Colonel Smith was physically rotund and a stickler for established British army practices. He prided himself on open-field parade ground maneuvers and arrangement of his order of march. This strict adherence caused disorder among the disjointed regiments unfamiliar with his command.
Further, the different regiments wore distinctive headgear with different colored cockades and facings. Their respective uniforms were impressive, but impractical for slogging through marshy tidal flats.
As the column of regulars marched toward Lexington, Seamus and his men arrived. Unlike Concord, the village of Lexington was an unfamiliar landscape to Seamus. A tavern lay ahead that was abutted to a long, triangular field of about three acres. It was here that the road from Cambridge split northward toward Bedford and westward toward Concord.
At the farm, William had given Seamus a brief description of the layout of the village and from that he deduced the field was Lexington Green. The Clarke house was located on the green behind the intersection. Buckman’s Tavern stood across the road to Bedford.
The call to arms had spread throughout the countryside. Men were arriving two or three at a time to assemble under the command of Captain John Parker of the Lexington militia. The tall and hardened countryman had honed through some of the toughest fighting during the French and Indian War. Now, he was dying of tuberculosis. Like most men of his caliber, duty came first.
The angels and Jeremiah made little noise as they entered Lexington Green. The brotherhood was foreign among the gathered hardworking neighbors and friends related by blood or marriage.
“Seamus, can we stop for a minute?” Ian asked. He had spent the walk to Lexington worrying over the possibility that the angels would be forced to kill the children of man to protect the rebels against demons in possession of living human vessels.
Ian’s wings rustled as Jeremiah and the angels gathered in a tight circle. The other angels’ wings rustled in response. He sensed that they, too, had contemplated the grievous possibility.
Lord, Colm. You shou’d be here. Your angels is facin’ a horrible reality, and you’ve left them in favor of Joseph Warren, Jeremiah thought. He was grateful for the darkness that shrouded the dismay and fear on their faces.
Seamus was ashamed of his inability to soothe the angels. It had taken Fergus thousands of years to learn the art of soothing, and still, his ability was a far cry from the comfort their archangel could offer. But Seamus had to do something.
The soft brush of rustling wings was now a snapping flutter and in a moment, their wings would unfurl. Once that happened, they would lose control and release their auras in their desperation to soothe themselves. Faint, glints of green, blue, red, and the purple light of his own aura, threatened to disintegrate Jeremiah’s gratitude for the darkness. Only Brandon would be able to maintain control of his yellow aura.
Liam made eye contact with Seamus. With quite deference he asked, “May I speak?”
“It ain’t your place.”
Liam did not look away.
Michael and Patrick huddled closer together.
“Let ’im speak,” Jeremiah said. “Otherwise, let ’em comfort themselves. If there’s demons out there, they cain see your auras anyway.”
“Brother, let Liam speak,” Patrick agreed. “It ain’t gonna hurt nothin’.”
Seamus let go of his shame, and said, “I know you need soothin’, and I ain’t able to give it. Liam, go ahead and say your piece.”
Michael blurted out, “No! I don’t want to hear ya talk about what we’re going to do if we don’t have Colm to protect us, like ya did the day we went to Boston to drill with the militia! ” It was almost impossible for him not to worry about Colm’s death. But he saw someone who eased his immediate fears.
A young black man was standing among the militiamen. Michael’s experience with black humans was extremely limited, and he was drawn to the man. It didn’t occur to him that the black man might be a slave.
Michael said to Patrick, “Come with me.”
The young black man appeared confused and dismayed as Michael and Patrick, bathed in the light of the bright moon, approached. But it wasn’t the moonlight that caused the man to temporarily forget his own existence. It was Michael’s and Patrick’s bright blue auras illuminating the grass as they crossed Lexington Green.
Prince Estabrooke beheld the angels with an unbelieving shocked soul. They came to him, looking so much alike with medium statures, curly black hair, beautiful countenances, and open smiles.
Since forming a close alliance with the rebels, Colm had lifted the restriction of saying their names in front of strangers; therefore, Michael and Patrick were free to introduce themselves.
