Angels & Patriots

by Salina B Baker

  The week came to a close. The Congress adjourned until Monday, February 13. On that Friday night, Colm dined with Fergus, Joseph, John Hancock, Samuel Adams, John Adams, and Dr. Benjamin Church. The elegant inn, the decadent meal, and the conversation made Colm feel out of place. Fergus, on the other hand, looked as if he were created for it.

  While Samuel talked of the success of their second week at congress, Colm thought of the moment he and his brotherhood had been banished from Heaven. Before that moment, he was also a part of a family of archangels—God’s most fierce warriors—yet always benevolent toward the children of man. He wasn’t a politician, though he felt these men needed him to understand their politics. It was then he realized that he had to become a part of these men. Think like they thought. See what they saw. Understand what they had at stake and make it his conviction.

  He realized that Fergus was succeeding in doing just that. Fergus was assimilating. He was earning respect. He was learning about and contributing to the operations of a rebellion by actively drilling with the Cambridge militia. Even the way he spoke was changing. He was on the road to attaining a lofty general’s position if the Americans did indeed form an army.

  “Colm, you have said very little tonight,” John Hancock said. “I am interested to hear your thoughts on the resolves put forth by congress, particularly those regarding the Committee of Safety.”

  “I don’t understand what ya have suffered at the hands of the British Parliament, but I’m learning. It seems Fergus is better acquainted with your challenges.”

  The men at the table nodded and murmured in agreement.

  Fergus’ handsome boyish face lit up.

  Colm continued, “I believe ya understand ya vulnerabilities. Ya got no army—just a loose network of militia. Ya got small gun foundries and limited supplies of metal and gunpowder. Ya got no network to get supplies to the militia companies. Depriving the enemy of the resources to build a war machine on American soil is all ya got.”

  Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at Colm. “You gleaned this information from one week of spectating the meeting of our congress?”

  Silver light flashed in Colm’s eyes as he made eye contact with Samuel. Samuel looked away.

  John Hancock noted Samuel’s reaction. He and Samuel were close associates. Perhaps, not as close as Joseph’s political apprenticeship to Samuel, but their relationship was evolving. John was one of the richest men in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. His conceit was well deserved from the effort he had put into business and personal attainments. He sipped his wine to keep the corners of his mouth from betraying a sarcastic smile.

  He said, “Colm’s a trained military man, unlike you, Samuel. Your obvious dislike for him is not a reason to deny the value he brings to the table.”

  I do not dislike him, Samuel thought. I am afraid of him, but I do not know why. He reached for the wine decanter on the table and refilled his empty glass.

  Colm addressed John Adams. “John, the day Fergus and I revealed our identities, ya said ya would take my counsel under serious advisement when my demon arrived in Boston and not before.”

  “I remember,” John said, slowly. He was reluctant to hear what Colm had to say regarding the matter.

  Joseph drank the remainder of the wine in his glass and refilled it. Colm had not asked him to keep Michael and Brandon’s encounter with the demons quiet, but Joseph had chosen silence to avoid undue stress during the congressional meetings. Now, he experienced guilt for doing so.

  “I haven’t found Henry, but some of my men encountered demons on Beacon Hill,” Colm said.

  John Adam’s heart skipped a beat. He had hoped that Colm’s claim of demons was unfounded.

  That news alarmed John Hancock. He lived in a mansion on Beacon Hill with his Aunt Lydia Hancock. John’s fiancée, Dorothy Quincy, visited the mansion often.

  Dr. Benjamin Church leaned in closer to the table and lowered his voice, “Did you say demons?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is that a code word for something?”

  “No.”

  “You cannot be speaking of demons from Hell!” Benjamin almost shouted.

  John Adams felt responsible for pushing Colm to speak of his demon. This is my reprimand for flouting the word of an archangel. How could I have questioned even a banished angel’s word?

  Samuel motioned at a server to bring more wine to the table.

  John Hancock saw Joseph and Colm look at one another. There was an allegiance between them: a developing brotherhood of which John was jealous.

