Angels & Patriots

by Salina B Baker

  “What is her name? The woman you are to wed.”

  “Assawetoug. I have already given her a child.”

  The ensuing silence between Samuel and Tatoson stretched out heavily. Then, they were embracing one another with no memory of crossing the room to do so.

  Word of the Battle of Bunker Hill reached the Second Continental Congress on July 2. Abigail Adams’ letter to John arrived two days later.

  As Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson, delegates from Virginia, debated about tactics the southern colonies should take in response to what had happened in Massachusetts, John Adams opened the letter from Abigail. The paper on which it was written was tear-stained. Her handwriting appeared to be uncharacteristically untidy, and the paper was blotched with ink here and there. A numbing dread spread in John’s heart.

  “Now, that we have dispatched George Washington to Cambridge to set up headquarters and form a cohesive provincial army…”

  Thomas Jefferson’s voice faded from John’s mind as he read his wife’s despairing words:

  The Day: perhaps the decisive day is come on which the fate of America depends. My bursting heart must find vent at my pen. I have just heard that our dear friend Dr. Warren is no more but fell gloriously fighting for his country-saying better to die honourably in the field than ignominiously hang upon the gallows. The angels Colm, Seamus, and Ian have fallen with him. Great is our loss…and the tears of multitudes pay tribute to their memory…

  John did not realize he had exhaled a cry of anguished grief even after Samuel Adams and John Hancock attended him with distress. He crumpled the letter into a ball and tightened his hand around it like it was a noxious animal that deserved to die because of its mere existence.

  Samuel’s voice quivered. He found he was unable to raise it above a whisper when he asked, “What is it, John?”

  John released the crumpled paper and the horrible words written upon it.

  John Hancock, the ever conceited, extremely wealthy merchant, and loyal patriot watched the balled-up letter drop to the table. The paper was heavy with sweat and grief from John Adams’ hand and heart.

  John Adams rose and stormed from the room. The delegates of the Continental Congress silenced. Samuel and John Hancock looked at one another with anticipated horror. Then, Samuel scooped the letter from the table and smoothed the paper so he could read it. John looked on and silently read the words with Samuel.

  “What news?” Thomas Jefferson tentatively asked Samuel.

  Samuel crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it blindly away. Then, he, too, stormed from the room.

  There was no mistaking among the delegates that the news John Adams received was greatly afflicting. The men had heard rumors of angels fighting with the patriots in Massachusetts. They had heard whispers of Dr. Joseph Warren’s affiliation with those angels. Whether or not they doubted the rumors made no difference. Abigail Adams’ letter had confirmed the existence of Warren’s angels.

  “Please, John, what news?” Thomas Jefferson asked with thoughtful tentativeness and respect.

  John Hancock rose from his chair. He swallowed hard against the tide of grief that wanted to wash his sensibilities away. The self-control he called upon to allow him to say the words without sobbing was something he did not know he possessed. “We have lost our dear friend, Dr. Joseph Warren, and three of his angels.”

  Forty-seven

  Burkes Garden, Virginia September 1775

  The first autumn chill arrived on September 27. The wood pile was nearly as high as the cabin’s outside walls. Jeremiah had chopped wood all day. As the sun dropped lower in the western sky, his chore was done. White smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney and snaked into the pink and orange cloud-streaked sky.

  Inside the cabin, Mkwa prepared supper. She kept one eye on her task and the other eye on the fussing three-month-old baby lying on a blanket on the floor near the fireplace. He was practicing his new ability to roll from his back to his stomach with great impatience.

  Jeremiah cleaned the axe blade then turned to go inside the cabin. The sound of horses picking their way through the dense white oak and hickory forest surrounding the cabin was cause for alarm. Since Bunker Hill, some colonists were moving west, out of the reach of King George III’s long arm and the horrors of war. Not all those who passed through Burkes Garden were friendly.

  He tightened his grip on the axe and rested it against his shoulder.

  Unsteady soft words floated from the edge of the woods that fronted the cabin.

  “I can do it myself.”

  “No, you cain’t.”

  “Stop treating me like a baby.”

  “You’re gonna fall like you did last time and hurt yourself—again.”

