The Bastard

by John Jakes

  Visiting Launder Street the next time, Philip discovered she hadn’t exaggerated. Lumden spoke in monosyllables. He paced the Ware kitchen, up and down, up and down, fingering the mole on his forehead. On one of her trips to Dassett Alley, Anne said:

  “I think if the poor man delays much longer, he’ll suffer some kind of seizure. Or blurt out his guilt to the whole town. Do you suppose we should encourage him to abandon the idea?”

  Philip shook his head. “I want that musket.”

  A somber pleasure brightened Anne’s dark eyes. “Papa and I may make a revolutionary of you yet, Philip.”

  Ignoring the remark, he said, “I agree with you that Lumden shouldn’t keep waiting. Else he may well give the game away. We’ll talk to him tonight. Try to force a decision. Speed, after all, is to his advantage. Adams is already predicting that Gage will move in the spring. Go after the militia stores out in the country in earnest. So if our sergeant delays and delays, he may be marching in battle formation whether he likes it or not.”

  Philip repeated the warning that same evening. The pale infantryman listened in silence. Wintering indoors in the city had turned his cheeks hollow but had added even more weight to his belly.

  When Philip finished, Lumden gnawed his lip, said with effort:

  “All right—Saturday. Tell the boy Saturday. When it’s dark. I’ll disappear after evening muster—”

  “How soon will you be missed?”

  “Not till late Sunday, I shouldn’t imagine.”

  Daisy looked relieved. “I have all the clothing put by.”

  “Good,” Philip said. “Saturday. Seven o’clock.”

  The next afternoon, Philip asked Ben Edes’ permission for half an hour off. He trudged to the Dragon in a thin, sifting snow. He instructed Jemmy Thaxter to bring the cart and horse to Launder Street at the appointed time. Sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve, the boy promised he would.

  Philip slept badly the two nights prior to Saturday. The day dawned dull gray and unseasonably warm. He had trouble concentrating on his work, the typesetting for Monday’s edition of the paper. At closing time he locked the shop and rushed to Launder Street. He found Lumden again pacing the kitchen.

  “Well, you do look the picture of a countryman,” Philip nodded, taking in the sergeant’s attire: a leather hunting shirt with decorative fringe; a flop-brimmed hat and a thick muffler of dark brown wool; dirty trousers that might once have been bottle green; worn boots with flapping sole pieces. Daisy had indeed secured the ultimate castoffs of other households.

  “Smear some of that fireplace soot on your neck,” Philip instructed. “Under your nails, too.” He went to the parlor for a glance at the enameled clock. Nearly six-thirty already.

  He lifted one of the draperies, peered into Launder Street. Why was he so damned jumpy? His mind swam with a memory of Jemmy Thaxter’s foxy, opaque eyes.

  At seven-thirty, standing beside him in the cold, lightless parlor, Anne voiced the fear that had become a certainty to Philip:

  “Something’s amiss. He’s not coming.”

  “I’d better go find out what’s happened—”

  “Philip?” He turned on his way out. “Please be careful.”

  Nodding, he bundled into the surtout he’d purchased a few weeks ago for protection against the damp January winds. He tramped to the Green Dragon, pushed through the doors, blinked against the smoke—and clenched his teeth in fury at the sight of Jemmy Thaxter piling three new logs onto the irons of the blackened hearth.

  The boy saw Philip immediately. He bolted for the back.

  Philip ran after him, dodging among the startled patrons. “That’s Ben Edes’ devil!” one exclaimed. “What did Jemmy do this time, sell his sister and give the lad the pox—?”

  Philip crashed out through the tavern’s rear door, sprinted six steps along the alley, caught Jemmy’s collar.

  “Leave go!” the boy squealed. Instead, Philip shook him, hard.

  “Seven o’clock’s come and gone. Where’s the horse? Where’s the cart?”

  Still struggling, Jemmy cried, “I don’t want nothin’ to do wif a soldier running away!”

  “Running—?”

  Philip was so astounded, he nearly let the boy go by accident. But he held on. Jemmy coughed, a heavy, wheezing sound. Philip’s mouth tightened. His voice dropped, threatening:

  “How did you decide that’s why the cart was wanted?” He shook Jemmy savagely. “Tell me or I’ll break your damn bones!”

