Angels & Patriots

by Salina B Baker

  Colm waited silently for Ian to go to bed.

  Sometime after midnight, when the white sheet of clouds was pulled back to reveal the moon, Ian left his room and went to Sidonie. She lay on her side curled into a tight naked ball and burrowed deep beneath the pile of blankets on her bed.

  Her skin was cold when Ian slipped his bare body against hers. He touched her cheek and traced the wetness to her linen pillowcase. His erection brushed her soft belly. He rolled her onto her back. She spread her thin tight legs and wrapped her arms around his back. Her fingers pressed against the hard muscles there.

  Ian kissed her forehead, tear-stained cheeks, and then her lips. Her fingers moved to untie the ribbon that held his long straight black hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His hair draped over her face. She pushed it back so she could return his hungry kisses. He eased his erection inside her. His red aura burst forth warm and strong, and he moaned. His wings unfurled and showered her with his lust.

  When the sun struggled to cast its golden rays upon the town of Boston, Ian and Sidonie woke warm, naked, and wet from the silver crystals of an angel’s orgasm. But Ian was incapable of basking in the beautiful luxury of a morning countless humans wished for. His duty to his brotherhood called.

  “I have to go,” Ian said. He got out of bed and pulled on his shirt. “I’m supposed to rent a place for us to live.” He fetched his waistcoat, stockings, and breeches from the drafty floorboards, and finished dressing in a rush.

  Sidonie got up. She shivered in the cold room as she pulled on her dressing robe.

  Ian shrugged into his coat. “I’m late. Colm was expecting me to muster at dawn.”

  Sidonie pulled his hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and secured it with the ribbon she removed last night. She kissed his neck.

  Ian moved toward the door. He paused, and then turned around. “I’m supposed to kiss her before I leave,” he said to himself.

  She smiled, and breathed a laugh.

  He pulled her into his arms and studied her face. His lust was quiet and satisfied. “How should I kiss you when I don’t desire sex from you?” he asked.

  Ian asked her that question each time he left Charles Town to return to Garden Mountain. Each time, she slipped her hand into his crotch and stroked him until he understood how to kiss her. On that morning, Sidonie decided that it was time he learned how to express love. She had no idea if he was capable of learning that lesson, but she decided to begin teaching it anyway.

  She kissed him softly.

  The confrontation on Long Wharf had familiarized Seamus with the overall atmosphere of the waterfront. The friction between the British soldiers and the provincial fishermen, merchants, sailors, and dockworkers was hot enough to ignite a fire. He was ready to be in that cauldron.

  Long Wharf was not the only dock serving Boston Harbor, but it was the largest. Clipper ships, schooners, and frigates with energetic names like Lively and Invincible, preceded by the letters HMS, were moored at the docks while others lay at anchor in the harbor. Some of those ships belonged to or were commissioned by colonial merchants such as John Hancock—men who had financiers in England. Because of the Continental Congress’ plea to boycott British goods, many ships tugged at their moors loaded with tea, fine fabrics, furniture, china, refined sugar, and food stuffs.

  Seamus walked through the crowds on the bustling wharf to dock 10 where the schooner HMS Draco and the warship HMS Invincible rocked on rough waters. He knew the only way to obtain useful information was to work on the docks or on a ship.

  As he approached the HMS Draco, a young British soldier blocked his way and demanded, “What is your business here?”

  “I’m lookin’ for work.”

  The young soldier noted Seamus’ gray eyes, gray-brown hair and neat beard, then examined him closer. This man’s rough clothes are dirty and disgusting. I have heard stories about men who live like animals with Indian heathens. This man is one of them. I am certain of it.

  “You do not look like the type to possess the skills required to work onboard a ship. What experience do you have?”

  A flash of a memory of working the sails on an Irish cog crossed Seamus’ mind. He blinked. The memory was gone.

  “Answer me, bumpkin.”

  Seamus removed his beaver-hair felt hat and went about “shaping” the narrowed edged brim—an attempt to keep his hands busy and avoid pummeling the source of his anger.