  “I’m going to fall on ya if ya don’t move.”

  “I ain’t movin’.”

  Jeremiah recognized the listless voices. He leaned the axe against the cabin wall and ran across the dirt yard to the edge of the woods. He saw Michael sitting astride a horse and looking down at Patrick with dull dissatisfaction. Patrick stood beside Michael’s horse with his arms stretched up in a gesture that was meant to say, I’ll catch you if you fall. Jeremiah had seen the boys go for months without bathing or covered in gunpowder, dirt, and blood from a battle, but they were beyond unwashed or battlefield dirty.

  A third horse picked its way through the underbrush. Jeremiah saw that the horse’s rider was Abe.

  Abe reined his horse and slowly dismounted. It had been days since he and the angels had eaten. They were on the verge of becoming trapped in a vicious circle of starvation and what starvation did to weaken their capacity to feed themselves.

  The boys gotta know they’ve arrived at my cabin. They cain see it if they turn their heads, Jeremiah thought as he approached them with caution.

  The boys stopped arguing and looked his way with lackluster eyes. Patrick focused on Jeremiah, but he didn’t move or smile.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” Jeremiah asked.

  Patrick and Michael made lifeless eye contact. Despondency had been slowly killing them for months. Soon, it would have its way.

  Abe wondered if he should do something to stir the boys’ memories, but he could not muster the mental strength to figure it out. He watched in a dumb stupor.

  Jeremiah was hesitant to move toward the angels for fear of their reaction. He asked again, “Patrick, don’t you recognize me?”

  Patrick stared at Jeremiah for a moment. Finally, recognition sparked in his eyes. “Jeremiah?”

  “It’s me.”

  Patrick ran to him. Jeremiah caught Patrick in an embrace. He clasped the back of Patrick’s head and buried his face in Patrick’s matted hair.

  Patrick wrapped his arms around Jeremiah’s waist. His emotions erupted and he cried out, “Joseph, Seamus, Ian, and Colm is dead!” His shoulders shook with thick sobs.

  Jeremiah stroked Patrick’s hair and murmured, “Shhhh.” He glanced up. Michael was solemnly watching them.

  Patrick tried to get a hold on himself. He wiped his wet face on the front of Jeremiah’s shirt.

  Michael dismounted, stumbled, and sprawled headlong onto the ground.

  Jeremiah unwound Patrick’s arms from his waist and went to help Michael. He asked Michael, “Are you hurt?”

  “You have no idea what you are asking,” Abe said to Jeremiah in a tone as dull as the angels’ eyes.

  Together, they hauled Michael to his feet. Jeremiah grasped Abe’s hand and pulled him into a brief embrace. “It’s good ta see you.” He paused and a small smile skimmed his lips. “You’ve been tryin’ ta take care of ’em ain’t you?”

  “I do not need to tell you that taking care of angels is an almost impossible task,” Abe said wearily.

  Jeremiah turned his attention to Michael.

  Michael didn’t move or speak.

  Jeremiah studied Michael’s dirty wan face. There were dark circles under his eyes and dark bruises were visible through the layer of
gray dirt on his cheeks. Jeremiah’s eyes roamed Michael’s thin, frail vessel then returned to his face. “You’re in physical pain, ain’t you?”

  Michael looked away.

  “Oh Lord,” Jeremiah muttered.

  Mkwa opened the cabin door and stepped into the yard with her infant son in her arms. The angels’ terrible physical and spiritual condition was heartrendingly obvious. She looked past them and into the woods beyond.

  “We are starving,” Abe said in quiet desperation.

  Jeremiah turned and looked at Mkwa. She lifted her chin in the direction of the woods behind the angels and nodded.

  “Let’s git you fed and warmed up,” Jeremiah said. Abe and he took hold of the horses’ reins and led them out of the woods.

  Patrick and Michael huddled together at the edge of the clearing. Jeremiah’s offer of food and shelter went unnoticed. Michael’s stomach cramped. He clenched his teeth and issued an involuntary grunt. His filthy face contorted with pain. He stepped back into the woods. Patrick moved with him.

