but with difficulty, staring at the open pantry door, at the rime of frost on a window overlooking the backyard—everywhere but at Philip.

  “Well, Mr. Kent, the truth is, I—I—”

  “Don’t hesitate now,” Daisy urged. “Tell him!”

  Lumden’s gray eyes finally met Philip’s. “I can speak to you in confidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “I told you that!” Daisy sighed.

  Lumden swallowed. “I have been thinking of leaving the army.”

  “You mean a resignation?”

  “No,” Daisy answered, clasping her hand over the sergeant’s.

  All at once Philip understood the girl’s tension, the way her eyes lingered on Lumden’s face. He recalled how the cook and the soldier had spent many an evening together in the kitchen in recent weeks. Their soft laughter took on a new significance. He said:

  “Desertion.”

  Daisy nodded emphatically. “George and I wish to be married. We have resolved the matter of our different faiths—”

  Philip grinned. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations to both of you!”

  Daisy flushed, prettily this time. Her bright red hair glinted with reflections from the crackling fireplace. Lumden put in quickly:

  “I realize desertion’s a damned detestable act. Though I hate being stationed here to repress fellow Englishmen, three months ago I would have struck any chap who suggested the possibility that I might run away. But I don’t mind admitting my feelings for Daisy have changed my attitude.”

  Philip said, “George, you’re smart enough to appreciate that you’ve been quartered in a household where sympathies for the Crown are not exactly at a peak—”

  “Oh yes, I’ve picked up a hint or two,” Lumden answered with a wry smile.

  “So you don’t have to apologize. I applaud your decision. I think Mr. Ware will too.”

  “More and more of the lads are doing it, you know,” Lumden said. “Slipping out across the Neck dressed as countrymen. Or rowing from the Charlestown Ferry guard post on the pretext of some official errand—”

  “I say bravo to that,” Philip told him.

  “You must realize it’s not cowardice on my part!” Lumden exclaimed. Then he added more softly, “At least not entirely. I doubt if I’d ever have decided to do it, except for—for what I’ve found in this house. Affection. Tenderness—” He lapsed into silence, turning even redder than Daisy had a moment earlier.

  Presently, he managed to go on, “Also, as perhaps I’ve indicated, I do have a liking for the people of Boston—!”

  Philip suppressed a smile. “Yes, you indicated that a minute ago, George. You don’t need to keep explaining or excusing—”

  “In my own heart, I think the King and his ministers are fools, villains or both! They don’t realize you colonials are strong-headed. You won’t yield easily!”

  “We won’t yield at all, George.”

  “Just so! That means action and counteraction—one side against the other—till the fuse ignites all the powder, am I correct?”

  “I think you are, George.”

  Lumden banged the table, making the tankards rattle. “But dammit, I’ve no stomach for going into battle against artisans and farmers whose only crime is holding fast to what rights they feel belong to ’em—and are being taken away!”

  “Understood,” Philip assured him. “Completely understood. But let’s discuss the practical problems—”

  “Leaving Boston, you mean?” Daisy asked.

  “Yes. It’s either the Neck or the river.”

  “I think it must be the Neck,” Lumden said. “A smithy’s son gets little chance to become acquainted with water. Been s
wimming just once in my life. We visited a distant relative’s near the River Avon. I only had nerve to wade up to my ankles. Scared to death, I was! On the voyage across from England, I was sick nearly the whole time. Y’see?—it’s true! I’m a swinishly bad soldier! Trained for just one thing—like every other fellow in a British infantry regiment. Trained to be fodder for the enemy’s muskets and cannon! In the formations in which we march, a man stands every chance of being shot down in the opening volley—”

  His eyes gazed into some grim distance, seeing the slaughter he described. Then, as Philip cleared his throat, Lumden veered the talk back to the subject with a sharp, distracted gesture.

  “I can’t chance the river.”

  “To cross the Neck, you’ll need different clothes,” Philip said.

  Daisy put in that she’d already been gathering up items from serving girls she knew in other houses. “Discards, mostly. They’ll do well enough.”

