Angels & Patriots_Book One

by Salina B Baker

  Colm, Seamus, and Liam sat drinking rum in the Green Dragon Tavern on Union Street, where the Sons of Liberty often met. They learned from the tavern keeper that the men in the tavern who wore red coats were officers in the British army under the command of the Royal Governor of Massachusetts, General Thomas Gage.

  When the angels were not in battle mode, Colm tried not to control what his men did with their leisure time. But he was certain they should be in battle mode, which in his opinion, made Fergus a deserter.

  I suppose, until we are truly fighting again, the men shou’d decide if Fergus’ actions are harmful to us, Colm thought.

  “I have been studying faces,” Liam said to Colm. His blue eyes darted through the crowded tavern. “The men in this tavern look tense and suspicious.”

  “Ya mean suspicious of us?”

  “No. The tension seems to be between the soldiers in the red coats and everyone else. Our bigger concern is that we do not know if demons are here or if the demon leader still possesses the vessel of Henry du Bohun.”

  “Liam’s concern is worrisome,” Seamus said. “We’re at a disadvantage.”

  Colm drained his tankard. “I think Henry might have taken a living human vessel, maybe a British general. He’ll possess someone with a high military rank, if he is indeed trying to start a war.”

  “That’s possible?” Seamus asked, surprised. “Ain’t no livin’ human can contain our spirits. How’re they containin’ a powerful demon like Henry?”

  “Henry is not a son of God as we are,” Liam reminded Seamus. “He is not a spirit. He was created from God’s wrath.”

  Seamus was on his fourth tankard of rum. He snorted and said, “That ain’t no explanation.”

  The tavern door swung open and two men entered. One man, judging by his dress, was of high social status. A man sitting at the table nearest the fireplace stood to greet the newcomers.

  The angels overheard their conversation. Liam took note of their faces.

  “Are they here, Samuel?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, they are, John.”

  “Good. Are we discussing matters of public safety today?”

  Samuel nodded, and a smile played across his lips. “I do not think you need to ask how I condone matters of safety overall.”

  “I disagree with the rowdy mob mentality among your Sons of Liberty,” another man interjected.

  “I realize that, John,” Samuel said. “Perhaps, someday, I shall be able to convince you to join us. We are, after all, cousins with similar views.”

  Satisfied that the newcomers were not demons, Liam continued his vigilant watch.

  Michael, Patrick, and Brandon bounded through the tavern door in a flurry of laughter and talking.

  A sailor leaving the tavern collided with Michael. He shoved Michael and said, “Watch where you’re going, you filthy swain.”

  Michael seized the lapels on the sailor’s coat and yelled, “Fucker!” He tightened his grip and dragged the man sideways until he was able to shove him against the wall.

  All eyes turned to look at the young man and the sailor.

  Brandon and Patrick snickered.

  Seamus and Liam started to get to their feet. Colm stopped them with a flash of his green eyes. If he didn’t allow Michael to release some of his frustration, he would be too hard to handle.

  “Take your hands off me,” the sailor warned between clinched teeth. He snaked his hand into the pocket of his coat. Just as he withdrew a knife, Michael knocked his head hard against the wall. The knife dropped from the dazed sailor’s hand and skittered across the floor.

  Colm said to Seamus, “Go ahead and get Michael off that man. Get ya brother and Brandon away from the door.”

  Seamus took the order. He nodded at Liam. Both angels got up from the table and approached the boys.

  “Let go of him,” Seamus ordered Michael.

  Michael didn’t look at Seamus when he asked, “Are ya going to make me?”

  “Don’t test me, boy.”

  All the men in the tavern were on their feet. The four British officers in attendance let their hands fall to the hilt of their sabers.

  Colm didn’t want to interfere unless absolutely necessary. They were going to have to fall back into rank and file to prepare for the inevitable fight that lay ahead. Fergus Driscoll was his second in command, but with Fergus gone, that command went to Seamus. Colm needed Seamus to establish his authority.

  The sailor in Michael’s grip regained his senses. He punched Michael in the jaw, then shoved him. “I told you ta take your hands off me!”

