Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10)

by Monique Martin

  Teddy looked worried he’d done something wrong, and Jack reassured him with a wave of his hand.

  With nothing else to do, they watched as the first Durham boats were loaded with men. Each boat could hold up to forty men. Company after company marched in and stood in the boats. Jack tried to find Burgess amongst them, but visibility was growing worse by the second. He did see Washington; at six foot two, he was easy to spot.

  Unlike the famous painting, though, there was no Betsy Ross flag, or if there was, no one could see it. The wind came hard from the north now and drove the snow into their eyes. Jagged pieces of ice tumbled over one another as they collided in small traffic jams on the river. Lanterns held by men in the bows nearly disappeared in the thickness of the snowfall.

  The river was nearly three hundred feet across with a strong current. The men had to row hard against it and to push through the chunks of ice. Hour after hour, the men were loaded onto the boats and ferried across while the others waited and began to freeze to death.

  Billings, one of the younger men, barely a man, shivered so badly his teeth chattered.

  “Keep your feet moving, lad,” Sullivan told him.

  The boy nodded but kept staring out at the river as if it were the Styx itself.

  Next to Jack, Teddy tugged nervously on his fingers.

  This was the worst part of it, Jack thought. Those impossibly long moments before the battle came. When he was in the thick of it, there wasn’t time to think, but now, waiting on the shore, knowing and not knowing what was to come was near torture.

  “Read it again,” one of the men said in a hushed voice.

  Sullivan nodded and dug into his coat pocket. Jack expected him to pull out a Bible and read a verse, but instead he pulled out slim folded papers.

  He moved closer to one of the torch lamps and read aloud.

  “These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph ….”