  He said, “Boy, unless you’re doin’ the hirin’, shut your mouth.”

  Several other soldiers gathered around Seamus.

  “If you know whose hirin’, point me in the right direction. If you don’t, then get outta my way.”

  The soldier pointed at the HMS Invincible. “There is a help wanted advertisement posted in the Boston Gazette.”

  Seamus replaced his hat and walked to the lowered gangplank of the Invincible.

  A sullen sailor wearing a bicorn hat with a white cockade and the blue-coated uniform of a low ranking British naval officer stood at the foot of the gangplank. He’d seen the exchange. “What position have you come for?”

  “I can do anythin’.”

  The sailor yelled, “Mr. Rickard! A man’s here in response to your ad!”

  A man emerged from the interior of the ship and walked the gangplank to the dock. His attire was the same as the sailor’s, except the cockade on his bicorn hat was green. There was one other notable thing that differentiated Rickard from the other sailor—Rickard was drunk.

  Seamus was given a job on the HMS Invincible with no clear understanding of what that job entailed. No matter, he was there for British information and gossip.

  Nine

  Liam sat at the cramped writing desk in a corner of the Greystoke Inn’s taproom. It was no mystery why the desk was there. Quill and paper were powerful weapons.

  He placed an inkhorn, pounce pot, and a single sheet of unsized paper on the desktop. Then, he extracted a quill and pen-knife from his coat pocket. After sharpening the quill, Liam sprinkled pounce on the paper, then bent to write the missive to draw out Henry.

  I am a stranger in Boston, but I feel compelled to speak of the Brotherhood of which I am a part. These men sometimes speak like ancient angels who have seen and endured much. They are aware of Heinous beings that move quietly through the dark in the guise of men. Yet they stand firm to face what is to come. I am told of a man named Henry who stands well with the Enemy of freedom.

  He hath given signaled proofs of his attachment to the depths of darkness where he would have this Brotherhood chained for eternity. This man claims that he is dispatched in the name of God and his mission is blessed by the same to fetter those who beg for liberty in thought and action.

  As a part of this Brotherhood, I stand as a Beholder within an inner circle made up of brave links of a chain. Deceit has been forfeited in reverence to the truth. And, so I say to the man named Henry, come forth if you dare to challenge the Preceptors of Mysteries not easily explainable or known to lesser men. We await your arrival.

  Liam gently vibrated the sheet of paper to remove the loose pounce. He reread his writing, and then folded the paper. As he slipped the missive into the pocket of his coat, he heard a beautiful voice ask, “Mr. Kavangh?”

  He looked up. There stood a young, petite brunette with a look of expectation.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You are a recent acquaintance of my husband, John Adams. He described you as blue-eyed, dark-headed, and mid-thirties in age. My name is Abigail Adams.”

  Liam glanced at the men drinking and eating at the tavern’s tables. “Is it wise for you to be here unescorted?”

  “I am not unescorted. My brother, William, is here. May we speak privately?”

  “Is your brother not curious about what you are up to?”

  Abigail laughed. “His curiosity is reserved for what is in his cup.”

  “We appear to have privacy here.” Liam beheld her modest confide
nce. Her husband must have discussed the appearance of angels with her.

  “With all that is happening between the loyalists and the patriots and Great Britain, the sudden arrival of beings claiming to be angels is very unsettling.”

  Liam listened to her honest, intelligent words without responding.

  “You do not seem surprised,” she said.

  “How much did your husband tell you?”

  “I suppose he told me everything he knows about your…I believe you call it a brotherhood.”

  “Then you know you should be unsettled by our arrival.”

  “I believe what John told me, and I want to help you.”

  Her courage and faith confounded Liam. She was behaving as if the appearance of angels was an ordinary event. However, her lack of fear concerned him.

  “Mrs. Adams…”

  “Please. It is Abigail.”

  “Abigail, did John tell you what is pursuing us?”

