The Rebels by John Jakes
Looking more like a scarecrow than a man, Judson dismounted and turned the exhausted horse over to a groom for feeding and stabling. As he walked toward the tavern entrance, he was acutely aware of the hammering of his heart.
In the dark-beamed foyer, he found a sleepy boy swishing a straw broom over the pegged floor. Judson’s eyes showed huge gray circles of fatigue. His fair beard, scraped off in preparation for the trip, had already sprouted again, unevenly. The sweep knew in a glance that Judson wasn’t the sort of gentleman who belonged at the Raleigh.
“Son, you’ve a guest here—”
“Got eight or nine,” the sweep replied, leaning on his broom. “Most are still in bed. And the landlord don’t take kindly to loud talk at this hour.”
Checking a burst of anger, Judson lowered his voice:
“The guest I’m referring to is named Clark. He hasn’t left, has he?”
The boy took his time answering:
“Would you be meaning Major Clark, the militia commander from Kentucky?”
“Yes, dammit! Is he still here?”
“I tell you the landlord’ll tan me if you keep on swearing and yelling—”
Judson glared. “Then stop being cheeky and answer me straight!”
The sweep took a step backwards, poked his broom toward the arch leading to the public room:
“Major Clark come down about twenty minutes ago to eat breakfast. Hops up way before daylight every morning. Guess that’s the style out west. You’ll find him around the corner by the fireplace, I reckon.”
“Thank you very much!”
Boots hammering, Judson spun away. He’d made it in time. In time!
Suddenly he halted, catching a whiff of the wood fire burning somewhere on the other side of the wall. The aroma wasn’t nearly as strong as his own sweaty stench. He must look a sight.
He stepped to the wall where an ornamental silver plate hung on display. He bent, examined his blurred reflection, tried to smooth his tangled hair. He’d lost the tie-ribbon on the frantic ride. God, he was totally unpresentable—
But there was nothing to be done. In the public room, a chair had scraped. Boots squeaked the plank floor as someone approached the arch. Judson straightened up with a jerk, aware of the trembling of his hands as he confronted the tall figure of George Clark, red hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck.
“Judson—?”
“Hello, George.”
“Good Lord, I couldn’t believe it when I thought I heard your voice. You’re the last person in creation I expected to see this morning! What brings you to Williamsburg?”
Judson’s mouth went dry. His friend looked lean, clear-eyed, deeply tanned—and dismayed as he took in Judson’s stained apparel and unhealthy pallor. All Judson could say was:
“George, it—it’s fine to see you—”
He shot out an unsteady hand. George Clark clasped it in a hard, callused grip. Now that he’d ridden all this distance, Judson’s courage failed him. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his friend the reason for the trip.
He was afraid George would laugh in his face.
ii
Even the sweep leaning on his broom was sensitive to something awkward in the confrontation between the fine-featured young gentleman who looked as if he’d just crawled out of some hole in the earth, and the younger but somehow more poised frontiersman wearing a thigh-length fringed hunting shirt and leggings of deerhide. Apparently both were at a loss for words.
All at once Judson blurted, “Donald told me you were here. I rode most of the night—”
“By God that’s a mark of friendship! My end of it’s been sadly neglected, I’m afraid.”
“I know you have pressing responsibilities, George. No time—”
“And too few men. And too little powder. And every tribe putting on the bloodroot—but come on, come to the table. Join me in something to eat—”
A bit reassured when his friend laid his arm over his shoulder, Judson accompanied George into the public room. As they approached a table near the fireplace, Judson said:
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me already. What was that word—? Bloodroot?”
“The braves use it to paint their faces for battle.”
George pulled out a chair for Judson, signaled a yawning servant girl, slipped into his own chair in front of the immense breakfast he’d been eating. Half a loaf of cornbread and most of a crock of country butter had been put away, plus part of an eight- or nine-inch stack of griddlecakes dripping with clear colorless syrup.
“All the tribes are going to war against Kentucky,” George explained. “The Mingos, the Shawnee, the Piankashaws, Delaware, Wyandots—the year of the three sevens hasn’t been good to my part of the country. The year of the bloody sevens, Kentuckians are calling it.”
The serving girl’s shadow touched the table where George’s browned hand closed around his coffee mug. George glanced up.
“My friend’s hungry, my girl.”
Younger than I am, Judson thought with despair. Younger, and he acts twice my age. Twice as composed and sure of himself—
“May I bring you something, sir?” the girl asked Judson.
“Only something to drink—” he began. When George’s eyes widened in surprise, he added quickly, “What my friend’s having. Coffee. Put milk in mine, please.”
The girl shuffled away, yawning again.
“I was pleased to have the chance to talk with Donald when he was here,” George said. “If he’d shed some of that weight, his gout might bother him less.”
“Well, there’s precious little pleasure for him at Sermon Hill besides eating and drinking.”
“He’s helping your father operate the plantation, then?”
“When he’s not meeting here with the Burgesses.”
George hesitated. “You’re not at Sermon Hill—?”
