Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  The officer turned back to Matt. He briefly glanced at Admiral’s reins that were now dangling on the ground. The horse stood there with this head down as he pulled up grass from the lawn. “On your way,” the officer said to Matt.

  Matt wrinkled his face and swore under his breath. He looked again at his wrist; six minutes. Matt grabbed Admiral’s reins. “It was worth a try,” Matt said, to no one in particular. Then he looked at the officer. “Thanks. I feel better there’s no threat.” Matt bowed to the officer and then took his time mounting the horse. Once he was in the saddle, he shouted “Gi ya!” and kicked Admiral in the direction of the doorway of Westminster Hall. He charged right into the center of the four soldiers who were guarding the entrance, splitting them violently back.

  Admiral hopped the few steps to the floor of the porch and hit the partially open doors, thrusting them apart to bang against the walls. A red-brown carpet lined the hall and ran all the way to a series of steps located on the far south end. Matt could see Benjamin Franklin at a podium with George Beckham standing to his immediate left. Franklin ended his speech at the sound of the crashing doors. Surprised Members of Parliament turned to watch Matt ride the horse along the carpet between them and toward the podium. Matt was halfway down the length of the hall when Franklin shouted. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “There’s a bomb, Ben!” Matt shouted. “You’re the targets. It’s Palmer.”

  The word “bomb” echoed through the hall, and a hush went through the MPs. People were looking around at their colleagues to decide whether this was some kind of joke, or if they were really in danger. For a moment, all you could hear were Admiral’s muffled footsteps on the red-brown carpet. Then, like someone fired a starting pistol, a roar went up, and people sprinted to the north door. Admiral reared as panicked Members scrambled on all sides. Matt dismounted to lead the agitated horse forward. He dropped Admiral’s reins when he reached the steps, but the horse followed him up onto the stage to the speaker’s podium to escape the panicked people

  Franklin and Beckham stepped back as Matt charged at them. Matt grabbed the wooden podium and twisted it on its side. The podium tumbled down the steps as a blue and white canister rolled from its bottom. “That’s it!” Matt said. He grabbed it before it reached Franklin and Beckham who were back on their heels. The timer on the sealed canister said four minutes.

  “I need to get this out of here before it explodes,” Matt yelled into the noise of the trapped crowd. “It’ll take out half of Parliament!” Matt inspected the north entrance to Westminster Hall, now bottlenecked by people clogging the doorway trying to leave, then he searched around for somewhere to throw the bomb, but there were no strong walls or barriers. The hall was wide open with nowhere to hide. Matt latched the bomb under his arm, stepped to Admiral, and put his foot into a stirrup. His hands were sticky with blood, so the bomb almost slipped from his grasp. As he flexed to lift his leg over the horse’s back, he could feel blood ooze out of the slash in his side. He was starting to feel nauseous.

  Matt urged the sick feeling from his mind and guided Admiral carefully down the steps. He galloped the length of the hall, shouting, “Clear the door!” His shouts only served to increase the panic of the bottlenecked crowd, and they pushed harder into the doorway. The timer now read three minutes. Matt turned back from the crowd, searching for another exit. He looked toward a decorated archway that marked a hallway that ended in a double stained glass window. He kicked hard, and Admiral sprinted into the hall. Matt yanked up on the horse’s mane, coerced him into the air, and crashed headfirst through the door. The stained glass shattered around them, and they popped out into another room with already open doors. Admiral blasted out of the building into an alley and then into the Palace Yard. The timer read two minutes.

  “Out of the way!” Matt shouted as he galloped to Bridge Street. He was at the west side of the Westminster Bridge with one minute to go. A man, standing where the bridge met the shore, tried to wave him down. It was Admiral’s owner, Oliver Pascoe, who cried for Matt to stop. Even in the panic, Matt was impressed that the man had already arrived at Westminster to retrieve his horse. Matt sidestepped Admiral around Pascoe and galloped him onto the bridge. He had thirty seconds left.