“Ya got a name?” Michael asked the staring young man.
“Who are you?” Prince asked. He squinted against the brightness of the angels’ auras.
“I already told ya,” Michael said frowning. “Is there something wrong with ya?”
“I think he sees our auras,” Patrick whispered to Michael. “He’s squintin’.”
“That can’t be. What’s ya name?”
Prince felt his lips move in answer, but he didn’t hear himself speak.
“Prince, what color is the light?” Patrick asked.
Prince was overawed. “Are we all gonna die this mornin’? Are you angels here to take us to Heaven?”
Michael rolled his eyes.
Patrick thought, it’s difficult to pull the children of man up from the depths of religion.
Prince, however, saw Michael roll his eyes. That action brought him to his senses. “You is angels.”
“Aye.” Michael saw no use in denying it.
And we’re here to fight, same as you,” Patrick added.
Prince blinked. “What’s that blue light you’re givin’ off?”
Michael and Patrick glanced around the green to make certain no one was paying attention to them. Satisfied, Michael said, “It’s our auras. The children of man normally can’t see them unless we let them. It’s strange that ya can see them.”
“I am gonna die!” Prince shouted.
“Shhh!” Patrick hissed. “You ain’t gonna die.”
Prince let out a sigh of relief. “Then can you put out the blue light? It’s too bright.”
“We don’t know how to douse our auras from humans who can see them,” Michael said. Maybe Colm knows. But he’s not here. He shou’d be here, Michael thought.
Patrick saw Brandon walking across the green toward Captain John Parker. He waited until Brandon and Captain Parker were engaged in conversation before he said to Prince, “Can you see the man who’s talkin’ to Captain Parker?”
Prince nodded.
“Do you see anythin’ odd about him?”
“I don’t see a light, uh, an aura if that’s what you are askin’. Is he an angel, too?”
“Aye,” Michael said. “Will ya come with us? I want ya to meet him.”
As the boys neared Brandon, Patrick said to Michael, “Call Brandon ‘Lieutenant.’”
“Why?”
“Because he is a lieutenant. The children of man value their military ranks.”
“Like Fergus?” Michael asked. A thought occurred to him. Is Fergus’ need to be a general something that belonged to the man, Fergus Driscoll, when he was alive?
Patrick and Prince reached Brandon. They stood aside while Brandon finished his conversation with Captain Parker. Then, Captain Parker walked to the center of Lexington Green. He coughed hard, and then called muster.
Brandon and Patrick thought, Captain Parker’s dying of consumption.
Michael caught up with the boys. The four of them stood in a small circle as the men, who had come to answer the alarm in Lexington, streamed past them toward Captain Parker.
“Patrick said I shou’d call ya ‘Lieutenant’,” Michael blurted out to Brandon.
Brandon laughed, “You shou’d.” He saw the anxious young black man standing beside him. “Who’re you?”
<
br /> Prince stared at Brandon. Am I really standing among angels? No, this can’t be. I gotta be dreaming.
“Answer him,” Michael insisted.
Prince forced himself to blink. Then he said to Brandon, “I am Prince Estabrooke.”
“Why are staring at me?”
“I just now seen your yellow light—um, aura.”
Brandon frowned. He looked at Patrick and Michael with suspicion. “What’s he talking about?”
“He cain see our auras. He knows,” Patrick said.
“If he goes spouting off that we’re angels—”
“—he’s not going to do that, are ya Prince?” Michael asked.
Prince’s eyes widened, and he rapidly shook his head, but the burning question on Prince’s mind could not go unasked. “Why don’t you have wings?”
“We do. At least ya can’t see those, too.”
Seamus, Jeremiah, Liam, and Ian passed the group of boys. Seamus motioned at them to join muster. The four boys fell in with the rest of the men.
Earlier in the morning, Captain Parker had sent two scouts down the road toward Cambridge to locate the approaching British regulars. They returned around four o’clock in the morning, and reported no appearance of movement. Given this report and the cold morning air, he announced to the men gathered on the green that they were dismissed, but needed to stay within earshot of drumroll and ready to reassemble.
