The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  “Royal, it wasn’t necessary to say anything to your father. Or to extend special thanks of any kind.”

  The young man’s brown eyes were round and intense. “I felt it was.”

  “Well, then, I think your idea’s a capital one.”

  “Do you? Honestly?”

  “I do. I’ll need a good place to operate my press—but I won’t be able to pay much. Loft space sounds first rate. I’ll tuck the thought away and take it out again at the right time—”

  The recurrent streak of pessimism that plagued him produced a final thought:

  “—if we all survive this business.”

  “We will,” Royal Rothman declared as they reached the edge of the parade field.

  “If we follow that angel, eh?”

  Royal appeared embarrassed. “My father is a very religious man, Philip. He’d scold me ferociously for saying this. But if it’s a choice between trusting an angel or General Washington, I’ll favor the latter.”

  Philip laughed. “You don’t have to make the choice. I’d say at the present time they’re one and the same person.”

  x

  “The shad are out! The shad are running upriver!”

  The cry in the company street one April morning brought Philip and his messmates tumbling outside. Excited soldiers were racing through the camp with the news:

  “Thousands of shad—”

  “Running right now!”

  Under a chilly sky of pale blue, Philip, Breen and Royal located whatever implements they could—a pitchfork, a shovel, a broken tree branch—and joined the hundreds of men streaming toward the Schuylkill River. Some carried barrels, baskets or the all-important salt. The human tide poured down to the Schuylkill’s banks, where an incredible sight stunned Philip:

  The river was dark, almost black with the bodies of thousands of fish swimming toward its headwaters like a second, living surface underneath the first. The whole river seemed to churn. The passage of the immense schools filled the air with a strange, whispery hum.

  All along the bank, men rushed into the shallows, clubbing and stabbing and grabbing with their bare hands while they yelped and swore like profane children. Fresh fish to be cooked or salted away was a miracle whose importance was almost beyond reckoning.

  Philip peeled off the new shoes supplied him only a week earlier, darted into the water, felt the eerie movement of the shad around his ankles. He slashed downward with the pitchfork, brought up two fish on the tines. He raised the fork to show Royal, but the young man was flailing at the water with his tree branch, oblivious to anyone’s delight but his own.

  A major of dragoons galloped by on the bank, headed upstream to plant his horsemen in the river to turn back the fleeing fish. The strategy worked. The Schuylkill shallows soon boiled white with frantic shad trying to swim back downstream against thousands of others still heading the opposite way—

  The starvation of the Valley Forge winter ended in the largest fish banquet Philip had ever seen.

  That night the Pennsylvania air reeked of broiled shad and rang with singing, a sound unheard for months, except in protest. As the smoke of cook fires climbed to the sky, Captain Webb purchased an extra gill of rum for each of his men, and reported an item of camp gossip about Martha Washington.

  Mrs. Washington had joined her husband at the Potts house in February. Since then she’d been a regular visitor to the camp hospitals—when she wasn’t busy taking instruction from a neighborhood farm woman on how to darn the general’s stockings. Tonight, Webb declared with tipsy pride, he knew for a fact that the lady too had served shad.

  “Picked up some other tasty tidings,” Webb went on. “Still talk, mostly. But it’s coming from the Congress in York. May be a big announcement in the wind—”

  Relishing his control of a secret, he crooked a finger so Philip would lean closer. Then he whispered:

  “Something about the French coming into the war. Sending us ships. Soldiers, even. Don’t breathe a word. Nothing official—”

  He tottered away toward the next hut to tell another confidante the same secret.

  All at once, Webb about-faced. Fumbling in his uniform pocket, he returned to hand Philip a wrinkled letter:

  “This finally came down the line from headquarters. Got sent by mistake to an officer named Philemon Kent in Moore’s Fourth Rhode Island.”

  Abruptly, Philip forgot how stuffed he felt from the excellent fish. He forgot the exciting hint of a French alliance. He forgot everything except the letter.

