At the bottom, he struggled to his feet, flung himself on down the slope, vanishing into a thick stand of pines. Philip retrieved the hatchet, raced for the drop. A voice got through to him then; one of the men from the coehorn sledge:
“Leave him go, Kent! Help us with Tait. He’s still alive.”
Philip hesitated. The numbed hand holding the hatchet shook. In the distance, the pathetic Crenkle put more ground between himself and the caravan, a scurrying figure appearing and disappearing in sun and shadow.
The teamster at the bottom of the hill shouted Philip’s name again. Making a guttural sound, he flung the hatchet down. With a last look at the tiny figure fleeing into the snowy fastness, he went to answer the summons. He never saw Crenkle again.
vii
Forward progress of the artillery train stopped. The sledge carrying The Old Sow had survived the runaway descent with no damage. Nearby, Philip and some of the teamsters erected a crude tent from fresh-cut branches and blankets.
Ten minutes after the tent was put up, Philip crawled out of it backwards and let the end blanket fall. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the blaze of the snow. The blinking didn’t clear his vision.
A horseman was struggling down the slope where the Sow’s sledge had come to rest. Philip watched the horse slip sideways, falter, then gallop forward, the mountainous figure of Henry Knox bouncing in the saddle.
Inside the improvised tent there was a tormented moan. Philip tried to hide his face by pretending to wipe his nose. But the other teamsters weren’t looking at him. They studied the treetops, or gazed at the churned snow marked by Eph Tait’s blood, or they simply stared at their rag-wrapped boots. Not a man said a word. The silence was broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind, the frozen creak of a bough, the soft thudding of the hoofs in the snow as Knox swung out of the saddle.
“I got your message and sent ahead for a doctor from Westfield,” he said to Philip. He started toward the tent entrance.
Philip grabbed his arm:
“I wouldn’t, Henry.”
“I must see what attention he needs—”
“From here down—” Philip swallowed, touched his own waist. “No amount of attention is going to help.”
Knox turned white as the snowfields. “My God. Is he awake?”
Forcing back tears, Philip nodded. “We dosed him with some whiskey. That stopped the worst of his raving. I even talked to him a minute or so. He—he knows how badly he’s been hurt. He wants his rifle with him.” Philip’s stiff hand lifted in a sad, ironic gesture at the mortar sledge. Fastened to the bed by ropes tied to pins, Eph Tait’s Kentucky rifle gleamed blue through a patchy dusting of snow.
“Well, fetch it if it’ll be any comfort to him!” Knox said. “It’ll take the doctor a while to trek here, so anything that—”
He stopped as Philip shook his head.
“Eph asked me to write his family later, Henry. He wants his rifle loaded.”
Knox swayed. Philip had never seen him look so drained. He glanced around the little circle of York State drivers, face after weatherbeaten face, as if hoping one of the men would speak. Philip said to him:
“I’d say the decision’s yours, Henry.”
“No. No, it’s his. Still—” Knox swiped at his face. “There is a moral question—”
“Then you tell him that, Henry. You look at what’s left of him and tell him that. I won’t.”
Silence. The wind mourned through the pines. A branch broke loudly and fell.
“Get the rifle, would you please, Philip? I’ll take it in to him. Unless you—?”
“We did our talking. You’ll probably have to use more whiskey to wake him.”
He turned, trudged to the mortar sledge, dimly aware of shouted curses and snapping whips beyond the crest of the slope down which The Old Sow had plunged. A new sledge struggling for the summit. Maybe the messengers sent in both directions from the scene of the accident had missed one of the vehicles laboring through the woods. The noise almost seemed a blasphemy as Philip laboriously untied the frozen ropes, opened the ammunition box lashed down beside the rifle, loaded the piece and carried it back to Henry Knox.
Another groan sounded from inside the tent. Then Eph Tait cried someone’s name. A woman’s, Philip thought. Knox bent to enter, carrying the rifle. Philip walked away.