  “I—I didn’t think this was no straight deal from the start. I wanted to see wot I was gettin’ into. So I follered you one night. From Edes’ place to that house in Launder Street. I peeked in an’ saw you talkin’ to that lobsterback in the kitchen. He’s goin’ to ditch, ain’t he? That’s what I’m ’sposed to do, ain’t it, help smuggle him ’cross the Neck? Well, I don’t like bloody Tommy any better’n the next. But I ain’t mixing in helping somebody from the Thirty-third run away. Ten shillings ain’t worth it—nothing’s worth it—you git a whip or a musket ball if you’re caught—quit holding me so hard!”

  Something in the boy’s darting eyes started suspicion churning inside Philip. But he couldn’t quite pin down what was wrong. Especially when his anger was running high, urging him to administer a beating. The frail, dirty boy disgusted him.

  “So you haven’t got the horse or the cart?” he asked.

  Jemmy gulped, admitted it was so. Philip flung him away, cursing.

  “Ain’t you going to hit me or nothing?”

  “Hell, why? The harm’s done. But let me warn you, Jemmy. Boy or no boy, breathe a word to a soul and you’ll be called on by some gentlemen in liberty caps. They won’t spare you because of your age, you sneaking little bastard.”

  Coughing out a mist of spittle, Jemmy cowered back against the fence opposite the Dragon’s rear door. “There won’t be a word—nobody knows ’cept me. I haven’t even told the lady, God’s truth! I just decided not to go through with it, is all—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that, dammit?”

  “I—I was scairt to. I thought you’d beat me.”

  “Remember that you’ll be beaten worse if you don’t keep your mouth closed.”

  “I will—I swear.”

  Again Philip felt that sting of suspicion; again he failed to define the source. It was obvious he’d simply approached the wrong boy, and now Lumden’s whole escape was in jeopardy. Once more he tried to read Jemmy’s grubby face, darting eyes. He couldn’t.

  Turning, he sped off up the alley, intending to run all the way to Launder Street.

  At least, he thought as he raced along with the night air stinging his cheeks, Lumden could return to his unit for the next muster and not be missed. But Philip also realized he’d have to call at the Dragon a few more times, to make certain he’d put sufficient fear into Jemmy Thaxter to ensure the boy’s silence—

  A silence which the next moments revealed to be a fraud.

  Philip rounded the corner into the street where Lawyer Ware’s house showed lamplight at its parlor windows. He stopped in mid-stride, cold dread clawing his middle.

  In front of the house, reins looped and tied to the ring of the mounting block, a horse fretted and blew out plumes of vapor.

  Philip had seen enough wealthy people riding on the Common to recognize an expensive saddle. What person of means was calling on Abraham Ware just at the hour when Lumden’s escape was supposed to be taking place? It was too damned coincidental for comfort—

  Stealing toward the stoop, Philip suddenly recalled something else. Jemmy had specifically identified Lumden’s regiment. That was what had been nagging his mind!

  Perhaps the boy already knew which regiment wore willow-green facings.

  But if not, why would he go to the trouble of finding out? Unless—

  Nerves taut, he crept up the front steps, crouched and peered through a slit where drapery and window frame didn’t quite meet. Terror soured his throat
as he caught a flash of scarlet inside—

  An officer’s tunic!

  Waiting only long enough to confirm that with a second look, Philip whirled and darted back down the steps. The horse neighed, clopped its hoofs. Philip edged away, stole through the passage beside the house and across the tiny yard under the pale stars.

  As he approached the closed barn door, his mind seethed with fury. What had happened had become all too evident.

  First, he’d blundered, let himself be followed.

  And Jemmy had been lying when he claimed he wanted no part of the desertion. The boy’s gutter mind had simply recognized a chance for bigger profit. How much had he gotten from the officers of the Thirty-third for informing on the would-be deserter?

  Starting to roll back the barn door, Philip again cursed his own foolish mistake. Who was in the house? What was happening?