  Quills had scratched and re-scratched the names of different units across the face. The original address had been smeared by water; rain, perhaps. But the name Kent in Anne’s hand was unmistakable.

  He tore the letter open, held it near the cook fire to read. The date was the preceding November, 1777.

  In the midst of pleasantries, endearments and news of their son, Anne reported that Captain Malachi Rackham had written her another distressingly impertinent letter, which Mrs. Brumple, who is now moved in, considered alarming in its tone of familiarity.

  Philip went white at that; read on:

  But I do not, and neither should you, my darling. I did find the occasion to speak with W. Caleb concerning his captain’s behavior, and Caleb assured me he would take corrective steps. He stated that while Rackham was a most able sailor, he was known to be of erratic temperament, and had only been engaged out of necessity, and with considerable reservation on Caleb’s part. Evidently Mr. Rackham’s chief problem is a conviction that he is irresistible to females—which only strikes me as proof that inwardly, he fears exactly the opposite is true, and must constantly disprove the suspicion. Since I discussed Rackham prior to the arrival of the aforementioned letter, it is evident that any efforts Captain Caleb may have made to curb R. have not availed. However, Mrs. Brumple’s presence surely will, in the event the unpleasant gentleman should dare present himself here again.

  xi

  “Henry, I’m going home.”

  Overflowing the seat of the crude wooden chair provided for his officer’s hut, Henry Knox stared at his visitor in puzzlement.

  Philip had arrived at four in the morning, after a sleepless night. Knox had come to the door wearing a shabby robe and carrying a lantern. Now the lantern flickered on the mantel of Knox’s fireplace; the officers’ quarters were duplicates of those of the enlisted men, except that they were somewhat larger.

  The fat artillery colonel tented his fingers. “Philip, I can plainly see that you’re overwrought. But I believe I misunderstood what you said.”

  “You didn’t. I’m leaving for Cambridge. Now, before daylight—” He stabbed a hand through his dark hair. “I had to tell someone who’d understand. The two men in my mess wouldn’t. They don’t know Anne. Besides, I need—”

  “Wait, Philip,” Knox interrupted, sounding much less sleepy. “You are telling me that you’ve desertion in mind?”

  “Much more than in mind. I’m going. Here, I received this last night. You can see it was written in November, then sent by mistake to another man in a different unit.”

  Knox scanned the letter, his normally placid face still showing some confusion.

  “That I see very clearly. What I do not see is what there is on this page to bring you to such a state.”

  Quickly then, Philip poured out the story: the investment in Caleb’s privateers; the first encounter with Malachi Rackham; Anne’s subsequent references to him in her letters:

  “I know her, Henry. Each time, she tried to reassure me that she wasn’t worried. But she’d never have brought it up if—well, let’s just say I can read what’s behind the words, too. She’s terrified of him. One look at him and you’d understand. He’s handsome. Fancies himself a prize for the ladies. But there’s a nastiness about him—”

  The words trailed off. Philip had the dismal feeling that he wasn’t getting through.

  Knox confirmed it: “You still haven’t explained why you feel you must commit a
very rash and dangerous ct.”

  “Because I’m afraid something’s happened to Anne! It’s April and that was posted in November. I’ve had no other letter from her—”

  “Like everything else, the mails are plagued slow—”

  “Not that slow.” Philip paced, feeling trapped. “Not that damned slow.”

  Knox frowned again, lifting the letter. “Isn’t there another person sharing your house? I noticed a reference to a Mrs.—”

  “Brumple. An old lady next door. She moved in with Anne last year because Annie was already afraid of Rackham then.”

  “And so you’ve decided to return to Cambridge to look into it? Just like that?”

  “I have to, Henry. I’m convinced—”

  “You do not have to,” Knox cut in. “In fact, it’s not permitted.”

  The words hit Philip like physical blows. He could barely speak:

  “For Christ’s sake, I know it’s not permitted! I’m telling you because—”

  “Because you want me to sanction what you’re going to do? I can’t. I am an officer in this army.”