  Abe and Jeremiah stopped and watched them withdraw into the last remnants of their spiritual comfort—one another. Abe moved closer to Jeremiah and whispered, “Can you not see that the angels are dying? I do not know what to do to help them. I cannot give them what they need.”

  “Come on, Abe,” Jeremiah said firmly.

  With a last backward glance at the boys, Abe followed Jeremiah inside the warm cabin.

  The sun dropped below the western horizon and plunged Burkes Garden into cold stark darkness.

  “I hope it’s over soon,” Michael whispered.

  “So do I,” Patrick breathed.

  “Do ya regret leaving Fergus and Brandon?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t either,” Michael said. He pulled Patrick in closer to him. “I can’t sense them anymore. I hope they didn’t die.”

  “If we cou’d remember how to leave our vessels, wou’d you feel different about what’s comin’?” Patrick asked.

  Michael shook his head. “Our spirits aren’t whole without our archangel.”

  Patrick looked up through the dwindling canopy of tree leaves. The waxing crescent moon was no competition for the brilliant starlight overhead. “We ain’t been whole since Liam died.”

  “At least our palimpsests don’t know their brothers are dead.” Michael’s eyes followed Patrick’s gaze skyward. He knew what Patrick was wondering. They had finally stopped asking the question out loud. Only their death would provide the answer.

  Michael groaned, pressed a hand on his stomach, and bent over. He reached for a low tree limb to steady himself until the pain subsided.

  With grim resignation, Patrick thought, Michael’s vessel is gonna die in horrible pain. I’m gonna have to watch unless I die first.

  The boys experienced a shared illusion when the forest was suddenly bathed in green light. They heard Colm say, “I won’t let either one of ya die.”

  Michael and Patrick couldn’t comprehend the illusion of Colm’s presence. They wrapped their arms around one another in deference to the death that awaited them.

  “I’m here,” Colm whispered to the boys. “We are here. Reach for our spiritual strength. I know ya haven’t forgotten how.”

  “I hear Colm speakin’ to us,” Patrick sobbed. “I’m finally dyin’.”

  Colm unfurled his resplendent wings and enfolded his disconsolate angels in his healing spirit. “Ya aren’t dying, Patrick. Calm yaself.”

  Michael’s eyes were closed, and his forehead was pressed against the Sigil of Lucifer tattooed on Patrick’s neck. He experienced the sensation of hands caressing Patrick’s cheeks just before Patrick’s body was pulled out of his arms.

  In horror, Michael closed his eyes tighter. Then, he realized he could no longer sense Patrick. With wild terror, his eyes flew open. The illusory green light still illuminated the dark forest, but now, Michael saw purple light as well. He put his head in his shaking hands and cried.

  Fingers slid under his quivering chin. They forced Michael’s head out of his hands. “Look at me, Michael. I’m not an illusion.”

  Michael refused to believe what he was seeing. His eyes shifted toward the purple light. He saw Seamus’ wings unfurl and shower the cold forest floor with silver crystals. Michael’s eyes moved back to look at the angel who stood before him. He saw Colm, but he couldn’t sense him.

  “Ya lost contact with Patrick, didn’t ya?”

  Michael stared at Colm.

  “Answer me, Michael.”

  Michael’s lips quivered.

  “Seamus has Patrick in the cradle of his spirit. Ya will feel him once ya both accept that we’re real.”

  “Ian, too?” Michael asked dumbly.

  “Ian’s here. Let go of ya grief and ya will sense all of us. Do ya understand me?”

  “Colm?”

  “It’s me.”

  Michael blinked. The sensation of Patrick’s spirit came flooding back into Michael’s spirit. He suddenly felt like he was falling, plummeting from one existence to another.

  Colm’s wings threshed. Gold radiance caught Michael’s spirit, and Colm’s arms caught his body. Michael succumbed, and sobbed, “I can sense ya.”

  They are both sick and exhausted, Colm thought. Then, he lulled the boys to sleep.

  As dawn approached, the sun peaked over the Appalachian Mountains to find the dense forest of Garden Mountain awash in green, purple, blue, and red light. In that forest, five angels slept huddled together and blanketed by their resplendent silver wings.

  Colm woke first. He looked at his angels for a long time before he roused them. They had survived Henry and his demons, but at what cost? And Michael and Patrick would have so many questions. He was ready to answer all of them—except one.