  Jack knew the words, but, he was ashamed to admit, he’d never really understood them until now. Thomas Paine’s An American Crisis had been published just a week before, and it had already made its way to the army and to the people. In words both powerful and succinct, Paine captured the ephemeral ideals of the revolution and made them real. He spoke to these men—to the farmers and the mill workers. Jefferson, Adams, and Hamilton spoke to the people of ideas and ideals that shaped the new nation, but Paine’s words were for the people who bled for it. That Christmas night, on the icy shores of the Delaware River, his words helped inspire men to do the impossible and keep the flame of revolution burning.

  ~~~

  December 26, 1776 - McConkey’s Ferry, Pennsylvania

  Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, it was time for the horses and artillery to start crossing. By now, the storm was at its worst. Icy wind cut through them like a knife and the snow and ice crusted on their hats and shoulders, burying men where they stood.

  Colonel Glover and his men acquired both flat-bottom ferries and forged another out of two Durham boats. Men led the horses down the small dock. It was covered with snow now. One of the horses slipped on the ice and in its panic reared its head, setting off a chain reaction from the horses near him. Men held the reins and stood amidst the clattering hooves and somehow managed to calm them. They urged the already nervous horses onto the slick wooden planks of the ferries.

  “They have more sense than we do,” Sullivan said.

  “His Excellency knows what he’s doing,” another replied.

  It was an odd thing, Jack thought, to call Washington, or any American for that matter, His Excellency, but that’s what they called him. And despite losing nearly every battle he’d been in command of, he had earned their respect and admiration.

  It was a testament to his personal charisma that they hadn’t abandoned him by now. George Washington was given command of an army that was hardly any army at all, and yet, he had called for, and would receive, more out of them than anyone could imagine. He couldn’t shape the men to his will, so he shaped his will to his men.

  “All right, look lively!” Glover barked as he pointed toward Hamilton and his men.

  Carefully, they trundled the artillery pieces onto the ferry. It was difficult and delicate work, but they managed to get five field guns onto one and began the work of lashing them down.

  Jack’s fingers were nearly frozen stiff. Tying knots in a blizzard was hard work. But they got it done and shoved off.

  The boat was heavy and slow. The wind and the current pushed against them. The only sounds were the roar of the storm and sloshing of the oars. About halfway across, a huge piece of ice rammed into the front of the raft, then another. The second, pushed by the current, slipped under the first and lifted the corner of the raft. The slight imbalance tilted the whole thing, and the weight of the cannons strained against the ropes.

  Like a cracking whip, one of the ropes broke away. Like a coiled snake striking, it bit one of the men nearby knocking him into the icy water. Then it was chaos.

  Everyone started to shout as two of the cannons began to slide on the icy planks. One of them slid toward the other, nearly crushing a man between them. He leaped out of the way, but the heavy cannon skidded toward the edge of the raft.

  Somehow, the man who had fallen in managed not to get caught in the current and held onto the boat. Two more men pulled him back on board.

  The uneven weight distribution of the cannons made the raft tilt again and hastened the cannons’ slide. Men ran toward them in an effort to secure them, but as they did, the imbalance grew, and the raft tilted even more.

  “The other way! Get away from it!” Teddy cried. “Counterbalance the weight.”

  “Do as he says!” the sailor in command yelled.

  The men did as he asked and the raft began to balance. Carefully, someone looped ropes around the loose cannons and lashed them to the others that were still secure.

  Jack panted from the exertion. The icy cold air burned his lungs. Somehow, they managed to make it the rest of the way without another incident. As they worked the cannons off the raft, Jack saw Teddy standing to the side, arms crossed over his chest, one hand tugging at his beardless chin. He was studying the ropes, and the look on his face told Jack everything he needed to know about the “accident.” Sabotage.

  To be sure, he went to Teddy’s side.

  The rope dangled over the side of the barge. The end of it was sheared. It had been cut.

  Burgess.

  Jack didn’t know if Glover’s man saw it or not, but he commanded his sailors to tell the other boats to triple check their ropes. Whether more had been tampered with, Jack wasn’t sure. Somehow, Glover and his men managed to get everything and everyone across.

  Jack looked around, half expecting Burgess to be standing there, blue eyes cutting through him, but he wasn’t. The bastard was probably off sabotaging something else. Jack had to find him and find him fast.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1774 - LONDON, England

  Noble’s, it turned out, was a library, or more properly, a circulating library, at Leicester Square. According to their driver, William, who they’d hired out for the day, it was owned by a publisher and his brother. People could borrow one of the thousands of books on hand for a small fee.

  Simon helped Elizabeth down from the carriage. “I don’t know how long we’ll be, William.”

  William was a Cockney pug of a man in his early forties with a fire hydrant build. The carriage dipped to the side as he clambered back up into his seat.

  He touched the brim of his hat. “At your leisure, sir.”

  They found Paine thumbing through the pages of several books in the back of the library. He look
ed up, almost annoyed, and then closed his book.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said, and again, offered Elizabeth the slimmest of acknowledgments.

  “A good morning to you, Mr. Paine,” Simon said. “Find something of interest?”

  Paine picked up his books. “Always.”

  He handed them to Simon, who read the titles and handed them to Elizabeth. Edmund Burke’s Thoughts on the Cause of Present Discontents was clear enough. Burke was a British politician and philosopher who was sympathetic to the American cause. She flipped open the other, much to Paine’s surprise and slight dismay. It was Letters of Junius, and seemed from a quick glance, to be a series of polemic letters against the king and monarch. But with all of the S’s looking like F’s it was hard to say for certain.

  She closed the books and handed them back to Paine. “Some might call those libelous,” she said.

  Paine tucked them under his arm. “And some would call them the truth. I know upon which side I stand.” He looked over at Simon. “Is our association stillborn?”

  “No. But those are dangerous ideas.”

  “All good ideas are dangerous.” He eyed them both cautiously. “Do you own slaves?”

  The abrupt nonsequitur threw them both off for a moment.

  Simon shook his head. “No.”

  “Good. An abomination. To buy and sell men. There is no more unnatural a commodity.”

  “Agreed.”

  Paine lifted his chin. “Barbarous business. Be warned, I do not intend to remain silent on the subject should I go to America.”

  “Nor should you,” Simon said.

  “It is a heinous crime.”

  “It is, and men of good conscience must speak out about the practice,” Simon said. “However, I do want to be clear that your main focus would be on the current political situation.”

  Paine almost smiled. “Are they so different? Does not the Crown want to make slaves of the colonists? To keep the yoke of oppression firmly on and allow no say over one’s own life?”

  Elizabeth hadn’t really seen it that way before, but there was logic to it.

  “All men have the sovereign right to govern themselves. To be the captain of their own ship. The monarchs of the world, including our own lovely King George, would have you believe that power, and even wisdom itself, are ceded to them by God. They are not. God needs no such middleman to speak or to be heard, and rights are not granted by royal whim, but by nature itself.”

  He looked at each of them in turn, his dark brown eyes flashing with passion. “This justice, for all men, is what I yearn for. Whether here or there, I shall seek it.”

  They spoke for another hour, or at least they listened. It was fascinating, and it seemed clear to Elizabeth, even if it wasn’t to Paine, that his Quaker upbringing had greatly shaped his political philosophy. In a religion where all were equal, even the use of “thees” and “thous” were social equalizers, and no priest was needed to be an intermediary between man and God, it wasn’t a great leap to see those egalitarian ideals translate to politics.

  Paine spoke beautifully, plainly, and passionately about his beliefs. He asked few questions of them, which was just as well. He was nearly impossible to keep up with, but they did their best. And, Elizabeth thought, as they left Noble’s, they’d somehow managed to make a good impression.

  “I assure you,” Simon said. “You would have free rein to speak unfettered.”

  “I must admit, your proposal grows more intriguing by the minute.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss it more over tea?” Simon asked.

  “I am afraid I have a previous commitment for the afternoon.”

  Simon waved William over. “Then perhaps dinner?”

  For once, Paine didn’t hesitate. “I should be pleased to.”

  “Very good. Golden Cross Inn. You know it?”

  “I do.”

  “Five o’clock?” Elizabeth asked.

  Paine dipped his head. “I shall be there.”

  Their carriage pulled up to the curb.

  “Can we drop you off anywhere?” Simon offered.

  They took him to the Royal Society, which was currently housed in much more modest lodgings than the Burlington House where they’d followed Niels Bohr to. They dropped him off on Fleet Street and said their goodbyes.

  Simon instructed William to drive to the end of the block then turn around and park across the street. Their stakeout began.

  They sat waiting for nearly an hour before Elizabeth got restless. In her clothes, sitting wasn’t the most comfortable position. “I need to stretch my legs.”

  Simon helped her down and they walked to the end of the block. Fleet Street was alive with people. Newspaper hawkers cried out, selling the latest news, and a one-eyed man offered mackerel wrapped in yesterday’s edition. A chimney sweep yelled something down from a roof and an actual milkmaid rattled her pails on her yoke as she moved along the street selling milk door to door.

  “Any milk here? Fresh cheese and cream!”

  They passed by a flower cart and Elizabeth stopped to admire the flowers, letting Simon go on a few steps ahead to watch for Paine. There was a lot of both foot and street traffic, and they had to keep a sharp eye out or they’d miss him.

  The bells from a nearby church rang out the hour.

  “How much?” she asked about a small bouquet of posies.

  “Thruppence, milady.”

  Elizabeth was about to turn to Simon to ask for a coin when she bumped into someone.

  “I’m sorry, I—” she said, but the rest of her apology was lost as she found herself face to face with Phillips.

  His reddish hair was longer than it was in the photograph Travers had supplied in the dossier and tied in a ponytail, but that face, pockmarked and uneven, she’d know it anywhere.

  He was about to apologize himself when he recognized her. His expression shifted from surprise to shock. Elizabeth knew what he was thinking. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be anywhere.

  “You?”

  Elizabeth called out for Simon, but her voice was drowned out by the cacophony of sound.

  Phillips turned and saw Simon then he turned back to Elizabeth. She felt a surge of panic and tried to move past him, but Phillips grabbed her by the arms. His grip was so tight it hurt. She struggled against him and called for Simon, but it was too late.

  With an unforgettably triumphant expression, Phillips threw her into the street. Elizabeth stumbled and fell to her hands and knees.

  Someone screamed. She turned and looked up just in time to see a team of horses and a heavy wagon nearly on top of her.

