Midnight Liberty League - Part I

by Brock Law

“Hello friend, how was your…where am I? Well that certainly is a question. I’ve been wondering the answer to that myself lately…Martha…oh did she? It’s nothing really. Just making a few inquiries…No that’s not…you don’t have to…well I didn’t want to disturb your vacation…we can take care of it…yes I know, but…and Dolley? Dangerous? Certainly not. Why don’t you…Really darling I’m fine, I can take of myself…oh you can take care of myself? Seriously, it’s not…we may not be very long…If you must, but please reconsider in the morning…goodbye love.”

  Madison asked with trepidation, “Was that them?”

  “James,” Adams announced, “our plot has been discovered.”

  Hancock returned with a stack of boarding information and indicated to the charter concourse’s security entrance. The crew scooped up their bags and trudged off. Franklin and Washington flanked their young comrade who lingered at the back. Though responsive, Will remained distant to the rest. He quietly contemplated the magnitude of the moment that had arrived. Acceptance of the first rip in spiritual space was strenuous enough, but his historical comprehension and the probable mortal consequences of this next ordeal offered little optimism.

  “So, what are they like…the knights?” Will asked.

  “Shrewd,” Franklin replied.

  “Honorable,” Washington added.

  Will pressed, “Have they changed much since the twelfth century?”

  “They’re not crusaders any more, Will, they’re bankers. Tough ones, but bankers. You may find that you have more in common with them than you think,” Washington encouraged.

  “Still live in castles though,” Franklin added, “and keep a private army, and can be a bit obstinate.”

  “And, not surprisingly, are rather good at polo,” said Washington.

  “Deadly with any reachable object,” Franklin forewarned.

  “Perhaps possessed of mild disdain for skeptics,” Washington admitted.

  “They certainly don’t tolerate cynicism,” Franklin qualified.

  “And they do not mistake sarcasm for humor,” Washington noted.

  “And speak every European language fluently,” Franklin continued.

  “Including the ones that don’t exist anymore,” said Washington.

  “And may be the wealthiest land owners on the continent through invasive speculation,” Franklin impressed again.

  “Other than that, decent and rational,” Washington said.

  “Accept their hospitality, but don’t let them do you any favors,” Franklin advised.

  “Or lend you money,” Washington said.

  “They sound friendly,” Will replied. “Can’t wait to meet them.”

  “Not meant to scare you. Observing some practical traditions might be a benefit though,” Washington suggested.

  “Just pretend everything is a negotiation. Keep your true interests private,” Franklin recommended.

  “Easy for the French Ambassador to say,” Will prodded.

  “So was John, but he still isn’t very good at it,” Franklin responded.

  Adams joined the conversation, “Sorry I couldn’t bring myself to wear a raccoon on my head.”

  “You didn’t fare any better in Britain,” Franklin reminded.

  “They wanted to kill me,” Adams stressed, “before, during and after the revolution.”

  “You wouldn’t bribe anybody,” Franklin said with a cheeky grin.

  “Of course not,” Adams exclaimed.

  “That’s standard operating procedure in Europe,” Franklin further provoked.

  “No wonder everyone likes you better. Take note, William, that’s not how you run a republic,” Adams asserted.

  As she passed through the metal detector, Martha shook her head at them and said, “Maybe I will have a drink.”

  Washington smiled and rubbed his wife’s shoulders as they came out on the other side of the check point. The rest lumbered through security one at a time. Once seeing the posse cleared and reconvened, Hancock led them towards the gate.

  The train ambled down the sunlight-flooded hall, as planes rolled around the bay windows. Will walked along with Adams, trying to skirt the mounds of cluttered luggage and aimless dawdling of other travelers. Hancock did his best to hurry them along, but unfortunately their destination was the very tip of the terminal.

  Hancock hustled up to the concierge at the desk who greeted him politely. Outside, his company’s corporate jet glistened. Will got jittery upon seeing the aircraft. The rumble of engines permeated the interior of the airport. The accompanying grind of flexing metal and screeching tires on the tarmac irked him with each abrupt disturbance.

  Once verifying everyone’s documents and boarding information, the concierge escorted them down the ramp and to the threshold of the plane. Immediately, the pilot emerged to shake hands with Hancock, who was acquainted with him. The captain took one of his boss’ bags and led him into the jet.

