Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  Matt’s path took him along the Thames, by row homes and then to an area consisting almost entirely of pubs. Drunken patrons spilled out onto the street to block his path, but no one seemed to notice him as he threaded his way through the revelers. As he got closer to St. Paul’s, the columns of its western entrance grew in perspective and the dome that was so much of the profile of the church in the distance gradually disappeared. The white marble of the west façade reflected some of the moonlight and contributed to the glow of the plaza that preceded the entrance to the church.

  Matt could hear the faint sound of organ music coming from inside. He soon found himself on the edge of the courtyard, walked up the first level of stairs and then to the final landing and through its columns. Matt reached out to push himself off the enormous wooden door and begin his journey back home, but to his surprise, the thirty-foot-tall door pivoted away from his touch and opened, bathing him in the warm radiance of lantern light and organ music.

  Floorplan of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, England

  Matt chuckled at his thought that angels were inviting him inside and poked his head through the door. There were eight lanterns on stands burning along the length of the nave, and he could almost see to the center dome. Matt eased himself inside and pushed the door closed with the intention to sit in a pew and listen to the organ. Once inside, though, he saw no seats in the nave, so he continued walking towards the dome. His soft footsteps were hardly discernable above the organ, but then the music went silent midstride, and his last step echoed through the cathedral.

  “You’re not allowed in here,” a man called. The echo of his voice lingered deep in the corners of the building.

  “I’m sorry,” Matt replied. “I can go.”

  “What brings you here?” echoed the voice. The acoustics of the space made it impossible to pinpoint where the speaker stood. Matt smiled thinking of the possibility that he may be speaking directly to one of the angels he had imagined. Maybe it was God.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Matt replied.

  “You’re not from London,” the voice said.

  “America. Richmond, Virginia.”

  “Was it your intention to end up in God’s house this night?”

  Before Matt could answer, he heard shuffling, the sound of hinges, footsteps, and then he was face to face with a prematurely greying priest who had already reached out to shake. “I’m Father Vincent.”

  “Matt Miller.”

  “Why did the Lord guide you here?”

  Matt thought for a moment, willing to take the bait. “Because I must choose between two different paths.”

  The priest motioned for Matt to follow him under the dome. “I prefer the Word close by when seeking the Lord’s guidance,” he said with Matt trailing behind by two steps. “Our Bible is nothing less than breathtaking.” The priest thought for a moment and said, “Did you know ‘twas a man from this very church who planned William Tyndale’s arrest in Antwerp? We’re not very proud of the fact.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but you’re going to have to tell me who that is,” Matt said. “I didn’t grow up in the church,”

  “They executed William Tyndale a century ago after he translated the New Testament into English and smuggled copies into England. Church leaders were so furious that they burned his bibles in public. Tyndale said the book burners were evil and that they did it to keep the world still in darkness, and to exalt their own honor.”

  They were now standing in front of a Bible that was almost two feet tall. Matt watched as the Priest reached down to open the volume. It was a heavy book, so it took the priest’s full effort, and it made a thumping noise when he finally let it fall open. “I come here sometimes to read,” Vincent said. “The words seem to take on their full meaning when surrounded by God’s splendor.” He motioned around, and then he gazed up into the dome. Matt joined him to look up at the circular ceiling. It was a mixture of lantern yellow and the blue-white shadows of the moon. “Magnificent even in the dark,” the priest said.” “I often wonder if I am wrong to place so much emphasis on maintaining this splendor. How incumbent is it?”

  “These old churches are inspiring.”

  The older man strained to look up again. “If people feel awe, then the likelihood they should open their hearts to the Lord is greater. The Prophet needed only a little boat floating offshores, and he reached thousands.”

  “He was a capable orator from what I hear.”

  “So they say,” Vincent replied with a sly smile.

  “Would you rather preach from a small boat?”

  Father Vincent shook his head, resigned. “Probably not. I must trust that the Lord put me in the midst of all this grandeur for a reason.” He began paging through the bible. “Do you know the story of Abraham?” he asked.

  “Father of Israel,” Matt replied.

  “He repaired to a strange land to do the Lord’s bidding. He had much pain before he was rewarded.

  Matt gave a sincere laugh. “Sounds about right.”

  “What answers do you seek in this new place, Mr. Miller?”

  “I want to know how to save my wife’s life.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “Someone will kill her five years from now.”

  The priest scrutinized Matt’s face, maybe looking for insincerity, but then squinted his face into a concerned frown. “Is it God’s will that she be saved?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Vincent pointed to the Bible. “The answers are there, and on your knees.”

  “I’ve been both places. Nothing is resolute.”

  “Only the beginning of your path will be manifest. How you reach its end is up to you.”

  “How do I know if I’m even walking the right way?”

  “Honor, verity, and duty will nourish your soul. They are the very presence of God.”

  “Is it honorable to let someone you love die?”

  Matt stood there, scanning down the long stretch of the nave, waiting for an answer. When Father Vincent offered none, Matt turned back with an expectant stare, but the priest had slipped silently away. It was mildly unnerving to have him vanish, but consistent with Matt’s expectations. Now standing alone, Matt stepped to the Bible, lifted its cover with two hands and shut it with a loud thump. He stood there to listen to the silence of the cathedral, and then he meandered to the door still looking around and, eventually, let himself out.

  Matt made his decision. He’d offer to help Ferguson and see where the path led.