  When the angels were awake, Colm sent Ian and Seamus to Jeremiah’s cabin to fetch breakfast from Mkwa. Then, he turned his attention to Patrick and Michael. They were so dirty that it was impossible to assess their physical condition. Colm needed to see the damage Henry had inflicted on Michael’s vessel.

  He said, “Come on. Ya both need a bath.”

  Patrick and Michael surprised Colm by complying with his order without argument. They walked in silence through the dense forest. There was a sudden break in the tree line through which a wide shallow stream ran. The water reflected the lightening morning sky in shimmering mirages as it splashed over boulders and stones.

  Michael’s stomach cramped when he removed his coat. The coat, stiff and heavy with months of dirt, dried sweat, and dried mud, slipped from his hands. He grimaced and pressed the palm of his hand against his stomach.

  Colm thought, Henry has done something much worse than rape. He has somehow connected Michael’s vessel and spirit. If I had known that was possible, I wou’d have forced the angels to leave their vessels two hundred years ago, when we first arrived in Burkes Garden. Now, it’s too late.

  Colm washed the boys’ clothes while they bathed. Clouds of swirling gray and brown dirt formed in the water; then they were swept downstream only to be replaced with new clouds as the filth of a three-month journey was washed away.

  The boys’ silence concerned Colm almost as much as Michael’s pain.

  Finally, Patrick asked, “How’d you kill Henry?”

  It was the question Colm had never answered.

  “We’ve been waitin’ for months ta hear the answer,” Jeremiah said.

  Colm and the boys looked up.

  Jeremiah stood on the bank of the stream with his son in his arms. Mkwa, Abe, Seamus, and Ian were gathered beside him.

  Seamus said, “You cain’t hide it no more, Colm. The damage is there for all of us to see.”

  All eyes shifted to Michael. Stripped of his clothes, Michael’s injuries were apparent.

  Colm imagined he heard Joseph say, “You must be strong for them. Without shame or regret, tell them what happened.”

  Colm nodded as if Joseph was standing beside him waiting for
an acknowledgment. He said, “I didn’t kill Henry. He incurred the wrath of God, and we were both thrown into purgatory.”

  Jeremiah shifted his son in his arms, and asked, “What did Henry do ta incur God’s wrath?”

  Colm avoided looking at his little brother.

  “Look at Michael when you confess, Colm.”

  “I can’t, Joseph.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Colm’s jaw was so tight that he had to work to relax it enough to speak. He looked at Michael and said, “Henry tried to copulate with an angel.”

  Patrick and Michael exchanged dismal glances. Then, Patrick jumped up and splashed through the water toward Colm.

  Colm felt absurd relief to see that Patrick’s thin and undernourished vessel was unhurt.

  “DID YOU LET HENRY DO THAT TO MICHAEL?” Patrick screamed.

  “NO! My palimpsest warned me to let Henry’s intentions play out. I wou’d have stopped Henry if it had gotten to that point!”

  Michael focused on the water flowing over his legs, and summoned a long-forgotten memory—the sensation of copulating with a human woman. His act had been consensual. Michael understood enough to realize that Henry had tried to rape him in every way possible.

  “Stand down, Brother,” Seamus warned. “You ain’t helpin’ by screamin’ at Colm.”

  Patrick knew that Seamus was right. He forced himself to stay calm when he asked Seamus, “Where did you and Ian go when Henry killed your vessels?”

  “We was thrown into purgatory, too.”

  Colm intervened, “It had to have something to do with the Sigil of Lucifer. Whatever it was, angels don’t belong in purgatory. We were released.”

  “Where’s Liam?” Michael asked without taking his eyes from the mesmerizing flow of the stream.

  “We don’t know,” Seamus admitted.

  “Do Brandon and Fergus know you’re alive?” Abe asked.

  “They know,” Seamus said. “Me, Colm, and Ian went back to the farm. No one was there. We found Fergus and Brandon at Dillaway House.”

  Patrick’s calm erupted and anger flushed his cheeks. “But you got here before we did! It took us three months to get here because we was so tired! Why didn’t you look for us?”