The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  He held the rail tightly, fairly tasting the salt wind. He felt not only a tingling anticipation, but a coldness in his hands and in his soul. The fear—

  At least he had a name now. He’d settled on it during the forenoon watch.

  With every tie of consequence severed, his name was his only link to his past existence. And it was a tenuous link at that. But he needed something that belonged to both worlds. Something to help carry him through the gigantic transition rushing to meet him. An old box, a sword, a self-consciously jutting chin and a feigned expression of resolve were not enough.

  He had decided to Americanize his given name to Philip. And, to remember at least part of his origins, he had shortened his father’s hereditary title to Kent. Philip Kent. He would no longer think of himself, or be called, by any other name. He had already told Captain Caleb.

  Thus, self-christened, a new man watched his new homeland rising under the orange-tinted clouds in the west, and wondered what lay ahead for him as Eclipse bore into the Nantasket Roads under full canvas.

  Book Three

  Liberty Tree

  CHAPTER I

  The Secret Room

  i

  DURING THE NIGHT, ECLIPSE anchored two miles from the glimmer of Boston light. Before daybreak a pilot came aboard. He took the helm from Caleb and maneuvered the trading vessel through the narrow channel and past the islands dotting the harbor to a berth at Long Wharf.

  The early haze of a summer’s day promised intense heat. It blurred the hills and the rooftops of the town and the parapets of Castle William, the island fortress out in the harbor. But nothing could blur Philip Kent’s sense of anticipation as the lines were snubbed tight and the plank dropped.

  Anchored ships lined one side of the teeming pier, ramshackle commercial establishments the other. Philip took a tight hold on casket and sword, about to descend into the confusion of the quay. A hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Lad, do y’know where you’ll be going now?” Captain Caleb’s face was patterned by changing light and shadow as men aloft furled sails between the deck and the sun.

  Philip shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Caleb rolled his tongue in his cheek thoughtfully. “Might have been better after all had you bound yourself to me. With no certain destination—”

  “Captain, that makes the possibilities all the more numerous and excit—” He flushed and, despite his best efforts, couldn’t conceal a little anger in his voice: “You’re laughing at me.”

  Caleb nodded, and his smile broadened. “No offense meant, Philip. It’s just that there’s been such a change in you—I’ll be flogged if you aren’t beginning to sound English already. A few months among these folk and they’ll never take you for a Frenchman.”

  “Because I’m not,” Philip replied, embarrassed by his display of temper. Buoyed by the noise and spectacle along the pier, he said eagerly, “I’m like you now. A citizen of the Americas.”

  “But perhaps we should talk a few minutes about where you could go—”

  “Thank you, Captain, no. I’ll get along very well.”

  “So you’re determined Mr. Philip Kent will be completely his own man?”

  “Completely.”

  “Although our Mr. Kent is but how old?”

  “Strictly speaking, Captain—a couple of days.”

  “That’s right. In a new country, the fact that he’s lived eighteen years—”

  “Nineteen.”

  “—doesn’t count for much. But this might. Our new gentleman of the Americas lacks even a basic knowledge of the town’s geography.”

  “I’ll find my way, sir, don’t worry.”

  Caleb’s face said he knew further attempts at persuasion were useless. “You’re not only sounding like an Englishman—you’re acting like a hard-headed Yankee! Well—” Caleb held out his dark, weathered hand. “Good luck and Godspeed.”

  Trying to ignore the look of concern that came unbidden into the captain’s eyes, Philip shook hands. Then he turned and hurried down the gangway.

  Swift movement was necessary. The longer he lingered aboard Eclipse, the more he would be forced to acknowledge that Caleb spoke the truth. He was absolutely alone, with no experience to guide him.

  But then he reminded himself that, night before last, he’d vowed to turn his solitary condition from a disadvantage to an opportunity to begin anew. Risks and all. So be it. He was nineteen years old, and strong, and feeling fit. The sun warmed the back of his neck pleasantly as he pushed and shoved his way up Long Wharf, his entire store of worldly possessions tucked under his arms. Beneath the soles of his boots, the rickety boards that represented his new-found home felt more reassuringly solid every moment.

  ii

  But by nightfall, he began to think that heeding Captain Caleb’s suggestion might have been prudent.