“No.” Judson’s mouth twisted. “Father and I had one of our famous disagreements—this one a little more permanent than the others.”
“How permanent?”
“I don’t intend to go back to the place, ever. Furthermore, I’m not allowed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Judson waved, as if it didn’t matter. “I rode off to Philadelphia to replace Donald in the Congress for a time—”
George nodded. “Tom Jefferson told me, during one of our meetings.”
“What else did he tell you? That I botched my duties, the way I’ve botched everything in the last—?”
The serving girl’s return stopped Judson in mid-sentence. Embarrassed by the outburst, George glanced toward the fire. Judson wiped his damp forehead, accepted the mug of steaming coffee, drank a third of it in a series of gulps. The coffee was nearly scalding and took some of the chill out of him.
It didn’t lessen his tension, though. He was more and more convinced George Clark would reject his proposal out of hand.
“I always suspected I didn’t fit in around here,” Judson said finally. “Now, I know it.” The words had a lame, whipped sound.
There was no reproof in his friend’s eyes, only sympathy:
“Donald said your views on the slave question helped bring on the trouble with your father.”
“It’s much more than that. As I told you, I disgraced myself in Philadelphia. I shot a fat Tory to death when he challenged me to a duel—even though Jefferson and the president of the Congress warned me to steer clear of that sort of affair. There was also a scandal over a woman—” And some things since that I’m too ashamed to speak about even to you. “I’m not proud of any of it. Ever since I came back, I’ve done nothing but live day to day. No purpose, no ambition—”
He stared at his friend. It was impossible to conceal his hope any longer:
“I’ve thought a good deal about what you used to write in your letters. About the open country in the west—”
“It’s very different than it was just a few years ago, Judson.”
“The war
“Aye. We’re down to three settlements in Kentucky. Harrodsburg, Boonesborough and Fort Logan. All this past spring and summer, our people have lived like prisoners inside the stockades. When work parties go out to plant corn, other armed men go with them to stand guard. It’s not safe to hunt or farm your own piece of ground. Everyone’s taken refuge at the forts—”
George’s mouth set, almost ugly. “There’s a governor at Fort Detroit, Henry Hamilton, who’s paying British silver for every scalp cut from an American corpse.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“They call him the Hair-Buyer. He understands how easily the whole Northwest Territory can be taken if the tribes are properly incited. He also understands the value of the land. Which is more than can be said for some of our elegant Burgesses sitting here in Williamsburg pinching snuff from their silver boxes. I came back to try to remedy the situation.”
Judson came closer to the issue: “Donald thought you might be raising a new levy of men—”
George Clark didn’t answer immediately. He scanned the room as if searching for possible eavesdroppers. But there was no one else present besides the two of them and the girl dozing on her stool by the fire.
George clacked his fork back on his trencher, used a finger to dab a smear of syrup from the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward in his chair:
“Donald guessed correctly. After a great deal of argument and some table-pounding, I persuaded the committee of the Burgesses to authorize the recruiting of three hundred and fifty Virginians for the defense of Kentucky. They’re giving me six thousand Continental dollars to buy ammunition and supplies.”
“Where are you going to find the men?”
“Anywhere I can. Here. Pittsburgh—”
“I’d like to be one of them.”
The sudden silence was strained. Judson thought, He’s going to turn me down—
George Clark picked up his fork, dropped it again. In the kitchen, a man and woman argued over who had broken half a crate of eggs. A wagon creaked in the street; a cow lowed, its bell clanking. The rhythmic slow swish of the sweep’s broom going over and over the same square of floor sounded beyond the arch.
George frowned. “When you said you’d ridden all night, I thought there was probably some reason other than a wish to see an old friend.”
“I want to go to Kentucky, George. I want to start again.”
“I don’t think you quite know what you’re asking.”
The words, gently said, almost broke Judson’s heart. An instant later, they angered him. He slammed the coffee mug on the table:
“So I’m judged and found guilty before the fact?”
George still looked troubled. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’ve listened to Tom Jefferson. And to Donald. You’ve heard how I failed at everything before and you’ve decided I’ll fail again.”
“Judson, for God’s sake! That’s a totally unwarranted accusation—!”
“Is it?”
“Yes!”
“Forgive me, George, but I think you’re lying. Maybe out of kindness, but lying all the same—”
If so, George concealed it. “You simply don’t realize—Kentucky is not the tidewater.” His supple hand spread eloquently over the griddlecakes, the syrup pitcher, the cornbread loaf. “There’s little or no food like this. Just a swallow of water from a canteen and a handful of dried corn from your haversack. On the trail, you live like that for days—maybe weeks.”
“I can do it. I know I can.”
Silence again. Finally George resumed:
“Judson, it’s difficult to say this—”
“A turn-down. All right, do it and be done!”
“God, they weren’t exaggerating. You’re angry at everything.”
Judson flushed. “I’m sorry.”
