The Demon Redcoat

by C. C. Finlay

  Proctor shook his head, not understanding. In Massachusetts, he was more familiar with the town meeting.

  “A bicameral legislature provides for checks and balances, the voice of the people, looking to immediate needs and problems, and the voice of experience, taking a longer view and holding to a course with higher aspirations. The natural and the spiritual work in the same way.” Franklin, perhaps sensing that Proctor didn’t follow, leaned back in his chair and lost some of his tone of eagerness. “I have dedicated my own life to understanding the laws of nature. The supernatural is, in its own way, lawless. Its rules are mutable and subject to change. But the natural world admits no such caprice. It is a better discipline to follow, and will keep a man lawful. Scripture assures me that on the last day, we shall not be judged for what we thought or believed, but for our deeds. If I prevent fires or build a better stove, if I provide for better education or just government, that helps all men, and I expect to be judged accordingly. I trust in the higher power to take the longer view and hold me to that course with higher aspirations.”

  Proctor realized that Franklin could be extraordinarily slippery. Unlike Adams, who flew at you like a cannonball and attempted to batter down your resistance. “I think I understand now,” Proctor said.

  “Do you play chess, Mister Brown?”

  “The game? I have never had much time for idle amusements.”

  “Chess is more than an idle amusement. Several very valuable qualities of mind may be acquired and improved by their application to the game, and subsequently become habits that prove useful in all aspects of life.”

  Lydia fidgeted uncomfortably, scuffing her feet on the floor. She looked to the door, but neither the servants nor the other guests had appeared.

  “What kind of qualities?” Proctor asked.

  “Foresight,” Franklin said, holding out one finger. “Chess teaches us to look ahead and anticipate all possible decisions of one’s opponent.” He unfolded a second finger. “Circumspection. Chess prepares us to consider all the possible consequences of our own decisions.” He unfolded a third finger. “Caution. Chess develops the habit of proceeding carefully until we are certain of the outcome.”

  Proctor shrugged indifferently. “I think I’ve learned the same things from farming. Although my opponents were weather, sickness, and bad luck.”

  Franklin shook with laughter. “I would contend that the farmer must proceed without certainty of outcome, but point well taken,” he said when the laughter subsided. “But consider this. We also learn from chess not to despair in the present state of our bad circumstances, but to keep our eyes open for the favorable chance and to persevere in the secrets of our resources.”

  Proctor wasn’t sure what the last phrase meant—the secrets of our resources—but before he could ask there was a tap at the door. Franklin rose at once and went to answer it. Proctor noticed that he limped, favoring one leg over the other. He had not limped in the park at Tuileries when he first appeared and interrupted the countess.

  Franklin opened the door. Servants entered with two more chairs, a tray of refreshments, and a pair of guests. The chairs were arranged and cups of shaved ice were passed around with spoons. Proctor slipped a bite into his mouth and was startled by the sharp lemon flavor. He was caught with his mouth full as Franklin presented introductions.

  “Israel Potter, Thomas Digges, this is Proctor Brown,” Franklin said. The servants left and Franklin bolted the door shut behind them.

  The man introduced as Potter seemed a bit simple. He had a blunt, honest face, bespeaking goodwill and bad luck. So it seemed out of place that he wore boots with considerable heels, on which he carried himself awkwardly, like a man on a ladder unused to heights. As he stepped across the polished inlaid floor to shake Proctor’s hand, he slipped. His companion’s quick hands caught him and held him upright. Potter smiled and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mister Brown.”

  “And you,” Proctor replied. The second man had a long face with a high forehead framed by long wavy hair, and, Proctor noticed, eyes like a doe’s. Even the small beard he wore failed to soften the overall feminine features of his face. The talent was not strong in him, but he had it and was aware of it. He let the spark fill him the way a small candle in a bottle could scatter light throughout a room. Proctor held out his hands. “Mister Digges.”