  Michael staggered backward. Patrick and Brandon jumped the sailor and knocked him to the floor. Patrick shoved his hands into the sailor’s chest and pinned him down. Brandon threw his knees on either side of the sailor’s flaying legs and tightened his thighs until he had control.

  Liam restrained Michael before he could retaliate.

  The British officers drew their sabers and ran at Patrick and Brandon.

  If the soldiers were only human, their sabers wouldn’t kill Patrick and Brandon, but they would severely injure the angels’ vessels. Colm jumped up and threw himself between the soldiers and his angels.

  The British officers came to a halt and shouted, “Move!”

  Liam had Michael sufficiently restrained. Seamus darted at Patrick and Brandon. He got a handful of Patrick’s curly black hair, jerked it, and growled, “Stop it!”

  Patrick let go of the sailor and groped at Seamus’ hands.

  Without Patrick’s restraint, the sailor sat up and rammed his head into Brandon’s stomach. All the air went out of Brandon’s lungs. He grunted and fell backward. The sailor got to his feet and ran out of the tavern.

  Colm faced the four somewhat hesitant British soldiers as his men calmed themselves.

  The basement door opened with an exaggerated groan in the silent tavern. A man stepped through the door, followed by three other men, one of whom was Fergus Driscoll.

  Fergus saw Colm and stopped walking.

  The angels looked at one another with mild surprise.

  Fergus assessed the situation. Colm and the brotherhood had followed him to Boston for good reason. And Michael was misbehaving, as usual.

  The other angels cast their eyes at Colm and then at Fergus.

  A man with Fergus said, “I gather you are acquainted?”

  “Yes, Dr. Warren, we are,” Fergus said. His eyes remained on Colm.

  The first man, who had emerged from the basement, impatiently asked the men of apparent high social status, “Shall we convene?” He attempted to walk to the tavern’s basement door, but a British officer stopped him.

  “Mr. Revere.”

  Paul Revere turned to face the officer. “Captain Langdon.”

  Captain Langdon favored Colm with a sneer, swept his arm outward, and asked Paul, “Are you, Dr. Warren and Mr. Dawes, acquainted with this—swain?”

  William Dawes, the third man with Fergus, looked at Colm. “We are not.”

  A second British officer, Captain Anthony Farrington, snapped at William. “Captain Langdon was not addressing you! Let Mr. Revere speak for himself.”

  The three men standing near the fireplace moved toward Dawes and Revere. Samuel said, “Captain Farrington, may I …”

  “You may not, Mr. Adams.” Captain Farrington pointed his saber at the two men with Samuel Adams. “John Hancock and John Adams, you will also stand down.”

  “We do not know that man,” Paul said, irritated. “However, our new acquaintance appears to know him.”

  Captain Langdon decided to leave well enough alone. Governor Thomas Gage’s policy of leniency did not condone antagonizing Americans. However, Langdon was of the opinion that they needed antagonizing. He said to Captain Farrington, “We are wasting our time. Let’s go.”

  When the captains left the tavern, William Dawes, Paul Revere, Dr. Joseph Warren, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and John Adams took the stairs to the basement. />
  Colm waited until they were out of sight before he asked Fergus, “What are ya doing?”

  “I’ve joined the Boston militia and offered my services as a patriot.”

  Michael and Patrick snickered.

  Colm’s jaw tightened. His eyes didn’t leave his second in command’s face.

  Fergus shook off his archangel’s intimidating stare. “You know as well as I do that a war is looming.”

  “Those men aren’t soldiers.”

  “There is no American army, either; at least not yet.”

  “Fergus, are you coming?” William Dawes called from the basement doorway.

  “Yes, William,” Fergus turned and took a step toward the basement door.

  “Dr. Warren wants you to bring your friend,” William said.

  Fergus walked to the basement door without a word. Colm’s choice to come with him was out of his hands. Fergus brushed past William and walked down the steps. Fergus knew Colm had made the choice to join the patriots when he heard William say from the top of the steps, “It is good of you to join us.”