“Then hear me out. You’re my friend, Judson. The closest friend I knew when I was growing up. That can’t be changed by anything that happens. But because you are my friend, I won’t deceive or flatter you—despite your notions to the contrary. There is no peace in Kentucky! No freedom to roam, explore, settle where you wish. The tribes are raiding regularly from north of the Ohio. Killing and butchering any man they find alone. Or women and babies, for that matter. I hate to put it so bluntly, but I need soldiers, not gentlemen-adventurers.”
“Do you think you can locate three hundred and fifty who meet your high standards?” Judson blazed.
George stiffened, but he controlled his temper, and his voice:
“If I’m lucky.”
“And if you’re not, you’ll have to take somewhat less perfect specimens—”
“Judson, I can hardly stand to listen to this.”
“To what?”
“Your bitterness. What in the name of heaven has happened to you?”
“What’s happened, George, is that I’m dying.”
He said it swiftly; softly. But George rocked back in his chair, hammered by the ferocity and pain of the statement.
“I mean it, George. I’m dying by days and by hours and by minutes—”
“So are we all.”
“Not the same way. I’m dying from failing. Dying because I hold what seem to be the wrong beliefs. I’m dying from hating my father and being hated—”
“And dying from not being strong enough to overcome all that—and learn from it?” George asked quietly, with just the barest hint of condemnation.
Bleak-faced, Judson agreed:
“Yes. That too. But I have learned this much. I think I have just about one more chance left. One chance somewhere to pick up the litter of my life and prove I can be successful at something, however small or insignificant—”
George cooled visibly. “The defense of Virginia’s western counties is neither small nor insignificant.”
“George, I didn’t mean—”
“What happens out there in the next year will determine how much land America holds when this war is settled. It will determine whether we’ll be pushed back east of the mountains, forced forever to huddle here on the coast—”
“Believe me, I didn’t mean to suggest—”
Abruptly, George relaxed again. “I know.” A weary smile; a nod. “The fault’s mine. I haven’t been in the best of spirits lately—”
He picked up his coffee mug, drank. “However—that doesn’t change the situation I’m facing. I need steady hands. Sharp eyes.” He looked directly at Judson. “God forbid that I should sound like a Bible-thumper inveighing against the sin of drunkenness. But this much is the truth. In the forest, liquor will only get a man lost, or slain.”
The quiet statements told Judson more about what Jefferson or Donald had said to George; and much more about the immensity of the change in his friend. This George Clark wasn’t the young man who’d roamed the Virginia woodlands for sheer pleasure. He spoke like what he was—a military commander.
Judson gave George the answer he hoped his friend wanted to hear:
“Then I’ll swear off it that’s what it takes. Never another drop—”
“It takes even more than that.”
“What, then? Goddamn it, I’m pleading for my life!”
Judson had tears in his eyes. He only realized it after he shouted. The outcry roused the serving girl on her stool, brought a gray feminine head peeping out of the kitchen, stopped the swish of the broom from beyond the arch. Judson drowned in a red wave of shame, his cheeks burning—
He kicked against the table’s trestle, shoved his chair back, frantic to leave. His red-haired friend was staring at him with a mixture of alarm and sorrow.
As Judson whirled toward the arch, George’s fingers clamped on his arm.
“Sit down.”
The sneer was unconscious: “What the hell for? I’m not the sort you want. Clear-eyed. Pure-hearted—”
“Sit down,” George Clark said. “And if you really want to discuss it, stop that self-pitying whine.”
&nbs
“Discuss it—? Do you?”
“Yes. I think I’ve made it clear that it won’t be easy to gather the men I need. So I have—motives for possibly accepting your offer.”
Jubilant, Judson pulled his chair up again, planted his elbows on the table, pleaded with open hands:
“I’ll be sober as a damn saint, George! You always said I should see the western lands—well, maybe this isn’t the wrong time but exactly the right one. If you think there’ll be any problem about me taking orders because we’re friends—”
“I think that could be a very definite problem.”
“No, no, it won’t be, I give you my word.”
“The word’s easy. The deed’s hard. I want you to realize what you’re asking. Consider the effort just to reach Pittsburgh. It’s hundreds of miles—”
“I’m strong—you saw how I got here. I rode all night—”
“And walked in white and trembly as poplar leaves in a windstorm. I’m not trying to be difficult, Judson, or hard on you—I could never do that easily because of all the fine times we shared. But the truth of what my men will be facing can’t be dodged. Can you sleep in the open when there are ten inches of snow covering the ground?”
“Yes.”
“Walk till there’s no feeling left in your legs—then keep on walking?”
“I can, yes.”
“Do you think you could kill a man without making a sound?”
Judson tried to smile. “The first part is no problem. I’ll practice the second.”
George didn’t smile back. “The pay is negligible. Most of my funds will go for supplies.”
“I don’t care. Nothing can be any worse than the trap I’ve gotten myself into here.”
“Can you fire a rifle?”
“One of the long Kentucky models? I’ve never tried but I’m positive I can learn. I’m fair with pistols. Always have been—”