About five minutes later, leaning his forearm on the cold iron of the giant mortar, Philip heard the shot. Hideously loud; echoing and reechoing through the tree-clad ridges and valleys. He stared at the mortar’s maw as if he could destroy it with a single glance. He started when someone touched him—
Knox.
The drivers were shuffling away from the tent. The end blanket flapped in the wind.
Drifting clouds started to obscure the sun. Whorls of white powder danced on the hillsides. At the western summit, the sledge coming up had stopped. The teamsters peered at the peculiar scene below. The wind sang again, a low, pained sound.
“I think we should bury him here, Philip.”
“I think so.”
“The rifle’s to be yours. He told me. We’ll dig a proper place and I’ll say a few words and—” His voice broke. “—and then we’ll get these goddamned guns going again.”
“Yes. All right,” Philip said, staring at nothing. Knox left him standing in a cloud of wind-driven snow.
viii
The arrival of the artillery in the village of Westfield produced almost a carnival atmosphere.
Townsfolk followed the sledges on both sides, and small boys couldn’t be kept from jumping aboard to touch the marvelous cold solidity of the great weapons.
The Westfield citizens offered the weary drivers huge quantities of food and drink. The men accepted eagerly, nearly starved after their passage across the worst of the mountains.
In return for the hospitality, the people of Westfield begged Henry Knox to show off the artillery by firing the most spectacular piece of all, The Old Sow. The exhausted Knox obliged. Philip made himself scarce during the demonstration, taking refuge in the local taproom. But he still heard the boom of the mortar, and the subsequent cheers, applause and shouted insults to King George. Philip immediately helped himself to another ale. Like everyone else, the landlord was outside enjoying the celebration.
ix
“Anne? Annie—I’m back!”
Yelling at the top of his voice, Philip climbed the stairs of the house in Watertown on the night of January twenty-sixth. The preceding day, the artillery train had arrived in Framingham, its journey complete for all practical purposes. Philip had ridden ahead with Knox, who gave him leave to go see his family. Knox galloped on to the Vassall House to report to General Washington.
Filthy and almost drained of strength, Philip shouted his wife’s name again as he reached the landing. He shifted Eph Tait’s Kentucky rifle to his left hand, raised his other hand to knock—
And stopped, paralyzed by what he saw hanging on the door.
A poorly made wreath of black crepe.
Fears for Anne and little Abraham flashed through his mind. He stood motionless, aware of doors opening on the lower floor, heads popping out—the whole house had been turned into a honeycomb of emergency apartments. He was certain his wife or his child had died in his absence—
The door opened. Philip almost wept at the sight of Anne’s fatigued face.
Her chestnut hair was disordered, her dress stained and wrinkled. Philip couldn’t speak. He was afraid to ask the obvious question.
“The baby’s well,” Anne said quietly. “He’s sleeping now.”
“Then it’s your father. Oh, Annie—”
Suddenly she was tight against him, unable to hold back her sobs. He let the valuable rifle fall where it would. Heedless of how he was dirtying her with his filthy coat, he hugged her; buried his bearded, unwashed face in the warmth of her hair. She cried loudly for a minute or so, then fought to get herself under control.
Philip retriev
ed his rifle, guided her gently into the dim-lit parlor, shut out the curious faces at the bottom of the stairs.
“When, Annie?” he whispered.
“The fourth of January. All during December, the illness grew worse. And you know how it’s all but impossible to find a doctor. Mr. Revere finally located a retired, half senile old fellow and practically kidnapped him from Roxbury. He diagnosed pleurisy—just as I’d done myself, weeks before—and of course he couldn’t prescribe anything except the usual emetics and laxatives and—well, when he hauled out this positively filthy bleeding basin and a fleam with every last blade caked with rust, I paid him and thanked him and told him to leave. I knew it was hopeless.”
Anne’s face was white; Philip understood why. Pleurisy was the name of a dreaded disease of the lungs and chest; more common in bad weather, it took a high toll of those who contracted it.