  With the door no more than half open, he heard quick movement. Something flashed toward his face. He ducked instinctively, drove his left hand up, battered Lumden’s musket aside. A second slower, and the bayonet would have pierced his throat—

  “Lumden—hold still!” The terrified sergeant kept trying to wrench his musket loose. “God damn it, stop! It’s me!”

  At last Lumden recognized Philip. He lowered the musket with a trembling hand, whispered:

  “Kent—what in the name of Christ went wrong?”

  “The boy sold us out. My fault.”

  “I thought I’d gone stark raving crazy when Daisy spied one of the regimental officers riding up to the front door—”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, I ran out here to hide. Mistress Anne said she could get rid of him.”

  Philip prayed Anne’s confidence would prove warranted. She, Daisy and Ware had carefully discussed and rehearsed the story they would tell if anyone from Lumden’s regiment came searching for him. The story was to be simple and, therefore, easily kept consistent. They would merely state that Lumden had vanished without any explanation.

  But though the household had planned on the certainty of an investigation, they had not planned on it taking place until Lumden was well out of Boston. To have an officer pounce while the sergeant was still hidden on the premises was a development even the courageous and quick-witted Anne might not be able to handle.

  Philip wished her father were home to help. But he knew that Ware, anticipating no difficulty with the departure, had left Launder Street at five, to confer, then dine, at Hancock’s.

  Chafing his hands against the cold, Philip kept glancing toward the rear of the house. He saw lights but no sign of movement in the kitchen.

  He had to trust Anne. Depend on Anne. Her good sense, her bravery—

  “Why is the officer here now, Kent? You haven’t explained!”

  “He’s here because that little sod from the Dragon must have gone to your regimental headquarters. The boy pretended the plan was too risky. Said he followed me here, saw you inside, guessed it was a desertion—wanted no part of it at any price. Obviously that’s not true. He saw a chance to get a higher price from someone else, just for reporting—look, we’re wasting time. Gather up your gear. We’ll slip out the back way. Go to the shop. Anne will be able to turn the officer away. But he’ll probably want to verify any claim that you’re not here—”

  “But she may be telling him I am here!”

  “I doubt it. She knows you’d be questioned. Hard. So you’d better not be around. Come on, I’ll help you—”

  He bent in the darkness, fumbled Lumden’s pack straps into his hands—

  And went rigid at the sound of a woman crying out in terror—or pain.

  The scream came from the house.

  Philip bowled past Lumden, snatched up the sergeant’s musket. He loosened the bayonet from the muzzle in seconds. With the length of steel glittering in his hand, he dashed across the yard and up the kitchen steps as the cry rang out again.

  This time he had no doubt that it was Anne’s voice.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Journey to Darkness

  i

  PHILIP WASTED NO TIME on silence. He kicked the porch door open, sped through the kitchen with barely a glimpse of Daisy O’Brian, round-eyed and uttering small, wordless sounds of terror.

  She had good reason to be frightened out of her wits. As he reached the closed parlor doors, he caught the sounds of struggle on the other side.

  His breath was a ghostly cloud in the chill darkness. The front hall was illuminated only by the faint light of the January stars through the fanlight. He pressed close to the carved wood of the doors, heard a pained exclamation from Anne—then a voice that dredged up memories of depthless fear and hatred:

  “—will not lie to me further, madam! Has he fled or are you concealing him? Come, which is it?”

  The familiar voice sounded heavy with sudden exertion. Anne let out another little cry.

  “Other commanders may delegate unpleasant business like this, madam. But I punish personally. I punish both those under my direct command and any who abet their treachery—”

  Philip pried the doors apart with his free hand and stepped into the parlor’s dim lamplight.

  He knew the voice—and the man—beyond all doubting. He saw other details only marginally—

  Anne’s gown disheveled; ripped down the right sleeve, where the officer held her with his left hand—

  The man’s scarlet tunic, seen from the back. But even from that viewpoint, Philip recognized the additional height, the wider shoulders—

  The officer wore his sword in an unusual position. On his right hip.

  Because he would have to wield the weapon with a hand that was not crippled—?