  Philip nodded. “But you won’t dare speak, George. Your accent would give you away.”

  “We have a plan for that as well,” Daisy told, him. “All it requires is another person. I’ve some savings of my own—do you know a trustworthy lad we could hire to pose as George’s companion? His son—his nephew? The plan’s to work this way—”

  She described it in a few sentences. Philip admitted that, while it contained some risk, it stood a chance of succeeding, because the British soldiers typically regarded Massachusetts farmers as oafish types unable or unwilling to put any kind of check on their consumption of spirits—especially rum.

  “I don’t know of anyone offhand,” he told Lumden. “I’ll make inquiries, though.”

  “God bless you for that, sir!”

  “When do you want to leave?” Philip countered.

  “As soon as the arrangements can be completed.”

  “Where will you go? To that relative of yours you mentioned? Connecticut, wasn’t it?”

  Lumden answered, “Eventually I’ll go there, yes. For the time being I plan to hide at Daisy’s home. A farm beyond Concord. I don’t imagine they’ll search for me too long.”

  Philip chuckled. “If they kept up a constant search for every Tommy who’s deserted in the past few months, Gage’s men wouldn’t have time for anything else. And he’d soon run out of men to do the searching! I’d hazard that you’ll be safe within a week or two—” A thought occurred to him. “What are you going to do with your uniform and equipment?”

  Lumden thought a moment. “Burn the uniform, I ’spose. In that fireplace. As for the Brown Bess—”

  “And the blade that fits on the end. The bayonet,” Philip prompted. “That’s a weapon the colonial troops don’t have, and don’t know how to use.”

  The statement was entirely accurate. More than once, Lieutenant Knox of the Boston Grenadier Company had declared that lack of bayonets, as well as lack of training in using same, would put the colonials at a bad disadvantage if they were ever up against British line regiments in a stiff fight. Most of the militiamen tended to scoff. They bragged about their accuracy with a musket, rejected the need for an additional weapon affixed to the muzzle for stabbing and hacking. But Philip respected Knox, and took him at his word. So he tried not to show his eagerness as he asked Lumden:

  “What will become of those things?”

  “I’ll leave them hidden in the barn. Or ditch them in the river. If I tried to haul ’em along with me, they’d be recognized as Crown issue right off. And God save me, I’ve come to hate all they stand for. Any fighting I have to do, I’ll do with my own two hands.”

  Philip’s dark eyes shone with a sudden intensity. “Will you give me the musket and the bayonet?”

  Lumden grinned. “In return for finding the reliable lad to help with our plan.”

  “Done!”

  “I prefer not to speculate on what you want with those things,” Lumden said. “If the time ever comes when you use ’em against men who might be friends of mine, I hope I’m tilling a field in Connecticut and bouncing a youngster in my lap.” He reached over to clasp his pale hand around Daisy O’Brian’s.

  She stared back with unashamed affection. Philip barely noticed. His mind’s eye glowed with an image of the Brown Bess and its shining length of steel. With difficulty, he refocused his thoughts on the reality of the moment.

  “One more thing. Who’s to know this plan? Mistress Anne, for instance?”

  “I have already described our intentions to her,” said the girl. “I imagine Mr. Ware will need to be told, too. Beyond that, I’ve spoken to no one. I haven’t sent a letter to my father—and even if I could find someone to write it for me, I won’t. If George should be caught—”

  “I’d be flogged at the least,” Lumden put in. “Or, more likely, shot.”

  “So I figured it’s best my father know nothing of it till George reaches the farm. I hear sending messages out of Boston can be risky these days.”

  “Agreed,” said Philip, rising from the table. There were noises at the front of the house.

  Lawyer Ware appeared momentarily, knocking snowflakes from the crown of his tricorn hat.

  “Aha, some conspiracy brewing!” he said with a sly smile. “I can tell from the cats’ grins you’re all wearing.” In spite of himself, Ware had taken a liking to Lumden.

  Anne entered the kitchen. Philip moved a couple of steps so their hands could touch briefly. With his other hand, he lifted his tankard in mock toast.

