The Bastard

by John Jakes

  “Oh, Christ help us—!”

  “—but Daisy and I have agreed to marry and raise our offspring in her church!”

  O’Brian blinked. “You have?”

  “Definitely.”

  Scratching his chin, the farmer turned to the Negro. “Arthur, what’s your opinion now?”

  “It’s too crazy not to be true, Mr. O’Brian,” said the grizzled black. “But I’d like to hear the other one talk some, too.”

  Before Philip could speak, Lumden said matter-of-factly, “I didn’t know men in the colonies asked the opinions of their bond slaves.”

  Arthur slammed the musket butt on the pegged floor, glaring. For the first time, Philip noticed rings of thickened tissue on the inside of each black wrist. Shackle scars?

  O’Brian made a placating gesture. “Arthur, he only speaks out of pagan ignorance.” To Lumden: “We don’t hold with slavery in the Massachusetts colony. Arthur is a free man of color. He works for his wages and board like anyone else—and can cease to do so and move on whenever he chooses. Bear that in mind when you speak to him.”

  Lumden flushed still another time. “I meant no offense, certainly. My apologies, Arthur—if I may address you that way.”

  “Guess so. Only name I got.” But the black looked mollified.

  Philip felt certain the shackle marks meant the man was a runaway. Perhaps from one of the southern colonies, where the peculiar institution so disapproved by many Boston liberals had long flourished with the assistance of Boston sea captains who brought human cargo from Africa as part of the vastly profitable triangular trade.

  O’Brian resumed, “The blessed Lord saw fit to deliver nothing but females from the loins of my sainted, departed wife. Five of my daughters are already wed and living in various towns around the province. Daisy went traipsing off to Boston in the hope of improving her fortunes in similar style—” Another glance askance at Lumden, as if to say he wasn’t sure she had. “So there’s none but Arthur and me to run the place. If it’s sanctuary you’re seeking, the price is work.”

  “We’ll gladly pay it,” Philip told him. “George plans no return to Boston. And I can’t go back for some weeks—if at all. I—” He hesitated only a moment. He felt he could trust the old farmer with at least a portion of the story. “—I encountered some trouble with one of His Majesty’s officers. There may be arrest warrants out for me.”

  “Is Daisy in any danger?” O’Brian asked suddenly.

  Philip didn’t like lying. But he felt it best to spare the man undue concern.

  “I am not aware of any, sir. She and Mistress Ware helped George find clothing for his escape, that’s all. Your daughter directed us to come here, and said she’d send a message—”

  “About what?”

  “Joining us.”

  “How soon?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “But you, the lobsterbacks want to arrest?”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  At that O’Brian broke into his first genuine smile of the morning. “Well, that’s a good recommendation!”

  Already Philip felt better. The kitchen was warm now, flooded with the gold light of the winter morning breaking across the hillside behind the farm. The Irishman went on:

  “And you’re in top company. We understand the lives of such men as Sam Adams and Johnny Hancock aren’t worth a shilling if they linger in Boston many more days. Fact is, we’ve been hearing they may seek sanctuary out this way. If you’re all you claim, Kent, you’ll want an introduction to my neighbor down the road. Jim Barrett—the Colonel. In charge of our Concord militia.”

  Philip nodded. “Indeed. I’ve already mustered with the Boston Grenadiers under Captain Pierce.”

  “Good. Arthur—hang up the porridge pot. Let’s feed these scarecrows, and ourselves too. I guess I’d best become acquainted with Tommy here, since it appears I may be stuck with him, like it or not. As soon as they’ve eaten, you can put ’em to work.”

  At last the big black managed a grin.

  “Mr. O’Brian, I’ll keep ’em busy, don’t you worry.”

  ii

  Arthur proved a hard but fair taskmaster. He set Martin O’Brian’s two unexpected boarders to hammering and sawing from sunup to dark, completing needed repairs on the siding of the rickety barn. Philip was grateful for the labor. It drained his body of strength by day’s end, and the exhaustion helped drain his mind of worry about Anne Ware.

