The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (21 page)

Suddenly she pitched against him, her bare breasts cold; so cold. Her hands worked at his shoulder muscles:

“Promise me there’ll be no fighting, Philip. Promise!”

“Alice, I—I’m not—”

No use. She was crying again. Wild, gulping sobs that told him just how fragile her mental balance really was.

He became aware of a noise that had intruded at the edge of his consciousness some time ago, but which he only now identified: a thudding from below. The tinker.

A faint voice demanded to know the cause of the uproar.

“Nothing wrong,” Judson shouted over Alice’s hysterical sobs. “It’ll be quiet in a moment—”

“—tolerate no unseemly behavior in my house!” The voice faded.

Judson stroked the girl’s filthy hair and stared over her shoulder at the pistol lying near the baseboard. Several times he repeated the name by which he knew her. She didn’t answer or even respond, only kept kneading his muscles and crying like a sick child.

A
FTER THE DEPARTURE
of the surprise visitors, Judson threw on a robe and persuaded Alice to drink a bit of the only remedy he had to hand—claret. She held the cup between her work-reddened hands, gulping greedily. She shuddered. Some of the glassy quality seemed to leave her eyes.

Mightily relieved, Judson saw that she recognized him, and her surroundings.

“Alice—” Though the name seemed awkward in light of Trumbull’s revelation, he couldn’t use the other with comfort. “—is that man really your aunt’s husband?”

Her bowed head hid her face. “Yes.”

“And you ran off from his home in Arch Street?”

“I was tending my husband who was—wounded while serving in Boston. He died and—please, no more, Judson,” she finished in a whisper.

“But he said you were an earl’s daughter. Is that true?”

“It was.” Her mouth twisted. “Once.”

“Who was Philip?”

“Stop!”
she cried, hurling the cup at his head.

He dodged. The cup hit the wall, shattered. Once again the tinker thumped his ceiling and demanded quiet. Judson shouted ill-tempered assurances, then started pacing the bedroom. Alice had bundled herself in the coverlet as if she were extremely cold.

He saw how everything Trumbull said could be possible. The lines of her face were fine, delicate; or had been, before dissipation blurred them—

Alice stroked her arm. The flesh was prickled with tiny bumps. “Judson?”

He faced her, still dismayed by the information that had put a whole new perspective on their relationship. She’d meant next to nothing to him until the moment he discovered who she was, and what had driven her to her present state. Now he felt a new, deep concern. With it, he felt confusion about what to do.

“I heard a little of what they said, Judson. Talk of dueling—”

“That stupid uncle of yours wants satisfaction.”

“Don’t fight him—” She sprang naked from the bed, clutching at him. “Swear you won’t! I’ve brought on too much ruin already—”

He caressed her hair. “Alice, I haven’t much choice.”

“You have the choice of saying no!”

Judson shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because—” He could offer only one rather sour explanation. “—that’s the way it is among gentlemen.”

Although it was a truthful response, it seemed unsatisfactory. A moment later he understood why. He dared not admit the real truth. Deep in him, something wanted to lash out and maim—

He was ashamed and vaguely excited at the same time. Christ, how despicable he was!

“Then you won’t promise—?” she began.

“The best I can do is try to get the poor fellow to reconsider and withdraw his challenge.”

“If you face him, would—would you kill him?”

“He’s fat, slow and twice my age. Yes, I think I would.”

She stared into his eyes a moment longer, then limped back to the bed, covered herself and burrowed deep into the pillow. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. The sound of her voice reminded him of Peggy McLean’s on the night of the slave uprising.

He poured more claret for himself—that seemed the only antidote to this muddled situation—and crawled into bed with her.

He pulled her close, tried to comfort her. Gradually her hysterical crying moderated and she fell asleep. Somewhere toward the hour when the stars paled, he did too.

When he awoke after sunup, his head aching, she was gone.

Every trace of clothing—every indication that she’d been in the room had disappeared, except two:

A strand of hair he found clinging to the still-warm bedclothes. And the tall servant’s pistol gleaming in a ray of morning sun.