  “It’s best if I’m called Church, W. S. Church,” Digges said peevishly. He looked to Franklin as he explained. “It’s not just that I must hide what I do from the British, who, if they catch me, would send me to the hangman in a moment. It’s that my name could draw unfortunate attention from other quarters as well.”

  “Of course,” Franklin said. “I always recognize your handwriting in an instant, but I never bother to look at the signature anymore because the name changes so often. Mister Brown, allow me to introduce Mister Church.”

  Because Proctor did not believe that Franklin made casual errors, not after his speech on chess, he was sure that Franklin wanted him to know Digges’s true name, and also that he was hiding something.

  This time, Digges acknowledged Franklin and Proctor, but did not accept Proctor’s proffered hand. Instead, he took his glass of shaved ice and went to sit in the chair farthest from the others. He arrogantly stretched out his thin legs.

  “I thought we agreed to send away the servants,” he said, nodding at Lydia. He swirled his spoon around the edge of glass and brought a large scoop of ice to his mouth.

  Lydia stood back in the shadows, motionless, her hands folded at her waist. Her face remained a blank slate, expressionless.

  “She’s not his servant,” Franklin said. “Though she poses as one. Companion is also the wrong word, or creates the wrong impression. In any case, gentlemen, I give you Lydia Freeman. She and Mister Brown are, as we all are, working for the cause of freedom.”

  Proctor tensed. He had never said anything to Franklin; nor, judging from Lydia’s slight widening of the eyes, had she.

  But neither of their guests seemed to notice the reaction.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Potter said. He had plopped down in the chair closest to hand without any ice at all and pulled off a boot. It dangled awkwardly from his hand as he looked up, uncertain whether he should jump up to complete the introduction.

  Digges—or Church, as he preferred—crossed his legs at the ankles, but made no other change to his posture or expression. “I see,” he said.

  Franklin motioned Proctor and Lydia to take their seats, which they did. “Mister Church is originally of Mary land,” Franklin said.

  Digges snapped upright. “And late of London, and in between, of all the world between. Must we go into my personal history?”

  Franklin leaned forward in his chair and clapped his hands on his knees, a gesture Proctor had seen him use several times when he wished to bring men to agreement. “Those whose lives depend on one another’s trust have cause to know the foundation on which that trust is laid.”

  Digges set down down his empty glass—he was not one to take his time with things or go at them halfheartedly. He looked at Proctor and Lydia from the corner of his eyes.

  He knew. He could sense the talent in them as surely as Proctor sensed the talent in him, and it made him anxious.

  And Franklin knew.

  Proctor had no time to consider the implications as Franklin then launched into further introductions. He explained how Proctor was from Massachusetts and had served with the army from Lexington to Trenton, and how he had served at length with Washington, who trusted him completely.

  At Washington’s name, Digges relaxed. “We grew up across the Potomac from each other,” he said.

  “Was you at Bunker Hill?” Israel Potter asked. He sat with the boot on his lap, one foot on the floor elevated by a heel and the other sliding back and forth in a worn stocking.

  “I was,” Proctor answered.

  “I knew it!” Israel said, slapping his thigh. “I was there too. You stayed
to the end, right by Doctor Warren, while the Redcoats came over the wall. We was out past the hay bales, with the shot flying thick around us, and saw you come running away. You and that black fellow.”

  “Peter Salem,” Proctor said.

  “I don’t know his name, but that was something, I can tell you,” Israel said.

  “Fine, we know each other now,” Digges said. “Shall we get down to business?”

  Israel held up his boot, grunting as he twisted open the heel to reveal a hidden compartment. He offered the boot to Franklin. “I figured it was time for me to go back to my friends in England,” he said.

  “Indeed it is,” Franklin replied. He dabbed the corner of his mouth and set down his empty glass. While Franklin rose and went to his desk, Proctor looked at his own glass. The ice had melted to water. He lifted it to his mouth for a sip but the taste proved too bitter and he set it down unfinished. He glanced over at Lydia. Her hands were empty. No one had thought to serve her.