  ~~~

  Simon heard someone scream and turned back. He saw it all play out in front of him like a nightmare come to life.

  Elizabeth lay in the street, a huge wagon and team of horses about to crush her. His heart lodged in his throat; he called out to her. He ran toward her, but he would be too late.

  Time stretched and pulled and dragged even as it raced past him. She was going to be killed. He felt sick. He couldn’t reach her in time.

  Somehow, the driver managed to stop the wagon, but the horses were above her. They whickered and tossed their heads, rearing up, jumping against the harness, hooves poised to trample her.

  Just as they came down, she rolled out of the way. Inches between life and death. Someone yanked her out of their path and back up onto the sidewalk.

  “Are you all right?” a man asked.

  Simon offered a quick thanks to the man who saved her and took hold of her. Her eyes were still wide with fright, and her breath came as quickly as his did.

  “Elizabeth?”

  He looked her up and down for injuries. Her dress and hands were filthy, but he didn’t see any blood.

  “Phillips,” she said between gasping breaths. “It was Phillips.”

  She turned then, and Simon followed her stare, unable to process what she’d said until he saw the man for himself. He stood ca
lmly amongst the curious crowd. His only emotion disappointment that he’d failed.

  His eyes shifted to Simon, cold as steel.

  They’d tried to kill her. Again.

  Simon looked back at Elizabeth, the color coming back to her face. “Are you—”

  She nodded and said breathlessly, “Go.”

  Simon hesitated, but she said it again. He saw William coming through the crowd.

  “Take care of her,” he said and then set off after Phillips.

  He ran down the street and caught sight of him not far ahead. Driven by rage, Simon closed in on him. Phillips darted across traffic and, heedless of the danger, Simon followed.

  Phillips was nearly blocked in by a sedan chair, but he shoved it aside and sent it, and the men carrying it, toppling to the ground. Simon leapt over one of them and kept on.

  Philips ran ahead and then suddenly rounded a corner. Simon did the same nearly losing his footing. Just down the street, he saw Phillips disappear into a building. Simon reached the same doorway. It was some sort of boarding house with a connected stall on the first floor. He ran inside and heard Phillips’ footfalls going up the stairs. He gave chase, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Phillips!” he roared.

  He was going to squeeze the life out of him.

  Simon ran up two flights of stairs before he heard a door slam at the end of a hall. He ran toward it and shoved it open. A woman gasped. The baby in her arms cried.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  She pointed toward the window.

  Simon ran over to it and leaned out. Phillips dropped from the windowsill and landed hard on the wooden awning of the shop below. Several boards broke beneath his weight and one leg plunged through them. He yanked and pulled at it, finally freeing himself.

  Simon knew if he followed he might meet the same fate.

  Phillips limped into the street.

  Simon ran back into the hall, down the stairs and out into the street. Carts and horses rode past, but Phillips was nowhere to be seen.