News arriving in Philadelphia during June’s balmy weather heartened the patriots. The British flotilla at Charleston had been repulsed and heavily damaged, thanks to the accurate, steady fire of the Americans entrenched in a fort of palmetto logs on Sullivan’s Island in the harbor.

And members of Congress began to converse in whispers about
Roderigue Hortalez et Cie.,
a mysterious private trading company just organized in France. The company had one express purpose: to speed shipments of war materiel, including barrel after barrel of vitally needed black powder, to the colonies.

Some speculated that King Louis XVI, no friend of Britain, had callously seized an opportunity to strike at his country’s traditional enemy via the Americans. If that were the real reason for the abrupt birth of the peculiar firm, no one loyal to the colonial side would quarrel. Dr. Franklin reported to a few confidants that similar covert assistance might be forthcoming under the auspices of Charles III of Spain.

But what heartened the patriots most was a hope:

If France had moved with such dispatch to aid the Americans in secret, perhaps, with careful diplomacy, the French might be persuaded to openly ally themselves with the rebels. Franklin thought it not impossible at all. And he expressed complete willingness to take advantage of the centuries-old European rivalry.

But whatever the outcome in that area, the long-term prospects for the war looked a shade less grim now that
Hortalez et Cie.
was operating under the personal direction of a most unlikely manager—the author and court wit, Beaumarchais.

Judson absorbed the news in the corridors of the State House, or in whispered conferences in the great white chamber that grew more and more sultry as the weather warmed. The windows still remained almost completely shut as the Congress labored on, awaiting the completion of the draft declaration by the committee.

Concern for Alice had somewhat lessened Judson’s interest in the cause. He was drinking heavily again. He spent a large part of his time searching the city for the girl. But she had left the waterfront tavern where she worked and dropped completely out of sight.

The days dragged. There was no communication from the Trumbull household. Then Francis Lightfoot Lee took Judson aside and politely informed him that the challenge by the Tory ropewalk owner had become a choice item of gossip in the city. On behalf of Judson’s friends among the delegates, Lee hoped—trusted—some settlement less scandalous than a public duel could be worked out.

Judson promised to do what he could. He penned a careful note which he dispatched to Arch Street. In the note, offered to entertain Mr. Trumbull’s reconsideration of the challenge. A day later, Judson’s landlord handed him an answer when he returned from the State House.

He questioned the landlord:

Yes, the person who had delivered the reply was tall; and damned arrogant for a servant. Judson broke the elaborate wax seal and unfolded the parchment. He read the note, then crumpled it and threw it away.

Far from accepting Judson’s offer, Mr. Tobias Trumbull re-stated his demand for satisfaction more strongly than ever. The unfortunate Mrs. Amberly could not be located anywhere. The Trumbulls feared for her safety—and blamed him. Therefore Judson would please take steps to choose a time, a place and the weapons by which they would settle their quarrel.

In the middle of the final week of June, there were signs of incredibly hot weather soon to come. On the afternoon Judson called at the rooms Tom Jefferson rented in a large brick house at High and Seventh Streets, the air had a hazy gray quality, minus any trace of wind.

The normally tidy parlor which Judson had visited on several occasions was a litter of crumpled foolscap. The young Virginian sat by a window, his beloved viola and some compositions by Purcell and Vivaldi gathering dust on a table nearby. One of Jefferson’s arms was draped laconically over the back of his chair. A quill dangled from his inky fingers.

Across the room, Dr. Franklin occupied a settee. He acknowledged Judson’s entrance with a cordial nod, then poked a finger at the sheet he’d been scanning:

“Tom, I find this wordy—‘we hold these truths to be sacred and undeniable.’ Wouldn’t ‘self-evident’ serve as well?”

“Yes, that’s good, scratch it in,” Jefferson answered. He sounded tired and indifferent. Franklin picked up another quill, dipped it in a well and made the correction.

Noticing Judson’s rather awkward pose at the parlor door, Jefferson laid aside the portable writing-box of highly polished wood that had been resting on his lap. He had designed the miniature desk himself, folding top and all. He lifted his long body from the chair, stretched, yawned.