  “Seamus, take them back to the inn and stay there until I return,” Colm said before he entered the basement door. “I don’t want any of ya exposed to this until I understand what’s happening between Fergus and these men.”

  Colm heard the angels’ wings rustle. The brotherhood was uneasy. “Take the order,” Colm said. He watched them leave the tavern. Then, he entered the basement.

  William offered his hand to Colm, and said, “I am William Dawes.”

  Colm considered William’s plumpish face, and saw loyalty and discretion in his eyes. He shook William’s hand.

  Paul frowned, but he stepped forward and said to Colm, “I am Paul Revere. And you are…?”

  When Colm didn’t respond, Paul said, “Relax, sir. Fergus has told us nothing of you or your comrades. It is clear to me that he served under your command. We are not the enemy.”

  Colm’s green eyes flashed.

  Paul brushed off the odd feeling he experienced and continued, “We have taken your friend, Fergus, into our group at face value. There must be an element of trust between us to begin an association—if that is what we are doing.” He narrowed his eyes at Colm. “That is what we are doing, is it not?”

  Dr. Warren remained silent and scrutinized the tall silent stranger.

  With an edge of conceit, John Hancock introduced himself to Colm, and then said, “This is Samuel Adams and his cousin, John Adams. We are patriots and have nothing to hide.”

  “We aren’t here to extract secrets from patriots,” Colm said as he met John Hancock’s stare.

  “Then pray tell us, why are you here?” John Adams asked.

  Colm carefully considered his response. Finally, he said, “My men and I are here to determine if we need to fulfill a mission.”

  “You and your men?” John Adams asked. “Are you in command of a militia company?”

  “No.”

  “I see that what has brought you and your men to Boston is a matter you take very seriously.”

  “I am still waiting for you to identify yourself,” a skeptical Paul said.

  “And if I don’t, what of Fergus?” Colm asked. “He’s come in earnest to be of service to ya cause.”

  “You are clearly a military man. I venture to say that Fergus is guilty of desertion and other crimes,” Paul said. “Will you punish him if we turn our backs on his offer?”

  “That is none of ya business.”

  Colm glanced at Joseph Warren before he said, “My name is Colm Bohannon, but ya won’t believe me when I tell ya who I am or why I’m here.”

  “We are listening,” John Adams said.

  “Not today.”

  “Suppose Fergus has a mind to tell us anyway?” Paul challenged.

  “I said not today.” Colm threw another glance Joseph Warren’s way, and then left the basement without looking at Fergus.

  Six

  London, England

  General Sir Henry Hereford was educated at Eton College. He obtained his first British military commission as an ensign in the 1st Foot Guards in August 1759. While studying abroad in Florence, Italy and Geneva, Switzerland, his regiment sailed without him from the Isle of Wight to the continent to fight in the Seven Years’ War.

  A year later, he participated at the Battle of Minden, a major battle that prevented a French invasion of Hanover, Germany. After the battle, Henry purchased a captaincy in the 85th Regiment of Foot. By 1762, he had risen to lieutenant colonel. He served as a Member of Parliament from 1772 until he was promoted to major general in 1774—a respected thirty-nine-year-old bachelor.

  Unbeknownst to his countrymen, he was possessed by the most powerful demon God had unleashed upon his banished angels. It surrounded itself with minions masquerading as military officers, politicians, soldiers, sailors, and common folk.

  Yet with all that power to wield, Henry still did not know the exact location of the banished angels. At one time, as Henry de Bohun, he suspected they were hiding in a place sparsely populated, if populated at all, by the children of man. His lower demons had searched the globe for Colm and his men. They scoured the corners of the Earth from the jungles of the Amazon, to the royal courts of China, to the frozen tundra of the Artic.

  Then, thirty years ago, a demon possessing a Shawnee Indian reported spotting Colm Bohannon in the Appalachian Mountains of North America. The demon was unable to pinpoint the location, claiming it had no idea where his possessed Shawnee was actually hunting. However, this apparent blunder was the single named sighting in two hundred years.