  She glanced at her brother, who was absorbed in the contents of his cup and the conversation he was carrying on with another who also enjoyed his drink. Her brown eyes darted back to Liam. She whispered, “Demons.”

  “Your husband did not believe Colm and Fergus when they spoke of the demon, Henry.”

  “John did believe them, but he cannot pass that information on to others without proof. Even with proof, there will be those who will call him a heretic or accuse him of something worse.”

  Her soft-spoken manner reminds me of someone I once knew, Liam thought. Who? He studied her delicate facial features for a moment before he said, “It is one thing to involve John in our struggle. It is quite another to directly involve you and your children.”

  “My father is a minister. Perhaps, he can do something to return these demons to hell.”

  “These demons are not from Hell. They were sent by God.”

  “You are wrong! The author of our being does not kill us!” She stared into his handsome face, waiting for him to tell her that he was wrong.

  Liam’s eyes darted around the tavern to ensure no one was eavesdropping. He looked at Abigail. “John did not tell you that the demons chasing us are God’s creations, did he?”

  She shook her head. Her heart pounded as she absorbed Liam’s sudden declaration.

  “Abigail, you must stay away from us.” The words stung Liam’s spirit. He wanted nothing more than to keep her close now that he knew she existed.

  “Mr. Kavangh…”

  “It is Liam.”

  She searched his eyes for a glimpse of his angelic spirit. “Liam, when John returns from Cambridge, would you call on me at my home?”

  Liam frowned. “Abigail, I told you that you must stay away from us.”

  A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth and creased the smooth skin beneath her eyes. “I do not think that will be possible.” Her eyes dropped to the pocket of his coat. “I waited to approach you until after you finished writing your letter. It was evident that the words flowed from your mind to the paper effortlessly. John is also a skilled writer.”

  The missive had slipped Liam’s mind. He patted his pocket to verify that it was still there. “As a matter-of-fact, I am going to Cambridge to deliver this to your husband and ask that he have it posted in the local newspapers.”

  Abigail breathed a soft laugh. “Well, then, I consider the circumstances under which we met to be fate. Would you agree?”

  Liam shook his head. “Angels do not believe in fate.”

  Colm sent Ian to meet with one of John Adams’ colleagues. The lawyer was handling the rental of a farm southwest of Boston in Roxbury. The saltbox farmhouse was large enough to house eight men.

  Colm heard that Joseph Warren had not left for the Provincial Congress. Now, he walked the streets of Boston and past Beacon Hill to Hanover Street where Joseph lived and worked in a rented house with his four children, their nanny, and his apprentice in medicine, twenty-two-year-old William Eustis.

  “Colm!” Joseph said, surprised. “Please, come in.”

  Joseph led Colm to his study and closed the door. Joseph motioned to an easy chair and said, “Please, sit down.”

  Colm sat down and leaned back in the chair.

  “What can I do for you?” He sat in the chair opposite Colm.

  “I need to know why ya knew we were angels before me and Fergus revealed ourselves.”

  “It was obvious that was why you asked about angels.”

  “I’m asking for the truth.”

  Lines formed on Joseph’s brow, and his handsome face appeared tense. He looked at Colm for a long time before the lines disappeared and his face relaxed. “Your emanation was bright and intense. I saw the green aura surrounding you before you displayed your wings. I have no explanation as to why. It just appeared to me.”

  “It didn’t frighten ya?”

  Joseph smiled. “You are not frightening. And you are not what I expected an angel to look like. It was rather a nice surprise.”

  Colm smiled, then became serious. “We’re staying, Joseph. Ian’s renting a farm for us in Roxbury. We want to join the Boston militia, but Mr. Revere doesn’t seem amiable toward us, and I can’t have him undermining our intentions.”

  “Paul can sometimes appear harsh. I will speak to him before I leave for Cambridge.”

  “Are ya going to the Provincial Congress?”