  Benjamin also saw the exchange. His eyes darted between Colm and Joseph. “What is it that I do not know? Joseph, answer me!”

  The server brought three decanters of wine. Joseph snatched one and refilled his glass. Then, he leaned forward so Benjamin could clearly hear him.

  “We should not have kept this from you, Benjamin. You are an integral part of our cause, and you deserve to know. In our defense, we needed time to let what we have learned settle in our hearts and in our minds.”

  “Judging from the exchange I just witnessed between you and Colm, I would venture to say it has already settled in your heart.”

  In thinking about his wife’s wisdom, John Adams had managed to gain confidence in what their immediate answer to Benjamin’s question must be. “I insist we convene to a place of privacy. I suggest the home of Reverend Ralph Walton. He and his family are on holiday in Europe. Reverend Walton has a spacious basement. Joseph, Colm, do you agree?”

  “I shall not convene anywhere until I understand the nature of this conversation,” Benjamin said. “John, we have been friends for thirty-nine years; our entire lives. Surely, you are not sacrificing our trust and friendship for these—” He cast his eyes at Fergus and Colm. “—strangers.”

  “That is not what we are doing.”

  Fergus realized that he needed to demonstrate his ability to command and to discipline himself to make important pronouncements in Colm’s presence; something he had never done in all the millenniums he had been with his archangel.

  “Dr. Church, what we speak of must be kept amongst trusted compatriots such as you, thus John’s suggestion to continue elsewhere.”

  This statement contributed to Dr. Benjamin Church’s self-importance as Fergus hoped it would. Benjamin agreed to the change of venue.

  Samuel gave Fergus a nod of approval.

  But Samuel’s approval was not what Fergus was seeking. He looked his former commander in the eye. Colm’s expression remained neutral and that was what Fergus had hoped. Colm had truly released him.

  Twelve

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Henry and Robert returned to Province House on Beacon Hill. When they rode up the short lane from the road to the house, the old house servant, Squire, was walking from the kitchen to the stables to deliver supper to his fifteen-year-old grandson, Will.

  Robert dismounted and whistled for the stable boy to fetch the horses.

  Will emerged from the stables and ran to do as he was bid. Squire stopped to watch. Henry handed his horse’s reins to Robert. Robert handed the reins to Will, and then delighted in flashing his orange eyes at Squire.

  That demon kilt Captain Percy while they was on their horse ride, and now, his dead body is possessed by a demon, Squire thought. We cannot pray to God to protect us from his own demons. God does not care.

  “Captain Percy, sir. Where is Lieutenant Oldman?” Will asked innocently. “His horse did not go lame, did it?”

  Robert found this to be a perfect opportunity to begin his existence in his new body. “Oldman took up with a whore at the tavern we stopped in for lunch. Do not expect to see him or his horse today.”

  Will suppressed a laugh and said, “Yes, sir!”

  Squire continued on to the stables and waited for his grandson inside.

  Will led the horses into the stables. Upon seeing his grandfather, he said, “Evenin’, Pappy.” He looped the reins of both ho
rses over a hook in the door of a stall and sat at a tiny rickety wooden table with one chair.

  Squire set the plate on the table in front of his grandson. Will picked up a piece of salted cod and shoved it into his mouth.

  “Will, do not look them men in the eyes, do you hear me?”

  Will broke off a piece of biscuit and shoved that into his mouth. Without looking up from his plate, he said, “Why?”

  “Because I say.”

  Will glanced up at his grandfather. “Did you bring me some buttermilk?”

  Squire realized he was still holding a pewter mug in his hand. He set it on the table.

  “This is beer,” Will said disgusted. He drank it anyway and made a face as if it was sour.

  “Look at me boy.”

  “I am about starved, Pappy. Can we talk of it later?”

  Squire snatched Will’s hand away from his plate. “Look at me!”

  Will looked at his grandfather, and tried to twist his skinny wrist out of Squire’s grasp.

  Squire’s lined face shined with sweat. “I thank the good Lord that your momma, dada, and brother is dead; that they do not have to see the evil God has sent to Boston.”