  The west side of the river was crowded with boats, so he galloped to the center. Twenty seconds! He guided the horse along the railing of the bridge and threw. The bomb landed in the Thames and bobbed along the surface. Matt jumped from the horse, thrust off his jacket, wrapped it around the animal’s head and pulled down. His last vision was of Oliver Pascoe running towards them. The bomb exploded, and Matt’s world went black.

  Chapter 70

  Too Late

  Matt opened his eyes to look up at the ceiling in his room in Franklin’s house on Craven Street. “What day is it?” he asked to the ceiling.

  “Dr. Franklin,” Margaret called. “He’s awake.” She stepped to Matt’s bed and spoke smiling. “We knew you’d be fine, Mr. Miller.”

  “What day is it?” Matt repeated.

  “Thursday,” she said.

  Matt had trouble remembering when he had ridden the horse into Westminster Hall. “How long?” he asked. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Two days,” she said. “Not quite two.”

  Franklin entered the room and stepped to the bed. “You’re all right.”

  “Bow Street?” Matt asked. He tried to sit up, but his head pounded and forced him back down.

  “Take it easy, son,” Franklin said. “You’re no longer a man of interest. Nathan Trent corroborated your story. Bow Street is looking for Brian Palmer.” Matt had to use all his energy to fight his headache and sit up. Franklin went on. “Parliament met again while you were sleeping,” he explained. “Beckham was awful amazing. He single-handedly built a majority. They’ve drawn articles of representation for the American Colonies. We got what we wanted. He’ll offer them the same representation as anyone in the kingdom. We’ll decide details, logistics, procedures, and communications. American delegates may be required to spend most of their time at Westminster, but I believe—“

  “Ben, listen to me, now!” Matt said. “Send someone to contact Captain Pearce of the Norfolk. They’re still taking on cargo in London Harbor. It’s the fastest ship in the colonies.”

  “We don’t need a fast ship,” Franklin said. “After the impression that you made, they’ll not rescind their offer based on a delay of a few weeks. Beckham’s contingent is committed to traveling from colony to colony.”

  “Jefferson’s life is in danger,” Matt said. “Brian Palmer hired an assassin. He sent him to Virginia on the Hunter.”

  The End of Book Three.

  Epilogue

  Laughter

  Matt’s sleep was restless for his last two weeks at sea. He couldn’t escape the feeling of doom and kept waking up soaked in sweat. The conflict kept moving from one side of his brain to the other, and his ordinarily prescient dreams were flooded with guilt from leaving his pregnant wife unprotected. Father Vincent had said honor, verity, and duty would nourish his soul if he were on the right path; he hadn’t said anything about waking up in a cold sweat every night.

  I’m the cause of this, Matt thought, and I have to fix it.

  A sergeant barking orders to the English soldiers behind them made Matt and Beckham, who was riding beside him, turn their heads. Seeing it was nothing, they resumed their silent journey from Richmond to the Taylor-Miller farm. Beckham had proven himself a brave and able statesman. It seemed likely he would achieve full American representation in Parliament.

  Beckham, noticing Matt’s preoccupation, spoke. “Still vexed about the price on your head?”

  Matt shook his head. “I received a note that my wife is ill. I’m anxious to see her. I’d like to say there’s something extraordinary about traveling through Virginia while being chased by an assassin, but it’s not the first time.”

  Beckham barked a laugh, and Matt recounted the
time Levi Payne hired men to kill him.

  After he’d finished, Beckham said thoughtfully, “We live in incumbent times, and we must always remain diligent. I pray that your wife will be fine.”

  Matt shrugged. There was nothing more that he could say.

  “We’re escorted by ten elite members of the British Guard,” Beckham explained. “They’re aware of the threat to you and your family, and they’d give their lives before they suffered anyone to be harmed. I pray, too, we have God’s speed in locating Mr. Jefferson.”

  “If he hasn’t already been murdered,” Matt said, unconvinced.