  “Don’t talk like someone making a speech at a parade review—!”

  “Then kindly do not shout!”

  Silence. Finally Philip let out a long sigh.

  “All right. I’m sorry. I need traveling money, Henry. Just a little, but I didn’t know who else to ask—”

  “The answer is no.”

  “Dammit, Henry, you’ve got to—!”

  “Philip!” This time it was Knox who shouted. “It’s not pleasant for me to employ the differences in our ranks—but you forget yourself. I agree with what you say to this extent. You may have cause for concern. May. There is no evidence to support any stronger word. But do you think you’re the only man at Valley Forge with worries at home? Some have wives and children facing outright starvation because no one can operate a family farm—a family business! Others have lost loved ones and learned of it only months later, in letters that went astray just like this one. With the spring campaign ahead, no leaves are being granted for any reason.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you say, I’m leaving,” Philip exclaimed, wheeling for the door.

  Knox lunged after him, spun him around, flung him against the mantel so hard the lantern nearly toppled off:

  “You will get control of yourself!”

  “Goddamn it, let go! I won’t listen—”

  “You will! Either go back to your unit or I will have you arrested and flogged.”

  Aghast, Philip stared at him.

  “You’re my friend. You’re Anne’s friend—”

  “That makes no difference. You’re being driven to this by fear and fear alone. If you desert, I’ll have you hunted down at once—and brought back.” Abruptly, Knox’s tone changed. “You have a duty here. We all do. After the winter we’ve endured—the deaths—the near-rebellions—my God, and the work you’ve put in with von Steuben—learning, teaching others— To quit now for any reason save being brought down by an enemy ball is nothing short of treason.”

  “Treas—?”

  Philip couldn’t even get the whole word out. The accusation from his long-time friend seared him like an iron—

  And crumbled the facade of the almost hysterical rationalization he’d constructed in his mind to justify what he planned to do.

  “Friend or not,” Knox went on, “if you go, I promise you I’ll report it—and see you punished.”

  Numb, Philip picked up the letter that had fallen to the dirt floor. He felt drained—and dismally aware that everything Henry Knox had said was right. He stumbled toward the door:

  “I’m sorry I came here—”

  “So am I.”

  Philip spun to glare.

  “Because we are friends, Philip. Ordering your arrest wouldn’t be easy for me. But I will do it.”

  Philip started out. At the sound of his name repeated, he turned again.

  Knox asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To—” Philip swallowed. “Back to the hut.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Knox let out a long, relieved sigh:

  “Good.”

  Philip closed the door behind him, avoided the suspicious stare of a guard posted at the head of the officers’ street, walked with slumping shoulders through the spring dawn, repelled all at once by what he’d wanted to do until Knox’s rough treatment jarred him out of it.

  At the same time, he felt trapped. Trapped and frightened.

  He glanced up at the paling stars.

  Annie, he thought. Annie, are you all right?

  CHAPTER VII

  Rackham

  UNCONTROLLABLE ANNOYANCE edged Anne Kent’s voice:

  “Abraham, for the third time—eat your porridge.”

  “Don’t want to,” declared the stocky, dark-eyed boy teetering on three worn books piled on his chair. He dipped his wood spoon into the bowl. With a wrench of his small wrist, he sent a gob of porridge flying across the kitchen.

  Anne jumped up from the table. “Oh, Abraham, you’re such a trial sometimes—!” Her hands slapped against her skirt, bringing an alarmed look to the boy’s face.

  At once, Anne regretted the shrill reprimand. She believed in discipline that was firm yet loving. Whenever her son misbehaved, she tried not to raise her voice, even as a prologue to one or two quick whacks of his behind. But in recent weeks she’d been losing her temper more and more frequently.

  She started around the table to make amends; substitute cajolery for insistence. But Abraham had already made up his mind about what he wanted—and didn’t:

  “Don’t want to eat. Want Papa.”

