This was the American continents, and the British colonies had recently conquered huge tracts of land to the west from France. The possibilities out there were without end and required no late nights studying. All he needed was a set of stones big enough to brave the unknown.
Truth be told, it was not all that unknown to him considering he already knew the territories from his abbreviated stint with the army. Paul knew the land and knew he could handle the wilderness environment better than most. He was tempted to go, so very tempted. However, every time he gave serious thought to following the ambition, his inner coward spoke.
It told him he could not leave his mentor, he was smart and brave in every way Paul was not. If that did not persuade him, his inner naysayer would work the loyalty angle. Every single person in Paul’s life who could have let him down did. His parents died, his relatives dumped him in an orphanage. Then several priests who ran the facility took to molesting him until Paul could finally defend himself. That earned him a foot in the ass out the door and a place on the streets of London.
The lone exception in his abandoned existence was his caretaker, his mentor, a man with no obligation to help him at all. The inner coward insisted that he owed the man and needed to follow in his footsteps to practice law. Doing otherwise was a betrayal.
Those were just excuses though. Deep down Paul knew his caretaker would applaud and support his decision to head west. In fact, he would probably welcome his departure since a twenty-two year old had no business still living at home with a parental figure. The real reason was fear, plain and simple. Thankfully, that dissenting voice was growing quieter and less insistent. Perhaps someday soon it would shut up all together and let Paul leave.
A loud crash at the front door brought Paul out of his mental ponderings of the future to live in the present. It sounded like a large sack of potatoes was flung against the oak barrier. When the doorknob turned and the soldier quartering in their house staggered in, he knew the situation. The man was so drunk he could barely stand, clinging to the door handle for stability. The soldier staggered into the room. He stumbled forward, but managed to catch himself at the last instant using the back of Paul’s chair to stay keep upright.
“What you readin’ there?” the stocky soldier managed to slur. “Looks…god almighty so many words. Why? Good lookin’ lad like you needs to be out pokin’ the girls. Why ain’t ya? You quire or somethin’?”
“That is none of your concern?” Paul said as he shrugged off the man’s hand from his shoulder. “Your bed is made, go sleep it off.”
“Yeah, that’s what they told me at the barracks too,” the soldier commented in a moment of pretend introspection. He then flung his arms out wide and stumbled into the middle of the room exclaiming, “Apparently I am not fit to handle a weapon in my current condition. What do you think, boy? Can I handle a long-shafted weapon right now?”
The implied sexual undertone of the statement put Paul on edge as he placed his book on the small reading table to his right holding the lit lantern. He debated jumping to his feet and bolting for the door, but he did not want to make any sudden moves. The soldier was close enough to grab him and he was a lot bigger and stronger than Paul.
Instead, he tried to defuse the situation by pointing to an open door across the room, “Your bed is over there. Go sleep it off.”
“I’d sleep better with some company…such a good lookin’ lad.” The soldier slurred with a devilish smirk on his lips and primal desire in his eyes.
Paul wasted no time. He dashed out of his chair and lunged to his left. He stayed low to duck under the soldier’s arms, but the man managed to trip his trailing foot at the last possible instant. With his weight shifting forward and no leg to land on, Paul went crashing to the floor and skidded to a stop along the wall.
The adrenaline rush of the moment seemed to straighten the soldier’s balance as he prowled toward Paul. The youth scrambled to one knee and attempted a dash to the side but the soldier’s arms caught him mid-air and flung him back against the wall. Paul delivered a hard right hand to the man’s jaw, but he just laughed and backhanded him to the floor in return.
“You got a little fight in you, I like that,” the soldier declared as he unfastened his belt while standing over Paul. He kicked him in the stomach, which landed Paul on all fours on the floor.
While he struggled to pull air back into his lungs, Paul could feel his arms being forced behind his back. Then he felt the hard edges of the soldier’s belt dig into his wrists as it tightened. He was immobilized. There was nothing he could do; the animal was too big, too strong.
His mind flashed back to the last time a priest in the orphanage cornered him. Paul had a knife tucked away in his boot back then, but there was no such weapon within reach now. This was going to happen, and Paul steeled his mind for the violation.
Just as Paul felt his trousers being ripped down to his ankles, he heard a sound at the front door that gave him hope. He turned his head toward the door in time to see his caretaker step into the house with no notice of what was going on until Paul finally caught his breath and cried out “Help, sir, please! Help! Get this animal off me!”
His caretaker’s eyes took in the situation for the briefest of moments before a look of pure rage consumed him. He charged at the soldier still on his knees behind Paul, grabbed his head, and bashed it with his knee. Three more bone crunching knee drives to the face were delivered before he let the soldier’s unconscious body collapse to the wood floor.
Paul scrambled to his feet and turned around in time to see his caretaker empty a nearby potato sack and place it over the soldier’s head. “This will keep the blood from getting all over the house before we can dispose of the body.”
“Dispose of him, what do you mean?” Paul asked with a state of shock evident in his voice and mannerisms. “He’s not dead, is he?”