  He wasn’t really so apprehensive about Jefferson. Nothing in his dreams had ever hinted of assassination, but Matt knew the assassin’s threat would unnerve the young statesman. Thomas Jefferson was unfamiliar with violence. Matt reasoned that this was due to his height. He’d have been able to avoid most fights based on his size alone, so he often seemed oblivious to the physicality of men’s conversations. Matt had convinced him to take sword lessons from Henry Duncan, and Jefferson had gained confidence and skill, but he would never be a soldier.

  Richmond disappeared behind them as they approached the farm, and Matt’s apprehension grew. He fought the desire to gallop forward. Matt had no news since the letter announcing that Grace had lost the baby. He wanted to promise never to leave again. He could hear the dogs now and see horses running in the pastures behind the white fences.

  “Corn looks tall,” Matt said aloud. “God, I’d love to walk the fields.” Grace’s father had treasured his walks in the cornfields. The thought of Thomas Taylor gave Matt a sad smile. He’d been right about being able to hear God’s thoughts among the stalks, and Matt needed divine inspiration now more than ever. Matt wondered how Thomas would have dealt with English soldiers attacking his daughter. Would they already be dead?

  “How long do you think it will take to gather the representatives?” Beckham asked.

  “One or two weeks.”

  “I know ’tis a delicate subject with you Americans,” Beckham said, “but our protection requires that you quarter my men on your farm.”

  “I agree,” Matt replied. “Most of the meetings will be conducted there, anyway. We have room.”

  Beckham nodded. “Both the King and Parliament are extending their hands. We must bring the sides together, you and me, before the bond is hopelessly shattered.”

  “I believe even Jefferson will concur,” Matt said. “His dream is for British law to be extended to all citizens of the commonwealth.”

  “Mr. Jefferson will want to be convinced that our motives are pure.”

  “He’d be a strong ally,” Matt affirmed. “Virginia has much to lose in a conflict.” Matt felt another tinge of guilt at the statement, knowing that he, himself, had more to lose than most.

  As they passed the factory, a mild acetic acid smell emanated from the building, and Matt inhaled deeply. It made him wish for a simpler time when the only thing that mattered was a nicely compressed tablet and enough money to ask for the hand of the woman he loved. Right now, almost every other moment in his life seemed better than today.

  Beckham inspected the building as they passed it. “How many do you employ?”

  “Over forty. Though we could grow larger.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “For it all to be destroyed in a war?” Matt replied. “No way.”

  “Even if we fail, how can you be sure of war?”

  “I’ll relax once we’ve won the Virginians. The rest of the South can be convinced, but Virginia must lead. Franklin tells me that Pennsylvania will compromise.”

  “And New England?”

  “You’ll want to persuade Adams. Boston is about to boil over.”

  “You speak so ominously,” Beckham said.

  Matt repeated Beckham’s words back to him. “These are incumbent times, Mr. Beckham.”

  Near the entrance to the farm, Matt turned again to look at the British soldiers. It had been a long time since he’d had to deal with Redcoats here. This bunch was older and more professional, but that wasn’t much of a comfort. Comfort was a luxury now, anyway; he had a price on his head, had lost a child, and his dreams were shouting tragedy.

  As they passed through the gate and approached the white farmhouse, Grace’s mother opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.

  “Hello,” she called. “Welcome home.”

  Matt dismounted, and the others followed. They’d been in the saddle for hours now, and shook themselves loose, working out the kinks. Matt stepped up onto the porch and hugged Mary as he had since his first days on the Taylors’ farm. Mary gave him a sober look and hugged him back.

  “A pleasure to see you, Mother. Where’s Grace?”

  Mary was scrutinizing the British soldiers. “I assume we’ll be hosting these men for the next few days?”

  “Two weeks,” Matt replied. He looked around. “Where are Grace and the children?”

  “The children are with Rebecca,” Mary said. “Grace is in bed. She’s still ill.”

  “Still?” Matt replied. “Where?”