  Henry clung to the report. He was certain that the archangel would not sit idly by while the colonial children of man were in the clutches of a war demons had a hand in creating. So, Henry caused dissent between the American colonists and the British Crown, until war was at hand. Colm Bohannon would show himself if he was indeed in the Appalachian Mountains.

  On this cold January morning in 1775, Henry was at his home in Mayfair, a fashionable and wealthy residential district in the West End of London. His aide-de-camp, Captain Robert Percy, was with him, making final arrangements for Henry’s trip to the American colonies.

  Robert was not possessed by one of Henry’s minions. He had been assigned to General Hereford after the general’s previous aide-de-camp mysteriously disappeared. There was not a single clue to indicate what may have happened. The matter had been dismissed summarily; therefore, Robert had no reason to believe that the general may have had a hand in it.

  In fact, Robert was pleased with his new assignment. It brought with it a promotion to captain, and an escape from the recent death of his twenty-four-year-old wife, Ann. Her death, from a seizure in November 1774, made Robert a thirty-four-year old widower.

  “Mr. Smith has the carriage packed and ready for departure,” Robert said to Henry. “We sail tomorrow morning. The colonies are at the apex of turmoil. I understand your desire to be there if there is a rebellion.”

  You understand nothing about my desire or what I will do to fulfill it, Henry thought. He intended on killing Robert Percy as soon as they arrived in Boston. His second in command was there, awaiting a permanent dead human vessel. Henry looked forward to watching “Robert Percy” commit atrocities. It was a sport Henry played often and with skill.

  Ten years ago, the demon leader possessed the British Prime Minister while he issued decrees unpopular with the colonists such as the Sugar Act, the Currency Act, and the Stamp Act. The demon left the Prime Minister’s body before it began to rot and stink of the evil within. The King dismissed the Prime Minister in 1765.

  The demon once again returned to possess the new Prime Minister. In March 1766, the possessed Prime Minister passed the Declaratory Act, which asserted that the British Parliament had the right to legislate for the American colonies in all cases.

  Six years later, Sir Henry Hereford became a Member of Parliament. The demon leader was delighted to possess Henry’s h
andsome rugged vessel.

  In March 1774, the British Parliament passed a series of four acts they called the Coercive Acts, which were meant to restore order in Massachusetts and punish Bostonians for their Tea Party. A fifth act, the Quebec Act, allowed Catholics the freedom to worship in Canada. The acts infuriated the colonial patriots. They viewed the acts as a violation of their rights and referred to them as the Intolerable Acts.

  Indeed, Captain Robert Percy understood nothing about General Sir Henry Hereford’s desire to destroy Colm Bohannon and his brotherhood.

  Seven

  Burkes Garden, Virginia

  Snow fell all night. The morning sun’s weak rays tried and failed to glisten on the pure white landscape. Mkwa removed Jeremiah’s hand from between her legs and got out of the rickety bed. It was a miracle the bed was standing. It was a miracle she was standing. Jeremiah’s drunken sex had seemed to go on for hours.

  She gathered her scattered clothing and dressed quickly in rough linen leggings, bearskin leggings, a buckskin dress, and a bearskin coat. She slipped her feet into doe skin moccasins then crossed the small cabin to the fireplace to stoke the fire and stir the pot that contained leftovers from last night’s supper.

  Mkwa spoke English well because Jeremiah was a patient teacher. He was teaching her to read from the book his mother had used to teach her sons to read.

  And Jeremiah had given her a child. Her flows had not come for two months. After ten years with Jeremiah and thirty years of watching another summer come and go, she thought she couldn’t bear a child. She had no intention of telling him she was pregnant. He was leaving her today. She was terrified that she would never see him again. He was possibly going to war, and worse, he was going to be among white women. Mkwa had no idea what those women looked like or what they did to bewitch men.

  Jeremiah grunted and rolled out from the rickety bed. Bleary-eyed and dizzy, he stumbled over his bearskin coat and fell with a grunt.

  Mkwa watched Jeremiah struggle to his feet and sway. With great effort he focused on her face. “Damn it woman, git over here and help me dress. I’m freezin’ ta death!”