  Drawers scraped open and shut as Franklin searched through several compartments for the item he wanted. Israel noticed his own glass of ice and slurped it down, smacking his lips. Eventually Franklin found what he was looking for, a packet of paper folded very tight. He wedged the packet in the heel and sealed it shut again. When he was done, he handed the boot back to Israel and took his seat.

  Digges held out his empty hand. “I would not have been able to help Mister Potter, nor any of a hundred other American sailors, slip through the bars of prison without the liberal application of grease in the form of … cold, hard currency.”

  He stumbled over the end of his sentence as the figure of speech that he had so carefully constructed unraveled like a poorly knit sweater.

  “Of course,” Franklin said, rising more slowly on this occasion. Once again, he poked through the many drawers and compartments of his elaborate desk, moving aside papers, bottles, and pieces of scientific equipment until he found a small purse. He opened it, counted carefully, and then removed a few coin, which he tossed into a randomly opened drawer. “This should be sufficient for your purposes.”

  “Not if I am to be a nursemaid to all three,” Digges said, with a contemptuous nod at the other people in the room. He watched them sideways to see what kind of response he received. Proctor disliked the man.

  “It is sufficient,” Franklin said.

  Digges frowned, counted the coin, and settled back in his chair. “It’s not as if we can hire the Dover packet to deliver us across the channel.”

  “No, but the money you’ve expended in helping so many men escape from Forton Prison ought to serve as a down payment on their favors in return.”

  “Perhaps,” Digges allowed.

  “I will thank you to convey Israel to London as you did before,” Franklin said. “These two are pursuing a different goal, but may be dropped off there as well. You should use everything you have remaining to aid more American sailors. Any other munitions or technology you can steal will also be welcome.”

  “There is no way I can come away with a loom,” Digges said.

  “If you can’t steal the loom, then steal the weavers. We need the English textile technology even more than we need the weapons.” He tapped the side of his head. “Remember, all true wealth is carried in the purse that rests between our ears.”

  “I do not know if I can persuade the Dutch to carry it for us again.”

  “I have utmost confidence in your powers of persuasion,” Franklin replied impatiently. He rose. “Now, if you will all excuse me, it is nearly time for dinner, and I am never late for a meal.”

  Potter rose and shook his hand eagerly, thanking him profusely.

  Franklin interrupted him. “Gratitude may never be too profuse when offered to God, but to man it should be limited.”

  Digges remained cold and distant, exchanging no words of parting. He and Franklin shared a working agreement, but there was no love between them. Or perhaps no trust. He was clearly uncomfortable conducting his business in front of so many witnesses. Just as clearly, Franklin wanted Proctor to witness, if only to force him to form his own impression of Digges.

  Franklin put his hand on Proctor’s shoulder as he escorted him to the door. “Do not go looking for trouble, but beware when it comes looking for you.”

  “Foresight, circumspection, and caution,” Proctor replied.

  Franklin smiled. He embraced Lydia, kissing her neck in the manner of the French. She went rigid in reply and did not return the gesture, but Franklin merely stepped away and sighed. “Madame, I know that the French servants have been threatening you, telling you that the king will confiscate you as an illegal slave. You will be out of the country before that happens, but still it will be best if you do not return, and so I do not think that we shall meet again. Therefore I wish you safe travels and the blessing of your name.”

  A whole range of emotions had flashed across her face while Franklin spoke, but she only responded to the last thing he said. “My name?”

  “Freeman,” he replied with a smile. “That is your name, is it not?”

  She held her mouth firmly shut. Proctor tried to meet her eye, to ask her why she had not said anything about the threats made by the French servants, but she would not look at him.

  They stepped outside into the hall with Potter and Digges. The door snapped closed behind them. Digges spun on them. He held his talent at the ready, like a match suspended over a fuse.

  “How soon can you be ready to depart?” he asked.

  Proctor still felt wobbly from the encounter in the garden. Though it had only been that morning, a few scant hours before, it seemed almost a lifetime ago. He thought about Franklin’s description of chess, and he wondered whether Franklin was teaching him how to play the game or subtly informing him that he was just another pawn on a very large board.