“I only want to complete the damned thing and get on with the debate,” he said. “Will you join me in tea this warm afternoon, Judson?”

“If you have it, I’d prefer something stronger.”

Once more that vaguely accusing expression flickered across the Virginian’s face, on which summer sunlight had brought out a considerable number of freckles. But he nodded politely, poured a glass of Madeira, his forehead glistening with sweat. Then Jefferson helped himself to tea from a pot.

Franklin tossed aside the foolscap sheet, pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, massaged the bridge of his nose:

“I would say we are approaching a finished draft.” To the other man, with a smile: “What brings you here, Judson? Some additional thoughts for Tom to put in?”

“No, it’s a personal matter.”

“Well, before you launch into it, have you any final opinion about including a passage referring to slavery?” He indicated the discarded sheet. “Tom’s still pushing for it.”

Judson’s brows hooked up as he sipped. The Madeira eased his edgy feeling. “You’re talking about a passage condemning slavery?”

Jefferson nodded. “An instrument of oppression permitted, not to say encouraged, by His Majesty.”

“It’s going a bit far to blame the king for the blackbird trade, isn’t it? He may permit it—but we practice it.”

Jefferson stared out the window at the clatter of High Street. “Aye, a point. And my own hands—and my conscience—are dirty on that score.”

“If we include it, I predict the declaration will be voted down,” Judson said with conviction. “Dickinson and his friends are fighting us for every vote. Even stated in temperate language, an anti-slavery clause would sink us for good.”

“I loathe the trade,” Franklin said. “I organized the first anti-slavery club in the whole of this city. But I agree with your assessment, Judson.”

“I’m still not prepared to strike it out at this stage,” Jefferson warned them.

Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “Nor ever?”

“Only if it becomes crucial to success or failure.”

Heaving his bulk up from the settee, Franklin mopped his neck with a kerchief and picked up his coat of brown velour. He draped it over his arm, saying:

“It will, Tom, never fear, it will. Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your private business.”

As Franklin departed, Judson helped himself to another drink. He felt sure the Pennsylvania scholar knew why he’d called—and had deliberately absented himself from the discussion. The entire Congress knew about Judson’s predicament by now.

“Tom, I’ll come right to it. I’m going to face Trumbull.”

“Didn’t Francis Lee speak with you?”

“Yes.”

“And urge you to reconsider?”

“I sent Trumbull a letter agreeing to forget the matter. In reply, he insisted we go ahead. We’ve arranged it for the third of July, in the morning, someplace up the Delaware. I come to you as a friend, Tom. I know very few people in Philadelphia, and I need a second.”

Unhappily, Tom Jefferson ran a hand over his clubbed red hair. With a look that sent Judson’s hopes plummeting, he answered:

“In other circumstances, I might do it. Now—it’s impossible.”

“Because of the reasons you mentioned back in January? The moral outrage it might cause—?”

Jefferson agreed with another nod. “You realize what may happen if you go ahead, don’t you, Judson? President Hancock is well aware of the trouble. He has again made his feelings—his strong feelings—known to me. If you persist, in all likelihood you’ll be quietly asked to withdraw from the Virginia delegation. I’m afraid I’d have to support that request. I’m sorry, Judson, but I fail to see how some tavern trollop is worth—”

White-lipped, Judson cut him off: “We needn’t debate the details.”

“Yes, we very much need to debate them. Damn it, Judson, no one among your close associates—least of all those of us from your home colony—can understand why you let yourself be drawn into such a shabby business. A futile, purposeless encounter over a woman who—”

“Tom, that’s enough.”

“On the contrary! You’re being obstinate. You act damned near driven to this!”

Judson turned away. “Maybe I am.”

“Well, it’s a shameful waste. One day you’re in the thick of things, working, debating, using your considerable intellect—the next, you’re off swilling down so much strong drink you make Franklin look like a temperance lecturer! I puzzle over it, Judson.”

Cold-eyed, Judson said, “Why bother?”

“Because—in a short time—” An eloquent shrug. “—you’ve become a friend. I try and try to understand what flogs you to these excesses—”

“So do I,” Judson replied with a bitter smile,

“Have you found any answers?”