  But no matter how tired he became from his chores, worry about Anne never escaped him completely. January turned into gray February, and still no message arrived.

  During long evenings by the kitchen fire, O’Brian and his prospective son-in-law held lengthy conversations. They exchanged views on the seesaw struggle between Crown and colonies, impressions of British military capability in the event of open warfare. O’Brian was also fairly consistent with questions about the sincerity of Lumden’s intent to become a Catholic convert.

  O’Brian had by this time taken Philip down the road to the home of leathery Colonel James Barrett, who was readying the Concord militia and minute companies in the event of hostilities. Philip’s sincerity and background convinced Barrett that the younger man was a worthy recruit. He drilled in Concord village with men of all ages. Some of the older ones were veterans of Rogers’ Rangers in the French and Indian War—the struggle that had been called the Seven Years’ War in that lost, dim time in Auvergne. Then, the men had fought on the King’s side.

  Out in the country, as Philip had heard, equipping the militia with muskets, powder and ball was no problem. The stockpiles had been building up for months. Barrett’s smokehouse was a major storage point for arms. Other stores, including half a dozen cannon, were bidden in Concord’s meeting house.

  But because of the stockpiles, Barrett frequently reminded his companies, their quiet little village in the wooded hills where the Sudbury and Assabet flowed together to form the Concord might well be a major target of an expedition by Gage’s soldiers.

  Though security at the Neck was now reported tighter than ever, word of the heightening tensions in Boston reached Wright’s Tavern with fair regularity. Patriots managed to row across the Charles by night to carry the news—

  Revere had organized a secret company of mechanics to keep track of any sudden troop movements out of the city.

  Ships newly arrived from England bore word that America’s partisan, old Pitt, the Earl of Chatham, had responded to the declaration of grievances from the Congress. He had laid a plan of conciliation before Parliament. The plan included a provision for withdrawing all royal troops from Boston.

  Pitt’s plan was defeated. Next, it was rumored that while pretending to draw up a reconciliation program of its own, the North ministry was privately readying even more repressive and economically disastrous measures, including bills to bar New England ships from commerce in any ports save those in Britain and the British West Indies, and to forbid New England fishing vessels from working the North Atlantic banks.

  Most ominous of all were reports of another act, already said to be passed in London and awaiting only formal transmittal to Gage. It would authorize the general to use whatever measures he deemed necessary to enforce the various Crown edicts.

  As the ice of February thinned under the first onslaught of March winds, the Concord patriots met in dark old Wright’s to hear that despite the pleadings of men such as Pitt and Burke, both Lords and Commons had already declared the Massachusetts province “in rebellion.” Gage seemed to act accordingly. He sent soldiers to Salem to seize the colonial arms stored there.

  The night it happened, loud knocking at O’Brian’s door roused Philip from his pallet. He grabbed his musket and ran all the way to Concord.

  The provincial alarm system, a combination of mounted couriers and ringing bells in every village steeple, had been perfected now. All the Concord companies were ready to march within a couple of hours.

  Then a horseman pounded in to rep
ort that the Salem supplies had been moved safely out of reach of the troops—and Gage’s officers had chosen not to search and force combat in order to capture them.

  But the patriots who made Wright’s a rendezvous—Concord’s Tory families wisely avoided the tavern—swore that it was only a matter of weeks, or perhaps days, before inevitable bloodshed.

  In preparation, the Provincial Congress sitting at Cambridge under the direction of Hancock and Dr. Warren passed a resolve which put the militia companies on notice that any troop movements from Boston “to the Number of Five Hundred Men” would be considered grounds for mobilizing to a war-ready state.

  Philip supposed he should take a more serious interest in all these dire tidings. But he was too preoccupied with the lack of any communications from Anne. O’Brian was equally worried about his daughter. As was Lumden.

  By the second week in March, after discussing the situation with the Irish farmer and the ex-sergeant, Philip decided he would try to re-enter the city.