  He looked Digges in the eye. “How soon can you be ready to escort us, Mister Church?”

  They departed from a small dock outside Calais, in a small boat, on a dark night. The crew was British, though Israel Potter recognized one as an American, a fellow sailor who had been captured, like him, by the British when their ship sailed out of Boston.

  “William,” he exclaimed innocently. “How come you to be here?”

  The other sailors, whom Proctor took for smugglers, scowled. William glanced at Digges, who refused to recognize him. “I escaped the hulk at Spithead, same as you,” he said.

  “I presumed that much,” Potter replied. “No, I mean here on this boat now.”

  William jerked a thumb at the other smugglers. “My mother’s brother’s sons.”

  One of the men cuffed him, and he turned back to his work. Proctor considered how many families were divided by the war. English and American, they were still one people in many ways, united by a common past and present relatives despite the war and wide ocean.

  The small crew worked quietly and efficiently, scarcely whispering to one another as they raised a dark sail and slipped out of the small cove. Lanterns hung from patrolling warships bobbed in the distant night, but the ship moved quickly over the waves, and even those signs of civilized life soon faded away. The dark surrounded them, the moonless and star-spangled sky above, and the black water with its light-tipped waves below.

  Digges stared at the sky. “Tell me who you are and what you mean to do, or I’ll tip you both overboard and let you swim to shore.”

  Proctor started at the open threat. When he looked over and saw the crewmen’s heads sunk to their chests in apparent sleep—Potter was sleeping too—he tensed. The waves lapped the sides of the boat in an irregular rhythm.

  Digges rose and moved over to the rudder, taking it in hand. “They’ll be fine that way for a while,” he went on. “My talents are small compared with some I’ve seen. Compared with the two of you, I suspect. I can persuade people, but only to do things they might already have done; I can lull men to sleep, but only if they’re already tired. What can the two of you do?”


  Lydia held out her hand and closed her fist. A wind rushed at them, snapping the sail taut and tipping the boat to one side. She did not like to be threatened.

  “This and that,” Proctor said. “A small talent must lead to a large fear, because the danger is the same if we are discovered, no matter our talent.”

  “You have no idea what I’m afraid of,” Digges sneered.

  Proctor regretted his remark, and decided it would be best to be honest and direct. “We are seeking a group called the Covenant.”

  “To join them?” Digges asked tersely.

  “To destroy them, if we can. They mean an end to American freedom, and they have killed our friends and our families in pursuit of their goal.” He looked down at his own scarred right hand. He left off, They have tried to possess us with demons and have my own soul on a leash.

  After a moment’s pause, Digges said, “They’re English?”

  “We don’t know that they’re English,” Proctor answered, still distracted. “In fact, the members we’ve encountered have been English, American, German, and Italian. We’re told that there are thirteen, although maybe there are now only twelve. Although each member of the twelve supposedly recruits twelve more, all of them channeling their power toward a single sorcerer in an attempt to achieve immortality.”

  “It wasn’t a question. I’m telling you, they’re English.” Digges stared off into the dark, drawing his fingers across the point of his beard. “The name has changed, but they are the modern version of the pactum in saecula saeculorum.”

  “The what?”

  “Pactum in saecula saeculorum,” Digges said. “The Pact, Forever and Ever. It was mentioned in the papers of my great-great-great-great-grandfather and namesake, who was an astronomer and mathematician. And more. Two hundred years ago, he was invited to join.”

  “And did he?”

  “He did not. What profits it a man to gain the world and lose his soul?” By the catch in his throat, the phrase clearly had a personal meaning for him too. He pointed at the stars. “He was the best student of the best astronomer in Queen Elizabeth’s England, but he was an even greater mathematician. He proved, mathematically, that the stars lie beyond the orbit of the moon. Far beyond the orbit of the moon. He proved that the stars themselves are suns, and that there are an infinite number of them.”