The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (44 page)

“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:

“In a moment. First I must speak my mind.”

Dark circles showed beneath Anne’s eyes. She sighed, sank down in a chair.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not criticizing, I’m only trying to be helpful—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Go on.” Anne had heard the preamble dozens of times.

“In my opinion it’s a shame you can’t in some wise show that dear young child his father’s likeness.”

“I don’t have any pictures of my husband!” Anne exclaimed, almost to the point of tears. “We’re not the sort of family that can afford to commission painters of miniatures!”

Mrs. Brumple considered that, then observed primly, “Perhaps it would have served you better to hire a third-rate artist—keeping him at the proper distance, of course; artists are all immoral rascals; I was once un-wholesomely propositioned by such a person—than to have put so much money in two pirate ships which have yet to pay you a penny.”

“They’re not pirates, they’re authorized privateersmen.”

“Makes no difference, they’ve repaid not one cent of your investment.”

Anne said nothing. Mrs. Brumple’s statement was correct. Caleb’s small fleet of prize-hunters, all of them reportedly in southern waters, had captured not a single enemy vessel. She was beginning to regret her decision to invest two hundred pounds in the construction of
Gull
and
Fidelity.
And not just because of the character of Captain Caleb’s associate, who had relinquished command of
Nancy
and become the skipper of
Gull.
Caleb himself was sailing the other new privateer.

Mrs. Brumple went on, “A child does need to become familiar with his own father’s face. What a pity your husband is not as vain as Brumple—”

The little widow always referred to her late spouse by his last name only. Brumple had evidently been a tailor who had achieved only modest success. Anne knew far more about his faults than his virtues, which were apparently almost non-existent.

“—Brumple was always presenting me with this or that little charcoal sketch of his likeness. He fancied himself handsome. The more fool he! May I have some more tea, dear?”

Anne poured the smuggled Dutch brew, not knowing whether to laugh at the little woman’s pretensions or burst out sobbing in hopeless frustration.

“Naturally I would have welcomed all those portraits of Brumple if we’d had babies,” the widow said. “But after the first several years of our marriage—years in which I reluctantly permitted Brumple to indulge in his constant pecking at my cheek and pawing at my smallclothes—that sort of thing always led to the inevitable conclusion which I only suffered as part of my female duty—where was I? Oh yes. I was speaking of how it became evident that Brumple and I were not going to leave heirs in this world. Believe me, after that I saw to it that he left my smallclothes alone! However—” She sipped tea. “My original contention remains valid. Little pictures of a faraway loved one can be valuable in helping a child remember the loved one.”

Mrs. Brumple fixed Anne with a direct stare. “Is it possible you could sketch such a likeness of Mr. Kent?”

Anne shook her head. “I’m hard put to draw a straight line.”

“Pity.” Mrs. Brumple finished her tea.

A crash from the parlor brought Anne half out of her chair. The widow too:

“Oh dear, the boy’s upset something. No, you let me see to it, you’re much too tired to deal with him properly.” She marched from the kitchen at quick step.

Anne felt resentful. But the reaction passed quickly. In her peculiar, flinty way, Mrs. Eulalie Brumple liked her neighbor—and loved Abraham. Anne, too, was basically fond of the old busybody. She knew that the widow’s last charge was not maliciously spoken—and was entirely correct. She
was
worn out—

Worn out from coping with Abraham without the help of a father’s masculine hand and voice. Worn out from lying alone too many nights, shivering despite the footwarmer she religiously took under the covers. Worn out worrying about whether the two hundred pounds loaned to Caleb were gone forever. Worn out fretting about Rackham, whose name kept slipping into the letters she wrote Philip, despite her best intentions that it shouldn’t. Worn out with the war that seemed to bring nothing but minor victories and major defeats for the American armies. Worn out with thoughts of Philip meeting his death on the point of a British bayonet. Worn out imagining how she would survive if he never came home, never held her again, never kissed her and made love to her—

Worn out. Beyond her capacity to endure it any longer—

She wasn’t even aware that she’d pressed her palms to her eyes and started crying there in the pale February sunlight. She sat bolt upright at the touch of a hand:

“Mrs. Kent—let me tuck you in for a rest.”