  Will stopped twisting his wrist and studied his grandfather’s face with big brown eyes.

  Squire jerked Will’s wrist so hard that the boy’s body lurched toward him. “Promise you will not look at their eyes! Speak an oath to it!”

  Sweat ran in rivulets down Squire’s dark cheeks and dripped onto his chest. He feared for his grandson’s eternal soul. Without a doubt, he knew that Captain Robert Percy’s soul had been sacrificed for General Henry Hereford’s needs. Squire believed that death by a demon guaranteed damnation, even if the executed soul was innocent.

  Fear penetrated Will’s youthful heart. “Pappy, what are you talkin’ about?” His eyes shifted wildly to the stable’s double entrance doors. Did I hear the doors rattle?

  Squire’s eyes also shifted to the doors.

  The doors rattled and bowed in and out as if they were breathing. He unconsciously released Will’s wrist.

  Will abruptly stood up and knocked his chair backward. He spilled the tiny rickety table sideways. The remaining cod, biscuit, and untouched carrots littered the straw-strewn stable floor.

  The stable doors exploded into javelins that flew through the air as if hurled by the hands of giants. The javelins pierced the horses’ brains, and their bodies fell to the floor with a heavy slap. Will and Squire’s stomachs were impaled. Their bodies were lifted above the straw floor. They hung in midair with mouths gaping, urine soaking their breeches, and death claiming their last breaths.

  Robert Percy’s eyes bathed the stables in a flash of orange light and flames. The straw carpeting the stable floor caught fire. Robert ran to warn the Gage household. It would not do to have the beautiful home, in which he and Henry were quartered, catch fire and burn to the ground.

  Patrick saw the flames on Beacon Hill as he walked to the Green Dragon Tavern to meet Seamus. Seamus and Patrick had been meeting there every night for the past week after Seamus was done with his work on the HMS Invincible. The fire wouldn’t have alarmed Patrick except that he knew John Hancock’s mansion was on Beacon Hill, and John was in Cambridge.

  Patrick broke into a run, but slowed to a walk when he realized that by running, he might attract unwanted attention. When he reached the Green Dragon, there was a clutch of men and a few British officers standing outside watching the fire. Seamus was among them. He turned and walked away from the tavern. Patrick followed. When they neared Faneuil Hall, Seamus stopped and waited for his little brother to catch up.

  Patrick considered the orange glow on Beacon Hill. “Do you get the feelin’ that fire’s got somethin’ to do with Henry?”

  “It ain’t just a feelin’. I’m pretty sure it does have somethin’ to do with Henry because I found out he’s quarterin’ with General Gage.”

  “I think we shou’d see what’s burnin’,” Patrick said.

  Seamus nodded.

  The brothers walked toward Beacon Hill.

  “How’d you find out where Henry’s stayin’?” Patrick asked.

  “Mr. Rickard’s a demon.”

  “The man who hired you?”

  “Aye. We learnt from Michael that reekin’ demons are possessin’ livin’ people too long. Rickard smells like a rottin’ corpse. He drinks all the time and talks too much. He started to talk to me.”

  “He don’t know who you is?” Patrick asked.

  “He’s too drunk to notice. Oh, I ain’t’ had a chance to tell you—me and Ian is goin’ out to the farm tomorrow. I got a message from Jeremiah sayin’ he found what he’s been lookin’ for, and he’s takin’ them to the farm.”

  “Who delivered the message?”

  Seamus laughed. “Dr. Samuel Prescott. I figured he’d stay away from us after how Colm described his reaction the day he seen we was angels.”

  “Jeremiah don’t know Prescott. How’d he get a message to him?”

  “How shou’d I know?”

  “Fergus’ been drillin’ with the Cambridge militia. We shou’d be drillin’ with the Boston militia. Why won’t Colm let us?”

  The brothers heard the click of sears releasing the cocks on flintlock pistols, and the brush of steel as sabers were pulled from scabbards.