  The look on his mother-in-law’s face was grave. “Let her rest. She’s had so little sleep. Situate these soldiers. I suspect there are not many here who would help you with that task.”

  “I must see her,” Matt said.

  “Settle your men,” Mary commanded. Her German accent made her statement strong enough for Matt to step off the porch.

  Matt shook his head in irritation as he returned to Beckham. “Let me find Jonathan,” Matt said. “I can trust him to help quarter your men.” He pointed. “They’ll stay in the black shacks, there. We’ll have meat for everyone soon.”

  Matt turned to see Jonathan thundering across the courtyard. He was now taller than Matt and had become a formidable young man.

  “Jonathan,” Matt said, relieved.

  “These Redcoats can’t stay,” Jonathan said. “You should have given us warning before bringing them here.”

  “I rushed here,” Matt replied. “Our family may be in danger.”

  “The danger comes from these soldiers!”

  “They’re staying,” Matt said. He turned to Beckham. “Ambassador Beckham, this is my brother-in-law, Jonathan Taylor, one of the proprietors of this farm.”

  “You’ve brought the British Ambassador to our home?” Jonathan asked incredulously.

  “Jonathan!” Matt scolded. “He’s here to help Virginia obtain representation in Parliament.”

  “I no longer wish to be British,” Jonathan said. “This scum can stay in Richmond.” He said it loud enough for the British guards to hear; Matt saw them grow agitated. Beckham raised his hand at their commander.

  “Will both you and William become shills for these tyrants?” Jonathan asked as Matt pulled him aside. Matt yanked him across the dirt road into an equipment shed and shut the door.

  “I don’t like these soldiers any more than you do,” Matt said. “The threat to our family is real.”

  “Have you seen your wife? Or does the company of your new fellows consume you?”

  “Grandmother said Grace was sleeping.”

  “Are you going to tell my sister more soldiers are staying at her home?”

  Matt looked at the door. “Everything I’m doing now is to keep your sister alive and this farm from being burned to the ground. Beckham is here to negotiate a peace.”

  “Let it burn,” Jonathan replied, his voice calm and cold.

  They turned at the sound of the sliding door. Uncle David was standing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Beckham told me the situation,” David said. “I’ll take care of the soldiers.” He looked straight at Jonathan. “These aren’t the men who attacked your sister. Those men will get the noose.”

  Jonathan glared at his uncle. “Like in Boston? Did those men?”

  “Calm yourself,” David replied. “Do you plan to fight a whole squad of British soldiers?” He now looked furiously a
t Matt. “Why would you bring them here, knowing what they did?” He shook his head and left, sliding the door shut behind him.

  Matt spun to face Jonathan. “You will not say another word to these men or Ambassador Beckham. I will not let this farm and family be destroyed.”

  Jonathan held Matt’s glare. Matt accepted it as his acknowledgment.

  Matt left the shed and hurried across the yard to Beckham. “My wife is ill, assaulted by British soldiers. I trust you can find your way.”

  “Your uncle told me,” Beckham replied. “I appreciate your hospitality and understand your family’s dismay.”

  Matt nodded, backed away, and then strode toward his home. He sprinted up the staircase to the master bedroom. Grace was sitting up in bed, reading a book in front of an open window. The room was cool and fragrant. He went to the bed to pull her into his arms. “They told me,” he said. “When did this happen?”

  “A month after you left,” Grace replied. Her voice had a cold finality. “I lost our baby. It was a little girl.”

  “The men will be brought to justice,” Matt said. “I’ll bring them there if the law does not.”

  “An eye for an eye,” Grace said.

  “We cannot—” A gunshot echoed outside. “What?” Matt jumped from the bed and out onto the balcony. Jonathan stood in the courtyard holding a smoking pistol. Twenty yards away, David was trying to keep Beckham on his feet. Bright red blood dripped from Beckham’s head.

  “What’s befallen?” Grace demanded.

  Matt turned to her. “The British Ambassador has been shot.”