“Oh he’s going to be soon enough,” his caretaker stated as he grabbed a knife sitting on the fireplace mantle and tucked it into his belt. “Go into his room, round up everything he had: clothes, boots, weapons, papers, even the bed linens. If anyone comes looking for him, you say he left in the middle of the night with all his things talking about opportunities out west. He deserted the army, you understand me?”
“Yes…yes sir.”
“Put it all in one pack and I’ll send it to the bottom of the bay along with this piece of trash.”
Paul did as instructed. Ten minutes later, he watched his caretaker ride away into the dark night toward the bay with the soldier’s body and his belongings slung over the horse’s rump. When he rode out of sight, Paul shut the door and immediately collapsed to the floor in a fit of tears and terror shakes. He was not ready to leave his caretaker, not now, possibly not ever.
**********
“You know, this is the last thing I needed to have happen at the end of a long day,” Valnor said as he put his back into another stroke of the oars. “I don’t think I ask for too much from life. This morning when I woke up, I just wanted to go to work, settle a few trade disputes, and then end the evening by attending a secret society meeting to incite a riotous movement against King George. Is being left in peace to pursue that end too much to ask?”
That drew a muffled fit of protest from the front of the tiny rowboat where the battered soldier attempted to speak with a broken jaw while bound and gagged. Unable to form anything approaching coherent words, he settled for striking the boat’s side with a frustrated kick.
“Hmm, you’re right. Provoking an uprising against the crown is bound to anger some people, but really, what do you expect? He taxes the colonies into poverty, and then forces them to house and feed his soldiers. Men like you who, come to find out, enjoy raping defenseless boys in their spare time,” Valnor mused in an exaggerated, conversational manner. “What are we colonials supposed to do, say god save the king, now may I please have another ass raping? I think not. It’s as if you want a rebellion on your hands, which makes my life considerably eas
ier since that is exactly what I intend to provoke.”
“God, I wish I could use this little incident between you, young Paul and I as a propaganda weapon to kick start that brewing revolt. If only I had pictures or video footage of the incident with a mass media available to spread the outrage at the speed of light. My revolution would be well underway by this time tomorrow. Alas, we’re still several hundred years too early in your people’s advancement for that.”
The strange words made the wounded soldier pause in his thrashing about to look up at Valnor as if he had three heads, or perhaps as an ancient being from another planet. “I know, those words don’t mean anything to you. You’re just a simple man living in a simple time. The scary thing is, that same lack of mass media I lament is what would have allowed you to keep on molesting young boys without consequence for…decades. Then you met me.”
“Putting an early end to the damage you could have inflicted on countless young lives is almost enough to make me believe in a higher power,” Valnor said as he looked around at the darkness to confirm nobody was present for miles around. Satisfied that they were alone, he put down his oars and stood up.
“I’ve enjoyed our little chat tonight, I really have. It’s not often I get to speak so freely about my plans and myself. It’s quite therapeutic actually, but I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you. I’d like to chat longer, but then I’d have to keep the devil waiting wouldn’t I?” Valnor said an instant before drawing a sword and stabbing the bound soldier through the chest. There was a soft wheezing noise for a few moments as life drained away from the animal’s eyes, and then there was nothing but peace and quiet.
Valnor stabbed the corpse a dozen more times to make sure the lungs and stomach were devoid of air and added a few stones to the soldier’s pockets to guarantee the body would not float back to the surface. He then rolled the only evidence of his crime over the side and watched the red coat sink out of sight before grabbing his oars and pointing the boat back to shore.
After he tied the boat down at the dock, Valnor untied his horse from a nearby tree and headed back home. The return trip would be much quicker since he was now free to go straight through the city rather than around it to avoid explaining the dead redcoat on the back of his horse. Now free of the incriminating evidence, he turned his thoughts to Paul. How was he going to walk the young man back mentally from this trauma? The matter did not overly concern him because, despite the youth’s lack of self-confidence, he was strong and a survivor.
Not too far out of the city center, with the streets still lit by blazing lanterns, Valnor heard a voice calling out to him from behind, “Mr. Hamilton, Captain Hamilton is that you?”
Valnor turned about to find a familiar face from earlier in the evening approaching on horseback. “Thompson, is that you? What are you doing out here this late?”
“I just got out of our meeting,” Thompson said as he pulled alongside Valnor and they proceeded down the road together at a lazy pace. “You caused quite a stir ahead of our meeting. I can’t remember one ever going so late.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?” Valnor asked.
“I’m not sure, to be honest, but a lot of men liked what you said about organizing a protest. We’re going to make it happen.”
“That’s great,” Valnor praised. “I’d love to participate, but apparently I need to know a secret handshake or something. I don’t suppose you could show me?”
“I’ll do more than that,” Thompson answered. “I volunteered to sponsor you in the organization. Someone told me where you lived and I was heading there just now to see if you were still interested. I take it you are.”
“Oh yes,” Valnor answered.
“Terrific. We’re getting a meeting together for some time next week. I’ll pass the details along to you when I know them.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great,” Thompson beamed before his face turned to mild confusion. “It saved me a trip, but what are you doing out so late?”
