“That’s easy. Cute animals on YouTube.”
Instantly, the TV was turned on, YouTube brought up, and the three of them laughed and “Aww’d” all over the place, having a high old, stress-free time.
* *
On the wealthier side of town, Wandering Wynnie was definitely not having a fun, stress-free time. After she had had a long session with their father’s lawyer, Peter Novak, she needed to tell her sister Cathy how the meeting had not gone at all as planned.
“That Novak is such a crook,” she grumbled as she parked her car near The Tin Roof, their favorite restaurant, to meet up with her sister, Cathy.
She knew she would have to carefully explain everything to her sister. After all, Cathy wasn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp. But still, the girl deserved to know what had been laid out––or rather, not laid out––with all their father’s stock holdings. And Mr. Novak, Esq.’s large part in it all.
She started to head for the door then stopped. Gooseflesh rippled up and down her arms. Was there a sudden breeze? She whipped around to stare at the still trees, then shook her head.
I must be going crazy.
Standing in front of The Tin Roof’s front door, Wynnie flipped around again, gazing into the darkness. Nothing. No movement. Yet…
She drew herself up, shook her head, and entered, letting the restaurant’s front door bang close behind her.
With Wynnie no longer in sight, the person hiding behind the parked van drew a deep breath, stepped out in the dark, open air, and walked away––with a smile the Cheshire cat would envy.
CHAPTER SIX
Most times when Abby “went back,” her process felt familiar, comforting even. It was her way of honoring her beloved dead mother. More than that, it brought up fond childhood memories of sitting next to her great-uncle in his Packard. But there were also times when dipping back into the past proved difficult. And definitely uncomfortable. Yet after she’d developed this remarkable ability, she learned not to question how it all worked. She simply gave in to the fact that not all time periods were equal. Far from it. Besides, she concluded, trying to analyze every little detail would be pointless. So instead, Que Sera, Sera, her mother’s favorite song, sung by Doris Day, became her mantra. That phrase gave her the freedom to explore life––both present and past–– with a perfect live-in-the-moment outlook.
Shivering in her garage’s chilled autumn air, she climbed onto the front seat of the Packard, positioned her small childhood tray onto her lap, and reached under the front seat for her mother’s Tarot cards, hidden in the little drawer’s glove box.
Soon, she could feel herself drifting off into that special state. As a teenager she was sure she would never experience it. The supernatural connection, as an adult, came to her solely inside the Packard and no other place. Go figure.
Taking out four Major Arcana cards from the deck, she carefully placed them, with their Art Deco designs and crumbling edges, in front of her in a cross pattern. The Fool card was at the very top, in an upright position, representing opportunity and adventure. Off to the left and down a smidge was the Magician, standing in for skill and action. To the right, and directly across from the Magician, lay the Chariot, signaling control. The bottom card, in direct line with the Fool, was the Hermit, for introspection.
“That’s a start.” She studied the cards before her. Stroking each picture lightly, her eyes slowly rolled closed. “Fit me into 1700s’ Boston,” she said in an alto-timbered voice. “Put me where I can find out something for Brooke. Send me back…send me…”
Now she was falling, falling into a dark place, where the air suddenly seemed warm and heavy, no longer cold and thin. Where gentle crackles and hisses swirled all around her, and her body floated up above the real Abby sitting in the car’s front seat––like an astral projection. She watched the normal Abby below her, not doing anything special, just rocking back and forth gently, as if praying. Then, without warning, her spiritual body drifted away to a place where she was suddenly jerked this way and that then catapulted toward pitch-blackness, with only a hint of flashing colored lights in the distance.
The forces propelling her grew stronger and stronger, until just as abruptly, she was let go, and with one explosive whoosh sound, she landed on her feet somewhere––hard.
Through the cigar-smoky haze, Abby found herself standing in an old, eighteenth century establishment. According to a placard over the fireplace, it was named the Green Dragon Tavern. That instantly sparked a fact tidbit she had learned from her college days. I’m in Boston, and this is the Headquarters of the American Revolution!