  Anne glimpsed Philip across the officer’s shoulder. She couldn’t conceal her reaction. The officer heard Philip’s quiet voice even as he started to turn.

  “Yes, that would be like you, now that you no longer have to act secretly. Now that your uniform gives you the authority to strike in the open.”

  Like an image from a half-remembered nightmare, Philip saw the face at last. The features so like his own. The small, cloven U mark near the left brow. For a moment Roger Amberly’s expression remained blank. Philip waited at the doorway, bayonet held near his waist.

  The stunning recognition hit.

  “My God in heaven. Charboneau?”

  He saw the ruin of his half-brother’s hand. The fingers were permanently tightened into a claw, much as Lumden had shown him. The hand had a shrunken, bloodless appearance, as if it had not only locked in its crippled position, but withered from lack of use. It looked tiny, dangling at the end of an otherwise normal arm.

  The disfiguring mark turned darker, almost black. Roger Amberly’s face became a show of confusion—disbelief and rage mingled as he struggled to comprehend the reality of the man confronting him. The young officer’s splendid red coat with its cuffs and lapels of willow green stained the scene with vivid color.

  Never taking his eyes from his half-brother, Roger relaxed his grip on Anne’s arm. She retreated a step, watching tensely as Philip sought to control the rage in his own mind and heart.

  “Charboneau?” Philip repeated. “You’re wrong, Colonel. Charboneau died in London. Or was it on the Bristol road? If not one, then the other—as you intended, correct? Charboneau’s mother is also dead—because of your harassment. It’s a man named Philip Kent you must deal with now.” He gestured savagely with the bayonet. “Get outside, so I don’t spill your God damn blood in this house!”

  To Roger’s credit, he stood still, composed. “Philip—what?—Kent?” he said. His mouth took on its familiar, mean twist. “Well, a new name hardly conceals the insufferable bastard boy I met formerly. And I find you in a traitor’s house to boot. Oh, yes—” The slight turn of his head was for Anne’s benefit “—The dwelling of Mr. Abraham Ware is well known to the general’s staff as a place where these so-called patriots hatch treason.”

  Very slowly, he reac
hed across with his left hand, gripped his sword hilt, suddenly freed the blade with amazing speed. His eyes loomed huge and dark in the shifting flicker of the two lamps. His loathing poured like a torrent through one more sentence he spoke:

  “It shall give me considerable pleasure to write my good wife, Alicia—with whom I believe you were briefly acquainted—that circumstances presented me with the opportunity to finally bring about your long-overdue death.” Without warning, he ran at Philip, left arm extended, sword reaching out—

  Philip had no time to think, only to react in order to save himself. He twisted aside. Roger’s sword gouged into one of the doors. For a moment Philip smelled his blood kin: the scented powder in his hair, the damp odor of his woolen coat, the sudden sweaty odor that danger produces in all men. The half brothers stood no more than a foot apart for one frozen instant. Roger’s midsection was fully exposed by the force and extension of his lunge. Philip brought his right hand up and stabbed the bayonet into Roger’s belly and pulled it out.

  Roger’s mouth dropped open. His shoulders sagged. He did a peculiar step to the side, his boot heels clicking. Then he stared down at the pierced wool to the left of his brightly polished buttons.

  A darker red appeared in the cut in the fabric—and spread, staining. Struggling for breath, Roger let out a labored exclamation.

  Now that his initial thoughtless fury had been drained away in the single driving blow of the reddened bayonet, Philip turned cold. Roger was dying on his feet—

  It took him a moment to fall. Blurring, his dark eyes seemed to search for Philip, his bravado replaced by a horror-struck look of hurt, by the realization that he might be mortally injured.

  Philip felt weak, almost sick. His enemy no longer looked formidable, only helpless. Roger’s sword struck the pegged floor to one side of the carpet. With a last, bubbling grunt of pain, he dropped.

  Thrusting the bloody bayonet under his left arm, Philip cried, “Help me, Anne!”

  She stumbled forward, grabbed Roger’s right shoulder. The two turned Roger so that he lay on his back. Mouth open, eyes shut, he gasped like a beached fish. All at once Philip realized the full significance of what had happened—and what had to be done.