  The onslaught of hunger sent him scavenging through a litter heap behind a waterfront tavern. He discovered half a dozen oyster shells, each with a tiny bit of meat clinging to the inside. Scraped loose carefully with his grimy fingernail, the gobbets of oyster served as his first sumptuous meal in his new country. An event to remember, he thought ruefully as he pocketed one of the shells and stole away from the crowded tavern.

  He trudged down an alleyway hot with twilight shadow. Oysters from a garbage pile. Something to remember indeed, when I’ve my own house one day, and silver for fifty guests—and a mantel over which I can hammer pegs to hold Gil’s sword in a place of honor.

  The shining vision soon produced negative ones. Bitter memories of the past flooded his mind. Images of Marie, Roger Amberly, the murderous one-eyed man, Alicia. He put them aside as best he could, while thunder rolled over the lamp-lit town. A summer rainstorm was brewing in black clouds that massed above the chimney pots in the northeast.

  Not knowing the name of a single thoroughfare or what his position was in relation to the place he’d landed that morning, Philip Kent slept the night in a haystack.

  He found the haystack in the tiny yard behind a home on one of Boston’s winding streets. On the other side of the warm, fragrant hay, penned pigs squealed miserably in the downpour. He burrowed deep into the stack, one hand curled around the oyster shell he’d kept from the litter heap. He’d discovered the shell had a sharp edge. Almost as keen as that of a knife. A handy weapon, especially for a stranger in a new city—

  He awoke well before dawn. He was thoroughly soaked and shaking with the start of a fever.

  iii

  By midmorning he found his way back to Long Wharf. He had made up his mind to admit his error of launching out hastily on his own, and he planned to seek words of counsel from Captain Caleb.

  But the few sailors left aboard Eclipse reported that the ship’s master had already issued instructions about disposition of the cargo to the mate, Soaper, and departed for his mother’s home in Maine.

  Grumbling Gropius, looking more than a little hung over from his first night on shore, gave Philip a hunk of weevil-infested bread and a cup of rum before the latter once more turned his unsteady step up the wharf to the town.

  He studied passing faces. Some were coarse, some prosperous-looking. Some appeared beneath tricornered military hats. But soon, all began to blur in front of his feverish eyes.

  His forehead streamed with sweat. His rain-dampened clothes clung to his body, smelling sour. But he kept on—

  And trudged Boston for two days and two nights.

  He stole garbage where he could; slept where he could; and, despite the illness that left him weak and short of breath, managed to fix a fair approximation of Boston’s geography in his head.

  At one taproom where he inquired for work, any kind of work, only to be turned down by the landlord’s obese, mustached daughter, he paused long enough to ask about the size of the city.

  The fat girl picked something out of her hair and regarded it with curiosity as she said, “Why, the Gazette reports we’re fifteen thousand souls now. Too damned ma
ny of ’em lobsterbacks.”

  “Lobster what?”

  “Redcoats. British soldiers.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Funny question for you to ask. ’Specially when you want work one minute and look ready to faint away the next. Where do you hail from? You’ve an odd way of speaking. Like a French mounseer who came here once—”

  Too tired to engage in explanations, Philip left.

  As he wandered, he began to be more conscious of those lobsterbacks she’d referred to. King George’s soldiers wore splendid scarlet coats and white or fawn trousers. Each coat had its own distinctive color for lapel facings and cuffs—buff and yellow and blue and many more.

  He’d noticed the soldiers before, of course. But paying closer attention, he saw how some of them moved along the streets with a certain air of authority that drew glares and snide remarks from many an ordinary citizen—although other Bostonians, usually better-dressed ones, treated the troops with politeness, even cordiality.