  The very next morning, a cold, rain-spattered day, he was inside the barn preparing to saddle the sway-backed mare O’Brian had offered him. He heard wheels creak, hoofs plopping, looked outside—

  The farm wagon appeared on the road at the front of the property. Arthur had driven to Concord for some flour and other staples. There was a second person returning with him. Squinting through the gray rain, Philip detected bright red hair—and shouted to the back of the barn where Lumden was sawing a plank:

  “George! Daisy’s here!”

  Both men went racing through the drizzle as Arthur turned the wagon down the rutted track alongside the house. Laughing and weeping at the same time, Daisy flung herself down into Lumden’s arms.

  When the embrace ended, she ran to Philip and hugged him impetuously. “Mistress Anne’s waiting for you at the tavern in Concord.”

  “You mean she came with you?”

  Daisy nodded. “She and her father have taken rooms there. Adams has fled Boston for good—Mr. Hancock too. Sneaked out like criminals at night.”

  “The danger’s grown that great, then?”

  “So everyone says. Only that Dr. Warren stayed behind, Mr. Ware told us.”

  She glanced around, wiping the joyful tears from her face while Lumden simply stood, his saw forgotten in the mud at his feet. He beamed with almost comical happiness.

  “Where’s my father?” Daisy asked.

  “Gone down the road to speak with Colonel Barrett,” Arthur informed her.

  She turned to Lumden. “Have you—? That is, will he let us—?”

  Lumden just grinned and nodded. Daisy squealed and rushed into his arms again. Philip started for the house to get his surtout. He called over his shoulder:

  “Tell Mr. O’Brian I’ve gone to town to see—”

  He stopped suddenly, looking at Daisy.

  Holding Lumden’s arm, she was staring at him with all trace of happiness momentarily wiped away.

  “Daisy, what’s wrong?” he asked.

  She rushed to him, whispering:

  “Mistress Anne will tell you.”

  “No, you tell me.”

  “There—there seems to be fairly certain evidence that the officer—well, the one who came to the house the night you left isn’t—” She couldn’t continue.

  “Daisy, go on! Isn’t what?”

  “Isn’t dead.”

  iii

  Cold fear, cold and slashing as the March rain, ravaged him as he swung into the saddle and headed the mare down the half-thawed road to Concord.

  He saw O’Brian’s horse tethered outside the colonel’s house but pushed on without stopping. He clattered over the footbridge and through the center of the village to Wright’s. The mud outside bore marks of the recent arrival of a coach.

  Daisy’s news had struck him with stunning force. And yet, reflecting as he dismounted, he realized that it was a turn of events he might have foreseen. He could not remember a single second during the haste of that bloody night on Launder Street when he had paused to determine whether Roger Amberly was indeed dead. He had assumed the bayonet stroke to be fatal.

  The error could be fatal to him in turn.

  Boots dropping clumps of mud, he stalked into the tavern. The landlord directed him up to the front suite of rooms. He burst into the gray, chilly parlor to see Abraham Ware hauling one of three trunks to one of the bedrooms.

  Just throwing off her damp travel cloak, Anne turned. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh—Philip!”

  He was not even conscious of crossing the threadbare carpet to wrap her in his arms and hold her.

  “Anne, Anne. I’ve waited for word—!”

  After a moment, they separated. He was alarmed to notice how wan she was. Despite the joy of the reunion, she acted oddly ill at ease.

  Looking fired and peaked himself, Lawyer Ware harrumphed as he returned from the bedroom.

  “Conditions have grown so bad in Boston, there was no way we could prudently communicate with you, Philip,” he said. “The couriers do dangerous work—and have enough on their minds without the burden of personal messages.”

  “I was astonished to hear you were in Concord,” Philip told him.

  “It took a deal of finagling and some clever forgeries to come up with the papers that got us across the Neck.” Ware indicated the trunks. “That’s all we were allowed to bring. As to the rest—the house, the furnishings—well, the soldiers or the damn Tories have no doubt looted the place already. But it was run or face possible arrest for my activities. Only Warren insisted on remaining behind, and Revere—to coordinate the spying on the soldiers.”

  “We’ve heard Gage is getting ready to move against the towns,” Philip said.