More facts cascaded through her mind now, about how the very room she was in had served as a meeting place for Masons and general customers. But below her was another room. The important basement one. Wow. Is Samuel Adams leading a meeting right now?
She continued to scope things out. Dark olive green surrounded her––on the walls behind paintings and on the moldings bordering each doorway. Also around her were plenty of square, wooden tables, dimly lit by tall, thin candles, secured in their clunky holders. And as the loud, boisterous men, dressed in buckskin breeches, vests, and flowing shirts, lifted up their pewter mugs to blast out raucous jokes and drunken statements, her ear drums felt as if they would surely burst in a matter of seconds.
No snuffboxes or powdered wigs for this unruly crowd of undoubtedly hard-working, musket-touting Bostonians. Several of the customers flitted here and there with an exhausted-looking tavern wench, who rushed about, trying to serve demanding men guzzling as many drinks as they could get down their gullets. With her cotton head cap slightly off kilter, her hair tendrils framing her face and wet from sweat, she made Abby think about how far women had come. Or had they? She flashed on a college friend waiting on tables, who, except for the colonialist outfit, had shown the exact same exhaustion.
“Robbie!” a pot-bellied man in a sleeveless leather jacket cried, his voice gruff, his appearance even gruffer. “Where in the world have you been? I have spent half the morning waiting on you, lad. You do understand that owing to the seriousness of the meeting about to happen here, I shall need you all the more. Go now, put on an apron and give a hand to poor Brendan over there.”
Robbie? He was speaking to me? She looked down at her breeches, her long shirt, cinched around her waist by a thin belt, and her own vest. Yes, in the 1700s, a man would definitely fit in more places than a woman would. But how old was she––he? She glanced over toward the so-named young man, Brendan, snatching plates off of tables. He did not look happy.
Abby scoured around for an apron, then noticed a couple of them on hooks next to a long wooden bar. She grabbed one, hastily tied it around her waist, and made her way over to this Brendan guy, the one with a pissed-off expression splattered all over his face.
She took no more than two steps before someone grabbed her arm. “Hey, young laddie! When is my squash pie coming? I’m starving!”
So, I'm young as well. She extracted herself from him. “I shall check on it straight away, sir.”
“You do that,” he muttered, and after slugging down several more gulps from his large pewter mug, fell backward onto the floor.
Continuing on to Brendan, she noticed nobody helped the man groaning on the ground. Instead, one man casually stepped over him on his way to the bar. Apparently, with such a high intake of whiskey and ale, no one was in the mood to care. Is this just a daily occurrence? She hurried over to a snarling Brendan.
“Finally, you are here,” he snapped. “Time to get off your high arse and help me like you should have done earlier.”
I think I made a new friend.
Even without ever having been a waitress, just watching him work for five minutes, Abby figured out what not to do. The word sloppy definitely sifted through her mind. And with the male outbursts reaching epic proportions, she thought of stuffing earplugs into her ears. Then it hit her. Wrong century. Maybe a tea bag would work?
&nbs
p; Miraculously, cowbell clangs and a deep, booming voice cut through the din. All eyes gravitated toward the burly, wavy-haired man up at the front. His long-sleeved linen shirt and breeches stopped short at the knees, to join with long woolen socks and a pair of simple, buckle-topped shoes.
His padded jacket looked warm and comfortable. He placed his three-cornered hat down on a nearby table, next to his large mug.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Alas, this shall be a short yet potent meeting today. No time to gather down below. Our British officers, recently quartered here and hindering all good talk, are thankfully away for the day. But I fear they may return by nightfall, so time is of the essence.”
Several angry mumblings ricocheted across the room.
“My curse on them!” someone called out.
“Tar ‘n feather ‘em, I say!” declared another.
“Here, here!” blasted numerous more.
“The Sons of Liberty have a far better outcome planned,” the man said. “Hear me out. Believe me, we shall give those British devils their due.”