“Nice night for a quiet ride. Besides, I had to settle my mind down from the meeting. If you couldn’t tell, that debate really got me going,” Valnor answered as the two began riding in separate directions.
“Be careful once you get away from the city lights. You never know what people are up to in the dark,” Thompson said over his shoulder before bidding Valnor adieu with a friendly wave.
Chapter 19: Voices Being Heard
“Remember, this time lift with your legs,” Valnor said to his former subordinate, Thompson. Together they bent down and picked up another heavy crate full of wine imported from England. “You got it? All right, let’s go.”
Valnor was the younger and stronger of the two, so he was the one walking backwards as they carried the crate up the steps from the ship’s cargo hold and to the gangplank leading to the docks below. As they staggered their way near the captain’s office at the back of the boat, they could still hear the customs official locked inside yelling and banging on the door.
“This is illegal!” Bang, bang, bang. “The authorities will hear of this!” Bang, bang, bang. “There will be a price to pay!”
“We know, and we don’t care,” Valnor taunted on his way by.
“I know I don’t.”
“Me neither. I couldn’t give a wet fart if King Georgie himself hears about this,” an empty-handed pair of men said on their way past Valnor and his accomplice to fetch another crate.
A few steps past the locked office door, Thompson said in a hushed voice, “Actually, word getting out about this is exactly the point to tonight’s activity.”
“Activity?” Valnor repeated with false confusion forced into his voice. “We’re unloading wine so the owner of this boat can avoid paying the import taxes. This is civil disobedience at its finest.”
“It will also keep the meeting hall flush with wine for a good long while. Mr. Hancock has promised to give the lodge wine equal to the amount he saves on import taxes. It’s nice when things work out to be a double win situation,” Thompson boasted.
“Thanks again for letting me be a part of this,” Valnor added with a more serious tone. “Can I take this as my official initiation into the lodge then?”
“You can indeed,” Thompson confirmed between heavy breaths from the load they carried. “After what happened with your quartering soldier, there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that you were one of us and not a British plant or spy.”
“Whatever do you mean? That soldier deserted his duties. He up and packed everything he had in the middle of the night to head west for greener pastures,” Valnor said with a wink, nod, and almost a straight face.
“Of course he did,” Thompson played along as they stepped onto the steep slope of the gangplank. “I heard Paul was pretty shaken up by his abrupt departure. A soldier like that, one can only hope he’s feeding those greener pastures you speak of from six feet under them.”
“He may have gone by boat,” Valnor suggested.
“Feeding the fish then.”
“We’ll never know,” Valnor concluded while stepping off the gangplank for another set of carriers to board the boat and retrieve yet another case of wine. Everyone knew or had their suspicions, but Valnor would never admit to the deed, even among friends.
At the end of the dock there were four wagons lined up. Three packed to the point of nearly breaking the axles, and the fourth was getting close. It could hold five or six more cases, but that was all.
“There are still twenty or thirty cases left, but I don’t think we have enough room to carry it all,” Valnor suggested to the ringleader directing everyone’s activities.
“That’s fine, I’ll pay the duties on the remaining cases. It would look a bit suspicious if the Liberty came all the way from England completely empty now wouldn’t it?” John Hancock answered.
“I’d say even a quarter full cargo hold will raise some questions. That does not even take into account imprisoning the customs official in
your office aboard the ship,” Valnor suggested. “I think you’re looking at a serious confrontation when the sun comes up in the morning.”
“Good,” Mr. Hancock fired back with an eager grin. “It’s about time a ruckus was made over these blasted taxes.”
“It’s a start,” Valnor responded, and drew disapproving stares from anyone standing close enough to hear it, which forced him to clarify his meaning. “Not everybody drinks wine, so they won’t care much about a few cases coming in without taxes paid. They may even shrug it off as us stocking the lodge with alcohol strictly for our own benefit.”
“Everyone drinks tea though,” Valnor went on. “If we really want the masses to sit up and pay attention, then we should arrange a protest involving tea. Heaven forbid mid-day comes and people don’t have their piping hot beverage in hand.”
A few moments passed with everyone exchanging looks of surprise and frustration with one another. Here they were in the middle of a heist that could land them all in jail, and this newcomer was downplaying its importance.
Mr. Hancock was the first to allow his head to nod up and down in agreement before the others joined in. He extended a hand toward Valnor. “I like the way you think, sir. Welcome to the Freemasons.”
“I don’t think that name will do any more,” Thompson protested. “Freemasonry is a transplant from Europe and Britain. That is what we’re fighting against now, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” everyone agreed almost in unison.
“What should we call ourselves then? What name will the colonials want to cheer when they hear of our deed?” Thompson asked.
John Hancock stared at Valnor for a moment before his eyes looked past him to find his boat’s nameplate. His eyes lit up with pride an instant before he suggested, “How about the Liberty Men?”
Valnor looked around the group and found most nodding in agreement. It was a good name, but something was not quite right with it. That made him wince with regret before speaking his mind. “Liberty Men sounds like we are trying to force things on people. We need something that sounds like we are serving a cause, a cause greater than all of us.”
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