Seamus gathered his men. Prince Estabrooke gathered with them. Jeremiah raised an eyebrow at Prince, but he said nothing.
Seamus said, “Most of the men are goin’ to Buckman’s Tavern to warm up and have a draught. Me, Michael, Patrick, and Brandon will walk the first patrol while the rest of you go on to the tavern. Keep an eye out for—”
“Seamus,” Jeremiah said as he jerked his head toward Prince.
Seamus looked Prince over and studied his eyes. Then he asked, “Who’re you?”
Prince was no longer overawed. He smiled. “I am Prince Estabrooke. Your aura is purple.”
Seamus sighed. He thought, now I’m forced to figure out what Colm wou’d want me to do because this ain’t never happened before.
“Liam, get Prince out of the cold and take him to the tavern,” Seamus said. To Prince he said, “You ain’t gonna talk about no auras or angels or nothin’ like that, do you hear me?”
Prince nodded. The flame of happiness he had found with his new angels dimmed a bit.
When Liam, Ian, Jeremiah, and Prince had gone on to the tavern, Seamus looked at Michael, Patrick, and Brandon. He knew they shouldn’t have gotten Prince involved, but decided he’d address it if they survived the next few days.
Seamus led his small posse of men toward the Clarke house. Soft yellow candlelight flickered behind a few windows that overlooked the green. The eight-man guard remained stationed in various spots around the property.
They eluded the two men stationed in the front yard by swinging out wide before they got close enough to be seen. Seamus formed a V-shape with the fore- and middle fingers of his right hand. He pointed the fingers at Michael and Brandon, and then bent the ends of the fingers, indicating that they were to split off and walk around the right side of the house. From that, Patrick understood that he was to stay with Seamus and circle the left side of the house.
Michael removed his curved surgical blade from the pocket of his coat. Brandon slid his loaded flintlock pistol from the small of his back to his hip. The boys slipped out of Seamus’ sight.
Patrick gripped his musket ramrod, thinking it would fit nicely into an eye socket. Seamus held his butcher knife in his left hand, blade tip up, just inside the breast of his coat.
Michael and Brandon crept along the west side of the Clarke house, as bright moonlight shone down upon them. Seamus and Patrick slipped through the shadows on the east side of the house.
A point of orange light flamed to Seamus’ left. He heard a grunt and then a sound like a foot splashing in a puddle. He didn’t want to panic, but he was sure something had happened to his little brother. As he turned to retrace his steps, a memory flickered in his spirit.
Seamus, I’m sick. Máthair warned me not to… The boy’s voice silenced.
Patrick?
Seamus shook off the false memory in time to see that he was about to be run through with a saber. He dodged the demon-possessed man, jerked his butcher knife out from under the breast of his coat, and stabbed the man in one orange eye, then the other.
Flames erupted from the demon’s eyes. Sparks stung Seamus’ face and hands. The orange light went out. The man made no sound as he fell to the ground. The demon had been in possession of a corpse.
Seamus whirled around and backtracked along the side of the house. The word Brother welled up in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but it rushed out of his mouth in reaction to the sound of someone panting.
“Brother!” Seamus said in a loud whisper. “Where are you?”
“Here.”
Seamus looked down.
Patrick was on his hands and knees working to slow his breathing. He still had a grip on the musket ramrod.
Seamus kneeled beside him and looked him over. The brothers heard footsteps coming toward them. Seamus stood up and tightened his grip on the haft of his butcher knife. Lanterns chased the shadows away. Michael, Brandon, and three guardsmen arrived.
Seamus and Michael bent to help Patrick.
Patrick ignored their offer of help and got to his feet. The knees of his breeches were wet and caked with mud. He wiped at the mud with the palms of his muddy hands, which did little more than ground mud deeper into the deerskin.
A guardsman asked Patrick, “Are you alright?”