Abby noticed that everyone in the place was leaning forward, their collective drinks clutched tightly.
“If all goes well,” the speaker continued, “it shall be the greatest revenge against the pig-headed British Parliament and their horrendous Tea Act. As you are all well aware, the Sons of Liberty have worked hard to block the ships filled with the East India Tea Company crates from unloading their precious cargo. These past nineteen days we have repeatedly asked our Governor Hutchison permission to continue to refuse the tea on our shores, but to no avail. Indeed, tomorrow will be a meeting at the Old South Church to find out what America’s future shall be.”
He surveyed all the nodding heads before continuing. “So steady on, men, wait for our signal. Then, when the lanterns in our safe taverns are lit, we shall all rendezvous at the Boston harbor at the seven o’clock hour.”
The silence was deafening.
“Like all good patriots, go down there at our bidding, and you will see the grandest show imaginable.”
Erupting cheers almost caused Abby to drop her tray.
“Watch yourself, lad,” a man she knocked into cried out. Although his red face didn’t look too angry, she politely excused herself.
“Tis my fault, good sir. I trust you can forgive me. Owing to the exceptionally large group here for the meeting, I fear ‘tis somewhat more difficult to serve properly.”
Yikes! Where did that language come from?
Judging from the man’s casual nod, obviously nothing out of the ordinary had just been said.
Meanwhile, a wooden, mantelpiece clock rang five times, and to a one, each customer swilled down his last drink, stood up, and left en masse.
Now what?
Brendan let loose a sharp command. “After you clean up properly, go to your room before the British officers return. You don’t want to say anything in front of them, like you did a fortnight past.”
Abby gulped. Needless to say, going to her room might be a problem, since she hadn’t a clue where it was located.
A gentle hand patted her shoulder. “Never mind that, Robbie. I shall be finished with my own chores in a quarter hour. As soon as you finish cleaning, let us go back to our room together.”
She gazed up into the clear blue eyes of a handsome young lad, with light, sandy-brown hair. His friendly smile calmed her nerves. Still, as soon as they walked down a long hall away from the tavern’s front room, he did let loose a couple of complaints against Brendan, who “presumes to be far above his status.”
Ah… politics. Some things never change…
As soon as her guide opened up a door and entered, she followed him. There, in the tiny, cramped room, she noticed two narrow beds, with no sheets, just thin blankets, and a small table on spindly legs, placed between them. Hooks on the wall were covered by the barest of clothing: two jackets, shirts, breeches, and little else. At the foot of one of the beds was a very narrow chest, with the painted name, SIMON LEIGHTON.
A-hah. So, I’m sharing a space with Simon.
Soon, Simon flopped down on his bed and stretched out. “Quite a week it has been, has it not?”
Abby just nodded. This was not the time to blurt out something and raise suspicions.
Luckily, Simon was a talker––big time. He proceeded to warn her how in these dark days, she shouldn’t get too close to certain people. Besides Brendan, Simon’s list included a footman, the tavern’s cook, and the new barmaid.
“I have been wanting to tell you this before tonight, Robbie,” he said, “but now, seeing as we’re about to embark on a new voyage at the Boston Harbor, more than ever, I feel it is my duty to urge you to take caution.”
Abby nodded and turned on her side to face him. “Do you know what we are about to witness there?”
“Tis true I have been privy to a couple of the meetings in the basement, all of which I am not at liberty to tell anyone––yet. Still, Robbie, whatever happens, stay by my side. I shall guide you, as I’ve always done.”
Okay. I’ll play along. “Thank you, Simon, you truly have.”
On December sixteenth, 1773, the bleak, frigid climate did not bode well for the colonists. Even inside the tavern on the main floor, the atmosphere held an odd cast to it. While Abby went about the business of serving, she soon became aware that the customers seemed curiously subdued, a complete reversal from the day before. Then it hit her. The British soldiers had been absent then. Not so now. As four redcoats made merry at a table, drinking heavily, slapping each other on their backs, and telling rowdy jokes in a variety of Cockney and more refined speech, she caught some dirty looks coming from the colonists, but no outbursts, nor a hint of chatter, unlike the night before.