  “Yes, sir, we’re conspirators, all right. We’ve just recruited a new man to the cause. Or at least subtracted one from the other side. We should celebrate.”

  “You’re mighty free at celebrating with my own supply of spirits, Mr. Kent,” Ware said with false seriousness. “What’s the nature of this conspiracy?”

  As soon as Lumden explained his decision, Ware clapped his hands in delight and demanded that they all drink several festive rounds.

  “At my expense,” he said with a look at Philip. “This time.”

  iii

  Following the advice of Ben Edes, Philip decided to hire his help at the Green Dragon. Edes said boys who worked there were none too scrupulous about how they earned extra pay.

  The boy on duty when Philip dropped in was an unkempt, ragged lad, one Jemmy Thaxter. Recognizing Philip as a friend, the landlord stated confidentially that, yes, Jemmy was willing to do illegal work when sufficiently rewarded.

  “But he’s been on the streets since he was seven or eight. So drive a sharp bargain. And keep any necessary secrets to yourself.”

  Philip disliked the fox-eyed twelve-year-old from the start. He especially hated Jemmy’s putrid breath and his noxious habit of licking his crooked, yellowing upper teeth.

  But Jemmy listened carefully, then said sure, he could come by a rickety cart and a horse in the slums of South Boston where he lived. Some risk to the venture? Never mind—all he cared about was the ten shillings.

  Philip didn’t ask how the boy intended to acquire the cart and the animal. Steal them, probably. Nor did he outline details of the plan, or its purpose. Those would be revealed only just before Lumden’s departure, when it would be too late for the boy to betray them.

  Jemmy shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “So long’s I’m paid, I’ll sup with Old Nick himself. When’s this here cart and nag wanted?”

  “When I tell you so and not before. Could be days. Could be weeks. I’ll let you know.” The timing, Philip had been told, was up to Lumden himself.

  The whole scheme somehow made him apprehensive. He charged it off to the worsening mood of the city. The closed port put hundreds of men out of work at the shipyards, the sail houses, the ropewalks. Why build a vessel if she could only be launched to sit in the harbor? Quarrelsome bands of the unemployed roamed the streets, harassing Gage’s soldiers. Attacks against the troops became more frequent and more violent. The unwary enlisted man or officer who ventured out alone after dark stood the risk of being found the next morning severely beaten
or—in two cases Philip heard about—dead. The only relief from the general grimness came during the occasional moments he and Anne managed to steal for themselves.

  On the last night of the old year, he visited Launder Street exactly as he’d done twelve months earlier. Anne teasingly suggested they welcome 1775 in the manner that had pleasured them both a year previously.

  Accomplishing the suggestion proved a little harder. Lawyer Ware yawned and retired well before the clock chimed eleven. But Daisy and her sergeant kept the kitchen humming with their claret-primed merriment. Philip and Anne ultimately had to resort to the pretense of announcing a short stroll in the wintry air just before midnight.

  Once into Launder Street, they slipped around through twisting alleys to the sanctuary of the tiny barn, where they shared each other’s embraces with eagerness and delight. But because of the glow from the kitchen windows, they didn’t dare linger too long. They returned to the house the way they had left, within half an hour after the tolling of the bells.

  As the new year opened, food and supplies in the Ware home, as in all of Boston, became more and more limited. The Wares took to burning only a few sticks of kindling in the kitchen hearth at night, and none in the parlor.

  And although Philip repeatedly offered Lumden reassurances that the plan would work smoothly, he continued to feel less than certain. Conditions in the city generated that kind of pessimism. Everything seemed to be breaking down.

  While the days went by, Lumden grew increasingly fretful. Philip was worried that the man’s agitated state would draw suspicion from his senior officers. Almost daily, so Anne reported, the sergeant vowed that he couldn’t wait any longer. But he refused to name a day and hour when he would actually desert. Clearly, a violation of military law ran against his principles. Even though he was sustained by Daisy’s romantic encouragements, the whole business placed him under a severe strain, Anne said.