  And the troops were everywhere, from the elm-dotted greensward of an open area identified to him as the Common, to the shade of a huge old oak tree, the largest of several in Hanover Square, where he watched a group of officers rip down some announcement nailed to the trunk. He saw redcoats from the North End to the double-arched town gate leading to the Neck.

  The Neck was a long, narrow strip of land connecting the city with the countryside around it. It was no more than yards across at its narrowest point just outside the imposing brick gate. With the Dorchester Heights across the water to the east and the Charles River on the west, Boston resembled a sort of swollen thumb stuck up from the mainland—and linked to it only by the Neck.

  The city’s tolling church bells reminded Philip of London. But Boston had its own bustling style and distinct aromas. Predominantly fishy. But spiced by the pigs and cows kept in those small back yards, by rum distilleries and reeking outhouses and, near the waterfront, by shipyards and ropewalks that smelled fiercely of pitch.

  Ill, Philip lost track of the days. Perhaps two more went by. Perhaps three. He grew filthy and hungry beyond belief. As a result, he found himself more and more the object of suspicious stares from well-dressed pedestrians and gentry on horseback. His inquiries about work—here at a smokehouse, there at a brewery—brought replies that were increasingly curt as his physical appearance worsened. His eyes took on the slightly unfocused glare typical of fever, which didn’t help his cause either.

  Shaking, teeth chattering, he was wandering somewhere in the city’s North End again, just at sunset, when two figures whirled around a corner and crashed into him.

  Philip stumbled, fell to hands and knees on the cobbles. His sword and the casket slipped out of his fingers.

  He was vaguely aware that the splat of his palms in the mud oozing between the stones of the street had sent droplets of the sticky brown stuff flying—

  Straight onto the spotless white breeches of a soldier who now loomed over him.

  The man was silhouetted against the ruddy evening sky and the leaded windows of an inn a few steps away. “Damme, Lieutenant Thackery,” he said, “the clumsy young bastard dirtied my trousers!”

  “Then we shall make him pay for a laundress, Captain.” The second man grabbed Philip’s collar, dragged him up. “Come round to the headquarters of the Fourteenth West Yorkshires in the morning, boy. Bring sufficient money to—here, hold on!”

  He reached forward to grab Philip again. The latter had pulled away to retrieve his two possessions. The lieutenant’s fierce grip brought Philip out of his feverish daze—and face to face with eyes that were distinctly unpleasant:

  “Pay attention when a King’s officer gives you instructions. Unless you prefer to have the order delivered in a more memorable way.” The lieutenant’s other hand dropped suggestively to the hilt of his dress sword.

  Philip glared at the slender officer, then at the beefy captain whose white breeches did indeed display quite a few large mud spots. Something weary and uncaring made Philip utter a low growl and knock the restricting hand away.

  “Damme, a scrapper!” cried the heavy captain, careful to back off and let his subordinate handle the altercation. Handle it he did, his mouth tightening, ugly.

  Philip heard footfalls coming along the cobbles behind him. But he didn’t dare look around. The lieutenant’s sword slid from its scabbard and winked in the glow from the nearby tavern.

  “He’s probably sporting a liberty medal under those stinking clothes,” the lieutenant said, flicking Philip’s sleeve with the point of his blade. “He’s certainly insolent enough to be one of ’em. Do I have leave to thin their ranks slightly, sir?”

  The senior officer grumbled assent. But the lieutenant didn’t even wait for it, whipping his sword up. The blade caught the late-slanting sunlight, started down on a path that would lay open Philip’s face—

  Feet planted wide, head ringing, Philip still had presence enough to block the glittering steel by spearing the lieutenant’s right wrist with his left hand. Grunting, he held the sword arm off for an instant while his other hand plucked the oyster shell from his belt. He raked the shell’s edge down the lieutenant’s left cheek.

  Howling, Lieutenant Thackery danced back on the slippery cobbles. Blood dripped on his buff lapels. The captain cursed and began to unlimber his own sword as the owner of the footsteps Philip had heard earlier ran up behind him.

  The man seized his arm. “Need assistance, youngster?”