Not even a peep, when one of the officers raised his mug and with an alcohol-tinged voice roared, “Here’s to King George!” His white wig slightly askew, his brown eyes glazed, he cut quite a pathetic figure, but his fellow officers seemed nothing less than enthralled.
“Here, here!” they all cried, as the rest of the room remained stoically quiet.
Does this have to do with the goings on tonight?
Abby gathered up empty plates and moved toward the kitchen. On the way there, she encountered a busy Simon, pouring soup into a large, porcelain tureen.
“Meet me at the back door at six o’clock. Tonight, we are going to a meeting.” He gave her the tiniest of winks.
At the appointed hour, the winds had picked up, producing such a bone-chilling cold, all Abby could think of was lying on her comfy sofa under her mother’s heirloom quilt, with a good book in hand. A small pot of tea would be nearby, of course, and a roaring fire crackling and popping directly across from her.
All of a sudden, she flashed on Brooke and her ongoing distrust. Need to find something useful tonight, or else…
Following Simon out the back door, Abby was relieved to hear where they were headed: the Old South Church. As they hurried through Boston’s cobblestone streets, lined with brick and wooden buildings and shutters painted in subdued colors, she saw several lanterns inside taverns, flickering softly. Simon insisted they stay close to buildings as much as possible, to dodge the ever-present redcoats out on patrol. At one point, they almost knocked into a lone British soldier, weaving through the streets, but luckily, he was too drunk to react to much of anything.
When they arrived at the church, it was packed to the rafters. Streaming in from both the front and back doors were all manner of men with tri-cornered hats, coats, breeches, and scuffling boots, all so boisterous and riled up Abby had to cover her ears with her hands. Lit candles in holders graced the walls, lending an almost mystical glow, but no one else but her seemed to be aware of this. All eyes were riveted on a single man who strode down the aisle then stood behind the preacher’s pulpit.
“Look, there he is. Samuel Adams,” Simon said excitedly. He pointed to a nicely dressed man off to one side. “And that’s Joseph Warren. By day, he�
�s a well-respected doctor, by night, a lead member of the Sons of Liberty.”
As soon as Adams raised his hands, the noise dwindled down to subdued mutterings.
“Gentlemen…” He stared at a couple of women in the middle pews. “And ladies. I have come here tonight to give you a strong message. After imploring Governor Hutchinson to let us thwart the unloading of three ships filled with the British India Tea Company crates of tea, and his incessant refusal to do so, I have only one thing to say.”
The tension throughout was palpable.
Adams drew a long, deep breath and placed his hands on both sides of the podium. “I do not see what else Bostonians can do to save their country. To Boston Harbor, it is!”
The men all jumped up to their feet, their cheers mixing in with their hats tossed up in the air. Row after row of people streamed out the doors, shouting, “No more taxes without representation! No more taxes without representation!”
And they were off, a sea of people charging through the Boston streets, holding torches and chanting, “No more! No more!”
All of a sudden, Simon pulled Abby aside, and from a large satchel, he withdrew some items and started putting them on. Coal, which he rubbed over his face, a long, narrow cloth with a feather sewn into it tied across his brow, and a heavy fringed shirt he placed over his light jacket. After he handed over similar items to Abby and rubbed some coal onto her face, he pulled out a small tomahawk.
What the––? We’re pretending to be Native Americans?
Pulled along by Simon, she thought of the phrase, “pass the buck.” Was this a ruse to make England blame it all on the Indians?
Down at the harbor, it was sheer pandemonium. A huge living, breathing crowd had already gathered, shifting and thrusting every which way as they cheered, slapped each other on the back, and watched the Sons of Liberty’s hired men climb into small boats and row toward the three infamous ships.
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