“He’s fine,” Seamus said to shield his little brother from having to answer questions. It’s what Colm would have done.
“Are you Seamus Cullen?” another guardsman asked.
“Aye.”
“Lieutenant O’Flynn said that you are acquainted with Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams.”
Seamus glanced at Brandon and nodded. “Joseph Warren sent us here to look after them.”
A downstairs window slid open. All the men turned to see Hancock lean through. He asked, “Is that you, Seamus? Brandon?”
Seamus said, “Aye, John it’s us.”
John shuddered. He and Samuel knew that Joseph had sent the angels and why. He said, “Is all quiet?”
“We ain’t leavin’.”
It was obvious to John that Seamus’ answer meant they had seen demons. He shut the window and returned to the debate he was having with Samuel on their next course of action.
The guardsmen returned to their posts. To the angels’ relief, the men had not seen the corpse lying on the ground near the house.
Stripped of his horse by Major Edward Mitchell and his patrol, Paul walked into Lexington three hours after he had delivered Joseph’s message to John and Samuel. He walked through the town cemetery to avoid Lexington Green on his return to the Clarke House. He encountered Michael and Patrick on the west side of the house.
“Did ya lose ya horse?” Michael scoffed.
Paul sneered at Michael. His tolerance for the brash angel was wearing thin. He skirted around the guard and went to the front door. Reverend Clarke let him in. Paul was surprised to find his friends were still ensconced inside, and embroiled in debate.
Neither John Hancock nor Samuel Adams had any sort of military training save for Hancock’s leadership in a cadet corps, which was more for show than naught. However, his considerable ego led him to believe that if he had his musket, he was capable of standing on Lexington Green and challenging the enemy with the militia, and those who had come to answer the alarm. Samuel had no interest, whatsoever, in military participation. His elation stemmed from the idea that the revolution he had championed over the past decade may finally be at hand.
A constant stream of Reverend Jonas Clarke’s male congregation came and went. The men had hung on the fiery words of Reverend Clarke’s sermons o
n the doctrines of civil and religious liberties. His patriotic preaching had readied the men of Lexington for the moment that was upon them.
John’s fiancée, Dorothy Quinn, wanted to return to Boston to check on the welfare of her father. Dorothy was thirty-eight years old; the same age as John. If she had not been betrothed to him, she would have been considered an old maid. Her facial features were sharp and well-defined—almost a mirror image of her beloved John.
“No, Dottie, I will not allow it,” John said in response to her plea.
“May I remind you, Mr. Hancock, that you are not yet in charge of me?”
“That may be so, Dottie, but returning to Boston is unwise.”
Dorothy considered her fiancé’s distracted mind and flounced out of the living room.
“Paul, I am trying to convince John that we should vacate and retire further away from Lexington, but he is under the impression that he is a qualified soldier who must stand and fight,” Samuel said as he glanced at John, who was now cleaning his pistol.
John’s aunt Lydia brought Paul a beer. He thanked her and drank most of it before he said, “Samuel’s right, John. Your pistol is no match for British bayonets.”
Lines formed on John’s forehead as he realized he must concede.
“I see the angels are on watch,” Paul said. “Did they—”
“—detect anything?” John asked. “Yes, they did.”
“Then, I suggest you leave now while we are able to procure an angelic escort,” Paul said.
Reverend Clarke raised an eyebrow.
John said to his trusted young clerk, John Howell, “Go fetch Seamus Cullen and Brandon O’Flynn.”
“Did Mr. Revere say angelic?” Howell asked, stunned.
“That is what I said, Howell,” Paul snapped. “Go on now.”
Howell reluctantly left.
“What’s happening that I am not aware of?” Reverend Clarke asked.
“Paul, do you care to explain the situation to the good reverend?” Hancock asked.
John Howell returned with Seamus and Brandon. The angels hesitantly entered the house. They stood in the living room and shouldered the uncomfortable weight of Howell’s stare and Reverend Clarke’s scrutiny. Paul explained the angels’ presence while John and Samuel prepared to leave.
Angels & Patriots Page 18