  “He is. To seize the stores. There’s supposed to be an authorization on its way by ship from the Colonial Secretary, Dartmouth.”

  “We’ve heard that too.” Anne was watching him with a strange, bleak expression he couldn’t fathom.

  Ware rolled his tongue in his cheek, continued, “Warren will arrange to get Paul and some others out with a warning if Gage moves. That’s his plan, anyway. We’ve come to what Sam Adams wanted all along. Though it may be the only way, God take me, I’m frightened to my bones.”

  “How is Mr. Edes faring?” Philip asked.

  “With difficulty. Distribution of the Gazette’s all but forbidden. When Ben and I talked last—two days ago—he was starting to dismantle his press. He hopes to smuggle the pieces and a few fonts of type across the Charles. Perhaps to Watertown. He and Revere are holding conversations about money—”

  Philip frowned, failing to understand the reference.

  “The printing of it!” Ware exclaimed. “Should war come, the colonies will need their own financing. Paul’s already drawing designs for the bills. But we’ve news of more direct concern to you, lad—” His protruding eyes harbored a new respect. “Concerning the officer who met an untimely accident in my parlor. Annie told me everything about it, of course.”

  “Daisy said there was reason to believe the man didn’t die.”

  “Good reason.”

  Ware plumped himself on a rickety chair and peered gloomily through the yellowed lace curtains at the rain on the roofs of Concord.

  “Thanks to Annie, we were prepared when other officers from the Thirty-third called at Launder Street. My daughter had rehearsed Daisy well. And the officers were careless enough to admit they had questioned some of our neighbors first. They told us Amberly was seen knocking at our door. Daisy lied valiantly. Said Lumden disappeared that morning—I gather he’s safe at her father’s farm?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Daisy told the redcoats she’d shown Amberly the equipment Lumden left in the barn. After which, he went away. She and Annie stuck to the same story although each was questioned twice more. I don’t think either of ’em was fully believed—”

  “I’m sure of it,” Anne put in.

  “The only saving factor was, Gage hasn’t star
ted torturing suspects for information. As yet! Maybe it’s the influence of that American wife of his. The mysterious circumstances surrounding Amberly’s whereabouts later might have helped keep us free of trouble, too.”

  Philip still couldn’t fathom that strange, unblinking look on Anne’s face. Her color had faded badly. Gray half-circles of fatigue showed beneath her eyes.

  “What mysterious circumstances?” he asked.

  Anne replied, “Amberly was apparently found where you left him. Unconscious but not dead. He was removed from Boston a few days later.”

  “Removed!” Philip exclaimed. “Wasn’t he put in a military hospital?”

  “He should have been,” Ware said. “And he was—at first. But someone interceded on his behalf. To arrange more suitable care.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “According to a lad on Revere’s committee of mechanics whom I asked to keep watch and pick up information, Amberly—still in bad shape, mind—was loaded into a private coach by several men unfamiliar to my informant. Servant types, the boy thought. But not wearing a livery. The coach went out across the Neck with no hindrance.”

  Ware’s mouth turned down, sour. “Evidently it’s still possible to purchase special medical privileges, just the way prisoners in England purchase extra food, better quarters—and the way that damned fellow purchased his commission! Someone learned of his plight. Arranged for him to be attended elsewhere than in the military hospital—where he’d more likely die than recover. They’re pest houses. The so-called surgeons are no better than butchers. It’s all damned curious—”

  He gave Philip a challenging look. “But Annie’s brought you something whose outward appearance suggests it may serve to explain.”

  “What is it, Anne?”

  “A letter.”

  “Which we didn’t open,” Ware advised. “The contents are your affair. Give it to him, Annie. I’m going down to the taproom and try to unfreeze my veins with some flip.”

  A moment after the door closed, Anne walked to the smallest trunk. She unlatched it, raised the lid. Among the folded articles of clothing Philip saw his mother’s casket, Gil’s wrapped sword, even the green glass bottle of tea. He was touched by the care with which Anne had obviously packed them.