As it could on occasion, Mrs. Eulalie Brumple’s face had softened. Her fundamental kindness was showing through the hard Congregationalist facade.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked softly.

“Very little.”

“Then come along.”

“I’m sorry my tongue’s been so sharp, Mrs. Brumple. I don’t mean to be so curt with the boy, or you—”

“Now, now, let’s have no apologies. I’ll bundle Abraham up and we’ll walk to the market. Come, my dear, stand up—”

Anne did. She was soon in bed, listening to the stillness of the house. A patch of melting snow slid off the roof shakes, a loud scraping. She was literally aching with exhaustion and the hunger for Philip’s presence.

But no matter how she tried, she still couldn’t sleep.

It seemed an eternity since Anne had found anything the least amusing about the war. But here it was at last, reported at some length in a month-old copy of Ben Edes’
Gazette.

The wet, gusty April night seemed momentarily remote. Curled up in a chair by the cozy fire, Anne laughed out loud, causing Mrs. Brumple to glance up from the scarf she was knitting for Abraham.

“Mrs. Kent, I certainly hesitate to criticize, but I believe Abraham is finally asleep—”

Giggling, Anne covered her mouth a moment. “I was being too noisy, wasn’t I? But this is just delightful. Some chap from Connecticut—let’s see—” She checked the paper. “David Bushnell’s his name. In February he launched a whole flotilla of what they call infernals.”

“What is an infernal, pray? Another name for a husband?”

“No, Mrs. Brumple! A keg of powder with a contact fuse. Bushnell set them afloat in the Delaware River above Philadelphia. His idea was to blow up the British ships anchored in mid-river. But because of floating ice, all the frigates were moored close to shore. The paper says the British were absolutely terrified of the kegs, though. The soldiers peppered away at them with muskets, trying to explode them.”

Mrs. Brumple rested her knitting in her lap, her expression saying clearly that she thus far failed to find anything hilarious in the story. Anne went on:

“The part that amused me is the song composed by a Mr. Hopkinson from the Congress. It’s called
The Battle of the Kegs.
Here, listen—”

“Brumple was always fond of light verse. It did little to improve his already frivolous mind.”

But Anne couldn’t be deterred:

“Sir William Howe and that doxy of his are sleeping when some of the kegs start exploding, you see. Hopkinson says—

          
“Sir William, he, snug as a flea,

          
“Lay all this while a-snoring.

          
“Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm

          
“In bed with—”

Anne’s finger ticked against the page, her wan face merry:

“Ben Edes left two blanks right there, but I can imagine our soldiers hooting out the missing words. ‘Mrs. Loring.’ Here’s the rest—

          
“Now in a fright, he starts upright,

          
“Awaked by such a clatter.

          
“He rubs his eyes, and boldly cries

          
“For God’s sake, what’s the mat—?’”

A knocking in the hallway interrupted Anne, and diverted Mrs. Brumple from whatever remark of disapproval she was about to make.

Being closest to the front door, Mrs. Brumple went to answer. Anne returned to the verse, laughing as she hadn’t in weeks. The doggerel truly wasn’t all that excellent, but she’d gone too long without finding anything to lighten her spirits. She barely heard Mrs. Brumple speaking sharply, and a man’s voice replying. The exchange lasted less than a minute. Then the front door slammed.

Mrs. Brumple marched back to the fringe of the firelight:

“Well, I certainly didn’t like that person’s looks.”

Anne glanced up. “Who was it?”

“Some sort of seaman. Terribly scruffy. He was inquiring for the Russell house.”

“There’s no family named Russell living in this neighborhood.”

“I’m well aware of that. I think it was a subterfuge. I didn’t care for the man’s cut one bit, I tell you. Shifty eyes. Just like Brumple’s.”

Even though she realized Mrs. Brumple’s concern was probably unfounded, Anne was troubled. She laid the paper aside, her earlier mood gone. For no reason she could adequately explain, the word
seaman
brought Malachi Rackham instantly to mind.