  The cabin was long and luxurious. Partitioned nooks of plush swiveling recliners stretched from front to back in paired seclusion. Each cozy compartment had a fully equipped technology station adjoining the seats, as well as pillows and blankets folded under a centered console. In the middle of the craft was an ample kitchenette and bar, at which Hamilton quickly took up roost.

  Shuffling through the interior with his bags, Will made his way to the first open seat. With pleasant surprise he settled into the chair, which was more forgiving than his bed at home. Behind him he could hear Hamilton pop a cork. Upon turning, he was promptly offered a glass of bubbly brut.

  Jefferson neatly declined into the chair across the aisle from Will. He studied Will’s pensive silence. The immortal then flipped open his satchel and began rummaging inside. A moment later he retrieved an antique book. He twisted around until he was satisfied with his posture, buckled his seat belt and cradled the book in his lap. Seeming content he glanced out the window, noted the condition of the sky and then returned his attention to the company.

  Jefferson spoke inquisitively, “What do you like to read, William?”

  “Textbooks, mostly,” Will replied.

  “Ahh, riveting I’m sure,” Jefferson said. “Try this, instead.”

  Jefferson reached into his bag again and pulled out a roughly-bound leather tome with browned pages and a musky odor. He handed it over to Will. The young man received it with soft care as it looked like it might disintegrate in his hands.

  Will read the title aloud, “The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.”

  “Something upon which the Emperor reflected throughout his life,” Jefferson explained. “It’s all of the philosophies he discovered and practiced to define his leadership and enhance his character. I read it when I was about your age and it had a lasting effect. You may find it comforting.”

  Hamilton peered over Jefferson’s head rest as he poured himself a flute of champagne, “What’s that, a first edition?”

  “Hah, no,” Jefferson scoffed, “my collection isn’t quite that impressive.”

  Hamilton likewise handed Jefferson a glass, “You know, Tom, you really should get an electronic reader. You’ll be much more efficient.”

  “Call me old fashioned,” Jefferson responded and accepted the drink.

  Hamilton chuckled, “That volume belongs in a museum. You handle it like a catcher’s mitt.”

  “And yet it has survived all these years,” Jefferson combated. “How long before that thing you read becomes obsolete?”

  “It upgrades,” Hamilton replied.

  “I believe that a book’s good character is tangibly represented by its mold and mildew. It is the mark of something that is meant to endure,” Jefferson quipped.

  “I can’t say the same for myself. It smells like death,” Hamilton mocked.

  Finished, Hamilton punched Jefferson’s shoulder, which gave the Virginian a start and a harried expression. Hamilton saluted both men and took a sip. He then sauntered down the cabin and took the seat beside Hancock, who w
as busied with the Wall Street Journal.

  Jefferson recovered and addressed Will again, “Peruse it at your leisure. I should like to discuss it with you.”

  “Only if I may join you,” Adams interjected.

  “I would like nothing better,” Jefferson replied and indicated to the opposite seat.

  Adams bowed slightly and slid in across from him, “Thank you, Thomas.”

  Vivienne emerged from behind Jefferson with a bulging suitcase in tow. Will spied her peeking around the corner, seemingly looking for someone. Once she saw him, she whisked back the hair that had fallen over her face and stopped.

  “Is anyone sitting here?” She asked.

  Will shook his head and helped her toss the luggage under the seat facing his. Vivienne’s eyes flared as she squeezed his arm to lower herself into the cushions. She snuggled in and distracted herself with the view of the hectic runway.

  Jefferson shot her a curious look. He then transferred it to Will, who casually deflected the examination. Noticing a magazine in Vivie’s hands, Jefferson leaned over.

  “And what is Miss Franklin enriching herself with today?” Jefferson pried.

  She flashed a newly minted issue of Vogue at him.

  “Hmm, enlightening,” Jefferson said dryly.

  “On matters of style, swim with the current,” Vivienne played.

  Adams snickered at his intrusive cabin mate.

  “Very good, carry on,” Jefferson acknowledged bemusedly and went back to watching the planes outside.

  The communicative look with which she responded to Jefferson remained etched in her brow until she curved back to her flying partner. She indulged in a few interested glimmers of attention