  “I believe you are the Cullen brothers,” a voice from behind said. “You are both under arrest.”

  Seamus reached for the butcher knife he had tucked in his coat pocket and stopped walking. The brothers turned around. Seamus unconsciously moved in front of his little brother in a protective gesture.

  Patrick stepped around Seamus to stand beside him. Patrick didn’t understand Seamus’ brotherly shield until Seamus spoke.

  “What’re you doin’?” Seamus asked the armed redcoats.

  The young officer in charge leveled his pistol at Seamus’ face. “If you resist arrest, we will bear arms against you with deadly intent.”

  Patrick’s eyes darted to each British face. It was difficult for him to judge their eye color in the dark, but he saw no orange glow. If these men were just men, they were incapable of killing the brothers physically or spiritually, but Patrick was uncertain. Seamus was trying to determine that by asking questions.

  “We have been sent by General Gage to arrest you for arson to his stables, and the murders of two slaves,” the officer in charge said.

  A young soldier wielding a saber shoved the sharp tip into Patrick’s left breast. Another soldier whipped the tipped edge of his saber under Patrick’s left ear. One quick slice would sever Patrick’s jugular vein. His human vessel would take a long time to heal from a horrible wound like that.

  The officer in charge frowned and said to Seamus, “If you do not come with us, we will kill your brother.”

  Seamus didn’t understand how these soldiers knew who Patrick and he were. He gripped the bloodstained handle of the old butcher knife he had used to kill countless wild boars on Garden Mountain. These men weren’t demons. He could see that now.

  He looked at Patrick’s calm façade. Seamus’ vessel was thirteen years older than Patrick’s vessel. Aside from their gray eyes, medium height, and speech pattern, the Cullen brothers had little physical resemblance to one another. Seamus wondered if Patrick’s resemblance to Michael had caused the soldiers to confuse the two boys, and that this order had come from Henry based on the boys encounter with the demons on Beacon Hill.

  Still, it was nearly impossible for Seamus to be mistaken for Brandon, and these soldiers knew the brothers’ last name was Cullen.

  Seamus said, “Kill him. I ain’t goin’ with you.”

  The officer in charge looked puzzled. Why would a man agree to let his brother die unless that is not really his brother? Have we been misled? No! This man is hoodwinking me! But the officer hesitated to give his next order.

  He studied the Cullens, and said, “Why are you not denying the charges?”

  Th
e officer saw a faint silver light emanate from the brothers. It winked out the moment he perceived it. He blinked, and then said, “I think we have the wrong men. Let them go.”

  “But, sir, we were told…”

  “I know what we were told! Stow your weapons and return to General Gage’s house!”

  The soldiers removed their sabers from Patrick’s body, stepped back, and followed the order.

  The young officer stared at Patrick and Seamus, searching for the silver light he was certain he saw.

  The brothers changed their original course. Continuing on to Beacon Hill would entice more trouble. They walked back toward the Green Dragon.

  The British officer watched them until they disappeared into the night. He left his detachment of soldiers, walked to the harbor, and down to the shore. The water lapped the rocks and promised peace within its depths if that was what he was seeking. The young man looked at the pistol in his hand, and then back at the faint orange glow on Beacon Hill. He waded into the freezing black water up to his chest.

  The pistol shook when he held it to his right temple. Evil dwelt on Beacon Hill. He could never go back there. If he was worthy, Heaven awaited him, and he knew now that it existed because he had seen God’s angels tonight. He prayed his pistol would not misfire when he pulled the trigger.

  A fisherman found his body floating in Boston Harbor the next day.

  The confirmation that demons were indeed in Boston, and the Cullens’ confrontation with British soldiers, distracted Ian from his sexual urges. Sidonie was the furthest thing from his mind.

  She fell into despair when she realized the angels left the Greystoke Inn for good, and Ian did not said goodbye. It was yet another lesson learned about Ian’s loyalty to his brotherhood. She was an afterthought. Her vow to teach Ian how to express love seemed impossible.

  But it wasn’t his fault that he did not say goodbye.