  Philip stared into the lean, middle-aged face of a black-haired man with flushed cheeks. Philip could do no more than swallow and nod. Lieutenant Thackery was advancing toward them now, sword up, blood pouring down the left side of his jaw.

  “Stand out of the way, sir, because I’m going to gut him through. You see what he did to my face—”

  “Improved it considerably,” remarked the black-haired man. His lilting speech sounded like that of the Irishman, Burke. “What started this, lad?”

  “I happened to splash mud on the other one’s trousers,” Philip gasped out. “An accident—”

  “God damn it, sir—move aside!” the lieutenant roared.

  The gaunt, black-haired man shook his head. Positioning himself at Philip’s elbow, he said, “Sirs, let me remind you of where you are. The Salutation—” he indicated the inn just up the street “—is crowded with my friends. If you truly wish to engage, I can guarantee that a substantial part of the North End will be after your heads before three blows are struck. You’ve heard the whistles and horns blowing before, haven’t you?”

  “The whistles and horns of your damned Boston mobs?” the captain fumed. “Indeed we have.”

  Unruffled, the other said, “Well, I’ve some ability at summoning them out. I am Will Molineaux, the hardware proprietor.” His announcement, as well as his fiery black gaze, was clearly inviting a fight.

  The captain swabbed his perspiring face. “Molineaux?”

  “Yes, sir, the same.”

  “Leave off, Thackery,” the captain ordered the lieutenant. “He’s the leader of the whole damned liberty mob in this part of town.”

  The lieutenant flared, “Sir, I refuse to cower in front of—”

  “Leave off, I say! Or you’ll have a cut across your throat to match the one on your face.”

  Swearing bitterly, Lieutenant Thackery rammed his sword back in place. The unnerved captain gestured him to follow up the street.

  But Thackery, his uniform cuff pressed to his cheek and already bloody, had to deliver a parting thrust.

  “One of these days we’ll have laws permitting us to hang you rebel scum!” he shouted.

  “No, sirs,” Will Molineaux shouted back. “Because we shall see you swinging from Liberty Tree first.”

  He laughed uproariously as the taunt inspired the fat captain to disappear around a corner, practically running. The bleeding lieutenant vanished into the gloom after him.

  The older man turned to Philip. “That captai
n’s a rarity. The King’s own quartered in this town are not cowards. Tyrants, yes. Swaggering bullies, frequently. But not cowards. You did a bold thing, my lad. Some would have truckled.”

  “I—” Philip had difficulty speaking. His whole body felt afire. The Irishman’s features grew distorted, elongated. “—I may have acted out of ignorance, sir. I’ve only come to Boston city a few days ago.”

  “And look half-dead from the experience. Where d’ye live, may I ask?”

  “Nowhere. I’ve been seeking lodging—employment. I can find none at all.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Philip Kent.”

  Molineaux’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a runaway bondsman?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Just with my word.”

  Mr. Molineaux studied him a moment longer, then pressed the back of one hand to Philip’s forehead. “You’re sicker than hell, that’s clear. I’m bound up the street to the Salutation. Some gentlemen who convene there are not friends of His Majesty—or His Majesty’s military forces. Landlord Campbell holds those sentiments too. So come along and we’ll see if he’ll give you a bit of sweeper’s work. He’ll be pleased to do it, is my guess. He’ll fancy a fellow who tweaks Tommy’s beak the way you did.”

  Molineaux helped Philip retrieve his belongings and accompanied him to the Salutation’s doorway, over which hung a creaking sign painted with the figures of two splendidly dressed gentlemen bowing to one another.

  Virtually all those gathered in the cheerful taproom wore old, tar-stained clothing or nautical coats and caps. “A rowdy lot of sailors, hull builders, caulkers and mast-makers,” Molineaux commented as he led the unsteady Philip through the smoke to the bar, where a stocky man presided over the kegs. “But a good, freedom-loving lot. Hallo, Campbell.”

  “ ’Evening, Mr. Molineaux.”

  “Campbell, here’s a chap on whom I hope you’ll lavish your hospitality. Young Mr. Philip Kent.”