Anne looked around in a strange fashion, almost as if seeking her father in the gloomy corners. Then:
“Papa was fortunate in one way. He went peacefully—in his sleep. But dear God, Philip!—at the same time, there was no word from you. Nothing except rumors from Cambridge that Henry Knox was still on the road. Having difficulties—accidents—” Her agony poured forth in one strident cry: “I was afraid you were going to die too—”
Again he held her close, touched her, stroked her shoulders, trying to soothe away the remembered horror. All at once he heard the impatient gurgling of his son waking in the bedroom. Even as he listened, the gurgling turned to a yell. He felt a shameful, completely inappropriate urge to whoop.
This time Anne broke the embrace, dabbing at her cheeks. “I’m sorry I took on so. Really, the worst has passed. I just broke down.”
“You had to bury him yourself?”
“Yes, I arranged it here in the local cemetery. Ben Edes helped. There was no telling when we could get back to Boston. Philip—at Christmas, Papa asked me to say goodbye to you. I’m sure he already knew what was going to happen—”
She started away, bothered by the baby’s cry: “I must feed him—and you too. Why, you must have lost twenty pounds—”
She fought to hold a wan smile in place. That was so like her, he thought, filled with a wordless tenderness that somehow eradicated his exhaustion, his hunger, the unpleasantly cold, smoky stench of his clothing.
“There is one happy circumstance in all the grief,” Anne added. “Papa left what money he has to both of us. And—oh wait, Abraham, wait, I’m coming!” she exclaimed as the squalling grew louder. “Papa said that if we could keep from spending all the money to live, we should use it to start your printing business one day. He thought well of you, Philip, he really did. He wanted you to know.”
It should have been heartening news; something to bank away for the future. But he was again struck with grave doubts about that future.
He thought of Dr. Warren perishing in the redoubt.
Of Eph Tait, buried in the wintry wastes of western Massachusetts, so far from the southern mountains from which he’d marched.
And he thought of Abraham Ware, who perhaps would never have contracted his fatal illness if he’d been warm and comfortable in his home on Launder Street, Boston—
Who would be the next to be scythed down?
When Philip speculated about the prospects for his infant son, the very act seemed macabre futility. Conceived in the joy of passion—born under a mantle of hope and love from his parents—what did the child have to look forward to save growing up in a country shattered by rebellion?
The struggle could conceivably drag on for years; wars often did in Europe. That America could win her fight seemed to him chancy at best. That she could win quickly was virtually unthinkable. There was no purpose in dwelling on the boy’s future, or the inheritance either. Dead men had no use for handbills and calling cards. What printing equipment could you buy in a grave?
Possessed by pessimism, Philip felt a sudden, unexpected need to seize the small pleasures of the moment. The feel of his wife’s warm shoulder beneath his arm. And something else:
“I want to see my son.”
An hour later, Anne served a supper of cold lamb, fresh cheese, stale bread and hot tea. Though the fare was less than luxurious, there was plenty of it. Yet despite the poor rations he’d endured on the three-hundred-mile journey, he didn’t feel like eating.
All at once, out of his need, fear, uncertainty, he reached for Anne’s hand.
She looked at him and understood. At long last, a soft smile eased a little of the fatigue in her eyes. She was as uncertain and hungry as he.
Rising, she blew out the lamp in the corner of the parlor where they had sat down for their meal. Gently, lovingly, she took his other hand in hers.
“I should use a razor first,” he said with an awkward little laugh. “Scrape off this bristle. It could do damage to a lady’s cheek—”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Just come—” She led him to the door.
In their large, high bed, their son sleeping nearby and cooing occasionally, she was warm and eager. Arms tight around his neck, she wept when he first kissed her. The touching, the caressing, and then the rhythm of their bodies seemed to drive back some of the world’s lowering darkness.
But afterward, he couldn’t sleep.
He stole out to the parlor, lit a lamp and spent more than two hours composing one short letter to Experience Tait’s wife in Albemarle County, Virginia. Even if it had cost every last shilling of Abraham Ware’s money to have it posted and delivered, he would have paid.