  “Yes, but my eldest daughter, Elizabeth, is ill. She pleaded with me to stay home until she feels better. It is difficult to turn down the wishes of a nine-year-old girl.” He paused, then said, “I must tell you that our Provincial Congress meetings are illegal. We move the meeting location often.”

  “Are ya organizing an army?”

  “Not specifically. We are keeping an eye toward defense and self- governing. Would you consider attending the congress as my guest? I believe a firsthand account of our process would be beneficial.”

  “I’m not a politician.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “I’m not well-spoken or inclined to fair thinking.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Ya don’t know me.” But Colm knew in his angelic heart that Joseph Warren did know something about him because Joseph had seen his green aura.

  The two men regarded one another for a moment before Joseph spoke, “Then, perhaps, we should get to know one another better.”

  Colm didn’t know how to respond. If he went to Cambridge with Joseph, command would fall to Seamus.

  Can Seamus handle Michael for a week? Colm wondered. We’re alone in a strange and hostile place, but if I don’t go with Joseph and become involved in the patriots’ politics, I won’t understand how to protect them or my men from Henry.

  Joseph could sense Colm’s struggle, but had no idea what it entailed.

  “I’ll go,” Colm said. “When do ya expect to leave?”

  “Monday morning.”

  Joseph leaned forward and asked, hesitantly, “Whose body do you possess?”

  Colm gave the question some thought. “Eight men died fighting as brothers-in-arms in Ireland one night six hundred years ago. We took their human vessels to confuse Henry and the demons. My vessel and Seamus’ vessel had younger brothers among the dead. For some reason, we can’t let go of the need to overprotect them.”

  “That need is a palimpsest. Traces of what used to be, showing through what exists now. Which one is your younger brother?”

  “Michael.”

  “And Seamus’?”

  “Patrick.”

  “Then I shall take extra care to look after them,” Joseph said, his conscience relieved.

  Aside from Jeremiah Killam, his human friend on Garden Mountain, this was the first time in his existence that Colm felt something more than angelic duty for a human being.

  On Colm’s order, Brandon and Michael walked the streets near Boston Common, trying to understand their surroundings.

  “This is stupid,” Michael said. A cold wind pulled strands of hair from his ponyt
ail. The black curls blew in circles against his red cheeks. “We got no idea where we are. Let’s stop at a tavern.”

  “That’s a bad idea,” Brandon said. “If I’m drunk, I’ll never figure out where we are.”

  They walked past Boston Common and on to Beacon Hill. There were more British soldiers on the streets in the well-to-do neighborhood than the angels had encountered all day. Many of the soldiers stood guard duty in front of the two and three-storied homes. They shivered in the cold wind and eyed Brandon and Michael with suspicion.

  A particular group of soldiers unnerved Brandon. They were gathered in the front yard of a stately Georgian home with third-story dormer windows and a chimney on each end of the house. Gray smoke snaked from the chimneys and blended with the bleak gray February sky.

  Brandon said, “We shou’d move quickly through Beacon Hill.”

  Michael pointed at a building with a sign above the door that read Wilton’s Inn. “Let’s stop in that tavern for a hearth and a draught.”

  “I don’t think we shou’d be in a tavern in this part of town. We won’t fit in.”

  “Ya starting to sound like Patrick.”

  “Patrick’s got sense, unlike you.”

  “I know ya are as cold as I am. Come on.”

  The tavern in Wilton’s Inn was crowded with British soldiers and well-groomed men dressed in finery. Michael and Brandon wore homespun and deerskin clothing and were obviously unkempt. They stood near the crackling fireplace where they hoped they were less conspicuous.

  A skinny middle-aged black woman, with a look of predominance, purposefully approached the boys.

  “We’re in trouble,” Brandon said. He tilted his head toward the woman. “She’s gonna make us leave.”

  As she got closer, the expression on her face changed. She raised a hand to her throat, and slowed her pace. When she reached the boys, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She touched her chest above her tiny breasts and took a deep breath. “I…cain…see…your…aura.”