Before she went to bed she scanned the rainy street for a sign of anyone suspicious. She saw no one. But she made doubly certain that the front and rear doors were bolted and all the windows latched before looking in on Abraham to see that he was adequately covered.

Two evenings later, with the late April rain still pelting Cambridge, Mrs. Brumple collected her cloak, gloves and parasol to pit her Christian courage against the elements:

“You’re certain you don’t mind me leaving you this evening, Mrs. Kent?”

Anne smiled. “You’re the one who’s going to get soaked, not I.”

“In the Lord’s work—and General Washington’s. Our prayer circle has reorganized. Not only to read scripture but to sew hunting shirts at the same time. We shall be convening every Wednesday evening from now on. I should certainly be home in an hour or two—”

“I’ll be up, don’t worry.”

“I attend religious functions with a clearer conscience than I did when I was married,” the little lady said as she tugged on her gloves. “Brumple sat in the pew with me every Sunday because he felt it was good for trade. Underneath, I always suspected him of being a freethinker. Good evening,” she concluded, marching out the front door.

Despite the coming of spring, the house still felt a trifle cold. Anne kindled a small fire in the parlor, then sat down to her mending. She worked for nearly an hour, until her concentration was broken by sounds from Abraham’s bedroom.

She put the mending aside, hurried to the back of the house. The boy was breathing loudly. As she watched at the bedside, he shifted position several times.

She felt his forehead. No fever. Perhaps he’d been thrashing because of bad dreams—

A loud, hollow clatter startled her. It echoed from the front of the house. She frowned. Who could be calling at this hour—?

Apprehensive, she hurried to the parlor, then to the bay of windows. She lifted a curtain. Outside, barely visible in the rain, a closed carriage sat at the curb. The horse was tied to the hitch post. She saw no sign of a driver.

Anne’s palms turned cold. The logs on the hearth cast slow-changing shadows over the walls. She felt a peculiar, nervous fluttering inside her breast. Perhaps whoever it was would go—

More knocking. Louder.

“I say, Mrs. Kent, are you at home?”

“Oh my God,” she breathed, recognizing the voice.

Terrified, she dashed for the front hallway.
She hadn’t latched the door after Mrs. Brumple left
—

Three steps from the door, she stopped—too late. The door opened inward, spattering her with rain.

Like some hobgoblin, the tall man slipped inside. His tightly curled dark hair glistened. The hem of his cloak dripped. His right eye, so strangely drawn into a slit by the small scar, caught firelight from the parlor and glowed like a coal.

“Pardon me for just walking in, but I thought it possible you didn’t hear the knock,” said Captain Malachi Rackham.

Anne went numb as Rackham stared at her, that nasty, cocksure smile seemingly fixed in place. He swayed a little. She smelled rum on him—

A dreadful suspicion leaped into her mind. The man the other evening—the seaman:—had he been sent to see whether she was alone?
Had Rackham been keeping watch
—?

No, no, that was too fanciful by half—

Or was it?

She tried to compose her features. But the fluttering sensation persisted. In a second, she became certain that her initial guess was correct. Rackham had waited to call until his man reported Mrs. Brumple’s departure.

“See here, I didn’t mean to shock you to total silence!” Rackham declared, pulling a face. “I stopped off because I thought you might welcome a report concerning your investment in
Gull.”

He glanced beyond her to the empty parlor. “Are you at liberty to discuss it?”

“I—” God, why was her throat so dry? “I’ve been working in the kitchen. I’ve a cauldron of soap cooking—”

Rackham wrinkled his nose. “Odd. I don’t smell it.”

“I was about to put it on the fire when you arrived.”

“Then you are at liberty for a few moments—”

He accidentally brushed her elbow as he slipped past into the parlor.

Rackham unfastened his cloak and dropped it over a chair. He swung to face her, one knee bent and his boot planted out in front of him, The pose of a man aping his betters. His clothing reinforced the impression. He wore dove gray breeches, an ostentatious coat of yellow velour, too much lace at collar and cuffs—

He flexed his hands behind him, warming them near the fire. “Come, come, Mrs. Kent! You can at least be hospitable to a man of whom you’ve spoken ill.”