  “Papa can’t come home. Papa’s in Pennsylvania at a place called Valley Forge. I’ve showed you his letters. The word that spells his name and yours. Kent—”

  She bent to caress the boy’s dark hair. But Abraham was still upset from her sharp outcry of a few moments earlier. He pulled away:

  “I want Papa. No more porge. Papa!”

  The tension and weariness plaguing Anne these cold winter days of early 1778 came out again unbidden:

  “Stop it, Abraham! You can’t see Papa because he’s not here! Now eat your breakfast or I’ll give you a spanking.”

  She showed him her hand to illustrate. It was precisely the wrong thing to do.

  Abraham Kent, going on two and a half years old, hurled his spoon to the floor. With one stubby-fingered hand, he pushed the bowl off the edge of the table. The crockery shattered, splattering the gooey paste of oats and water all over the hem of Anne’s dress. She slapped his hand:

  “You’re a wicked little boy!”

  Abraham puckered up his eyebrows, turned beet color and bawled.

  “My heavens, catch the child before he falls!” exclaimed a new voice. Mrs. Eulalie Brumple, tiny and frail, darted from the doorway through beams of watery sunlight and snatched Abraham to her shoulder an instant before he tumbled to the floor.

  Ashamed and upset, Anne covered her eyes, turned away.

  “I don’t know who’s in worse temper this morning, Mrs. Brumple, Abraham or me.”

  She felt the start of tears, fought them with all her will as the neighbor woman rocked Abraham back and forth, ignoring his sharp pulls of her mobcap and his repeated shrieks:

  “Want to see Papa. Want to see Papa!”

  “Here, here, that’s no way for a young gentleman to behave,” Mrs. Brumple said as Abraham yanked the cap down over her right eye. “Let’s find that drum your father bought you, shall we?”

  Abraham was diverted from his sobbing, and sniffled instead:

  “Drum?”

  “Drum,” Mrs. Brumple repeated. “You can relieve your frustration by banging away to your heart’s content.” She glanced at Anne. “Not here, however. In the parlor.”

  Anne stared in dismay as Mrs. Brumple marched Abraham to the front of the house. In a few moments the toy drum began to rattle
and thump.

  The erratic rhythm grated on Anne’s nerves. But what doesn’t these days? she thought as she hung the tea kettle up to boil.

  The kitchen in Cambridge was chilly this February morning. Anne had risen early, unable to sleep—again. She’d started another letter to Philip, determined to keep the contents cheerful, free of any indication of the growing strain she felt in his absence.

  She’d written exactly one paragraph, describing how Cambridge’s population had increased now that a huge number of Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne’s redcoats and Hessians had been marched east after Saratoga. The enemy troops were locked up in compounds, pledged not to fight during the remainder of the war because Burgoyne had agreed to that as part of the terms of his surrender. Anne had broken off the letter in the middle of a sentence speculating about whether English transports would ever arrive to take the soldiers away, and then she’d simply sat staring into space, her body aching with an all-too-familiar tension.

  As Abraham’s drumming continued, Mrs. Eulalie Brumple marched back into the kitchen. The small-boned sixty-year-old lady with the hawk’s eye and the firmly set mouth never walked anywhere, only marched.

  But her presence in the spare bedroom was a comfort to Anne. Prickly as the widow Brumple might be, once she had moved a few belongings from her home next door, Anne had felt much less alarmed about the occasional, all-too-obvious overtures from Captain Rackham. Happily, she hadn’t been bothered by the man since the autumn. She assumed it was because Rackham had finally put to sea in search of prizes.

  Anne busied herself pouring tea for the two of them. She recognized the expression on the older woman’s face and braced for another lecture.

  “Mrs. Kent?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Brumple?” Neither woman had yet breached the formality of using last names.

  “I certainly hope you won’t take offense if I mention another condition which I believe needs rectifying.” Mrs. Brumple always preceded one of her declarations with some such empty apology.

  “Won’t you have some tea before it gets cold?” Anne asked, hoping to forestall the impending remarks on—what this time? Child guidance, she guessed. She was correct: