Free The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles by John Jakes

Virginny territory. You go play someplace else ’fore I spank you good.”
    Shaking, Philip said, “Come on and try.”
    The tall, ugly fellow darted up from behind and bashed his opponent in one ear. The burly man didn’t appear to feel it. Only his eyes showed a reaction. He stabbed his hand down past a tangle of thrashing, mud-covered arms and legs. Instantly, Philip saw what he was after—
    A spade someone had used as a weapon.
    The man seized the spade’s handle—but Philip wasn’t the target. The burly man swung the spade toward the tall fellow, howling:
    “I’ll take yer head off, Eph Tait!”
    Philip made another two-handed lunge at the burly man’s forearm. The Virginian with the cocked eye ducked and the spade hissed on through the air. Except for Philip’s restraining grip, it would have completed its arc—
    To smash into the face of the officer who had climbed from the phaeton.
    The spirit seemed to drain from the burly man in a second. His mud-daubed face lost color. All he could breathe out was a raspy, “Oh, heavenly Christ—”
    Philip was equally alarmed, to put it mildly. No man in the American lines could fail to recognize the towering officer. His thrown-back cloak revealed a dark blue coat with buff facings, a buff waistcoat and, above the white breeches, his purple sash of rank.
    He had somehow lost his hat. Rain glistened in his clubbed reddish-brown hair. He was in his early forties, with huge hands, equally large feet whose size was emphasized by his big boots. In fact the man looked almost ponderous. But he moved with startling speed as he seized the spade and hurled it to the ground. Philip noticed a light pitting of pox scars on pale cheeks that bore traces of sunburn—or the flush of anger. The man’s gray-blue eyes raked the brawlers:
    “I expect better than this from Virginians! Where is the commanding officer?”
    The fighting had all but stopped. One of the mud-covered men shouted:
    “Dead drunk—as usual.”
    “To your quarters, every damn one of you. And think about this while you wait for the orders for punishment I intend to issue before this night’s over. I have made a pretty good slam since I came to this camp. I broke one colonel and two captains for cowardice at Bunker’s Hill. I’ve caused to be placed under arrest for trial one colonel, one major, one captain and six subalterns—in short, I spare no one, particularly men of my own colony, and you will find that reflected in the redress of this disgrace. Dismissed!” he shouted, suddenly pointing at Philip. “All except you.”
    Philip stood frozen, swallowing hard. The officer’s temper had moderated. His speech took on a softer quality; the genteel, almost drawling quality of his native Fairfax County:
    “You don’t belong to this regiment, do you, soldier?”
    “No, sir.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Philip Kent, General.”
    “Your unit?”
    “Twenty-ninth Massachusetts.”
    “Why aren’t you with your unit?”
    “I have my commander’s permission to visit Watertown, sir. My wife’s there—she’s expecting a baby and not doing well—”
    “I can vouch for this man’s identity, General Washington.”
    The new arrival stumping up on fat legs brought Philip momentary relief from the absolute terror he felt under the blue-gray stare of the chief of the American forces. The new arrival was a pie-faced young man with a white silk scarf wrapped around his crippled left hand. He weighed close to three hundred pounds and wore civilian clothes.
    Shooting a quick glance at Philip—a warning for him to stand fast—he continued:
    “He served with me in the Boston Grenadier Company before the trouble broke out. If he says his wife’s in Watertown, and that he’s been given leave to see her, it’s undoubtedly the truth.”
    “I’ll take your word, Knox,” Washington said. He smiled faintly. “Especially since this soldier’s hand on that fool’s arm—” He pointed at the burly drunk