CHAPTER VI
“The Seedtime of Continental Union”
“GENTLEMEN,” SAID DR. Benjamin Franklin, the tankard in his pudgy hand shimmering in the light from the hearth, “I give you our honored guest. By birth, an Englishman. By choice, an American. By disposition and God-given talent, a journalist of the first rank. In the manner of most authors who delve into politics in these treacherous times, he has chosen to see his pamphlet brought into the world anonymously. But to judge from the reception accorded it since publication one short week ago, I predict its distinguished creator will not long be able to conceal his identity. Certainly he may be named and honored by those gathered here. To a man, I believe we hold his inspired prose and irrefutable logic in the utmost regard.”
Franklin turned toward the rather seedy-looking guest: a man with a large nose, a rough complexion, luminous sad eyes and the general air of one who, near age forty, recognized his own failure in life. Tonight, the guest smiled.
Dr. Franklin saluted him with the tankard:
“I give you Mr. Paine.”
Stick ferrules hammered the floor of the private dining room of Philadelphia’s City Tavern. “Hear! Hear! Hear!” Those among the twenty selected guests who lacked canes made noise with their boots.
Gradually, the hammering and stomping faded, replaced by a hubbub of conversation. In the fireplace, two halves of a heavy log fell, scattering sparks. Franklin sat down beside the guest of honor. While serving as commercial agent for various colonies in England, Franklin had apparently met Mr. Paine, and induced him to come to America after Paine suffered assorted disasters in customs collecting, corset manufacturing and marriage.
There were calls for a speech. Applause greeted the suggestion. Thomas Paine rose, flushing:
“Gentlemen, thank you most sincerely. But I’ve prepared no remarks. I only wished to enjoy dinner and fellowship with the men I consider the most enlightened of all those holding sessions at the State House.”
More applause, cane-thumping, boot-stamping, mingled with jokes and laughter. At his table near the fire, Judson Fletcher was hellishly warm. He was starting to sweat out all the dark brown ale he’d swilled down. But he joined enthusiastically in the uproar.
Certainly it was a select group from the Congress gathered at the City Tavern this rainy evening in late January. A select group of patriots—or a select group of the insane, depending on your side of the political fe
nce.
Judson had gravitated to the group because Donald had been part of it. Around him sat politicians whose names were known in every one of the colonies. Franklin. The portly, high-voiced little Braintree lawyer, John Adams, seated at Paine’s left. From Virginia, the Lee brothers, and gangling, red-haired Tom Jefferson, who occupied a chair just across the table from Judson. Once in a while, Judson was troubled by the realization that these refined, well-educated men were determined to push the colonies straight down one and only one perilous road.
John Adams jumped to his feet. “Then I will speak for you, Mr. Paine.”
The Massachusetts lawyer always struck Judson as self-important. The guest looked relieved, though. Adams went on:
“To paraphrase Mr. Jefferson there, we as a Congress and as a people want neither inducement nor power to declare and assert a separation from Great Britain. It is the will alone which is wanting—”
“Oh, we have the will to gallop the other way, Wilson style,” said Francis Lightfoot Lee, referring to the Pennsylvania sponsor of a Congressional resolution of January ninth passed by a coalition of conscientious conservatives and the frankly faint-hearted. According to Judson’s somewhat bleary recollection, the resolution declared that the colonies had “no design” to set themselves up as an independent nation. Consequently the mention of Wilson’s name produced a few hisses, including a loud one from Judson.
Tom Jefferson, relaxed and pensive with his long legs stretched out toward the flames, gave Judson a speculative look, then glanced away. Judson belched. Wonder what that was all about?
Adams was continuing:
“—but with the publication of Mr. Paine’s pamphlet, a great step forward has been taken toward solidifying public thought. We owe him a debt beyond our collective power to repay.”
Once more the diners noisily expressed their approval as the Braintree lawyer sat down, pleased.
Judson had to admit that Adams, who was perhaps the most determined exponent of independence in the Congress, hadn’t exaggerated. In the days since the release of Paine’s tract of some fifty pages and fourteen thousand words, it had become a publishing phenomenon. People literally fought their way into Robert Bell’s small shop in Third Street to purchase copies; either the version in a deluxe binding, or the one in less expensive paper covers.