  Chapter 37

  7 Craven Street

  Sarah and Thomas walked silently across the Westminster Bridge. She occupied her mind by taking stock of how the morning dew gathered differently on the stone, wood, and iron of the bridge. Even something as simple as dew on a wooden railing became interesting when you needed to fill the space created by a morbidly quiet husband. They had a sleepless night after leaving the masquerade early to rush home to inspect the images on Sarah’s quantum phone.

  “How do you know he’s going to be there?” Thomas asked, breaking the silence.

  Hearing his voice brought an overwhelming sense of relief. “I don’t know,” Sarah replied. “Mother learned his habits from their correspondence. He spends the early morning writing. We should be able to catch him.”

  “And he knows of all this?” Thomas asked.

  “He knows that Patrick Ferguson is a time traveler.”

  “What concern will Ferguson be to Dr. Franklin?”

  “He’ll be interested in learning that he is the second name on the list,” Sarah replied. “Dr. Franklin is oft interested in such intrigue long before others.”

  “He has seen this phone before?”

  “Many times, Husband.”

  “And yet, this is my first?”

  Sarah grabbed his hand and stopped them on the bridge. This forced the man behind them on the walkway to come to an abrupt halt, so they nodded an apology and leaned against the rail to let him pass. Ev
en this early, vessels covered the Thames to float people and supplies from one side of the river to the other.

  “I hoped never to show anyone the phone again.”

  “Still.”

  “I will spend my life making it up to you,” she said. “But for now, we should concentrate on the immediate task.”

  He frowned and spoke in a scolding tone. “Durst do not act like this is some distraction on my part,” he said. “‘Tis exceedingly rare that a fellow learns his lady is from the future.”

  “And don’t dare expect me to have all the answers,” she replied. “I was sixteen years old when I was brought here against my will.” Sarah pulled him forward by his hand. “We can argue later.”

  Thomas skip-stepped to catch up to her side. “There was a time when I believed you were a witch,” he said. “Do you know that?”

  “That’s funny.” She smiled. “I’d make a good witch.”

  Thomas looked down at her shocked.

  “I’m only joking,” she cried. “Sometimes I forget when and where I am. I’m not a witch in any case.” She thought for a moment. “I trust you will not throw me in the water.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Something I read when I was a young girl.” She warmed to every sound of his voice, glad to have him back on her side.

  “Maybe my name was in this ledger for legitimate reasons,” Thomas said. “The traffic Trent proposed will grow Mifflin Enterprises beyond my greatest ambitions.”

  “Not every man on that list is a merchant,” Sarah replied.

  “Most are successful.”

  “Patrick has another plan. I can feel it,” she said. “Every name has something to do with the American Revolution. You included.”

  “Do not speak of such things!” Thomas scolded. Thomas scanned their surroundings to see if anyone was within earshot.”

  “No one can hear.”

  “Do not speak openly of treason!”

  “Fine,” Sarah moaned, knowing he was right. England in 1772 was not ready to accept many things and among these were casual references to witchcraft, American independence, or even vampires. Ever since she had seen her copy of Twilight in Patrick’s safe, she had been wondering if it would be safe for anyone to see her reading it.

  They were now stepping off the bridge onto the riverbank. The Westminster buildings filled the horizon to their left. Sarah looked down at the map that the hotel porter had drawn. She pointed toward the right at a staircase that led down to a cobblestone walkway that stretched along the Thames. Thomas let go of her hand as he guided her down to a sidewalk built along the riverbank.

  The morning sun glistened on the river, and the flow of the water from the recent rains was such that it smelled uncharacteristically fresh. In any other circumstance, Sarah would have taken a moment to appreciate an area that was as pretty as any river walk she had seen in her own time, but her instinct told her that time was short, so she yanked again at her husband’s hand. She practically pulled him up the Northumberland stairs, down Northumberland Avenue and then onto Craven street. Looking up at the street sign, she said, “It’s seven.”

  They walked until they were in front of Franklin’s row home. It was a four-story structure, sandwiched between two similar brick structures, with no space between. The three houses were built at different times, but there had been some attempt to match their colors and proportions, so they initially gave the impression that they were all in the same building. The ground floor was a plastered, off-white stone, and mostly matched across the three homes. Franklin’s house had a decorative cast iron fence at its front. They stepped to the painted red-brown door and stood there motionless, almost like neither wanted to fall deeper into intrigue. Eventually, Sarah reached up to the tarnished gargoyle knocker and let it fall twice.

  They waited there for a couple of minutes, but the dead silence convinced them that no one was home. Thomas retook the knocker and slapped it again three times. It was loud enough that they could hear it echo through the glass windows.

  “I’m coming,” said a man angrily from an upper story.

  They heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs, and there was the sound of a turning lock. A mildly handsome, disheveled, weary and half-dressed man, who was not Dr. Franklin, was standing there in the wide-open door, squinting at their silhouettes.

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Miller?” Sarah said, surprised.

  Chapter 38

  The Hangover

  Franklin used a quill to write down names as Sarah read them from her phone. He finished with a list of twenty-seven people and then leaned back in his chair.

  Thomas Jefferson

  Benjamin Franklin

  John Adams

  George Washington

  Thomas Paine

  Marquis De Lafayette

  John Paul Jones

  Nathan Hale

  Ethan Allen

  Thomas Hutchinson

  Alexander Hamilton

  James Madison

  Paul Revere

  Aaron Burr

  John Hancock

  Patrick Henry

  Thomas Mifflin

  James Monroe

  Hugh Mercer

  Nathaniel Greene

  Henry Knox

  Horatio Gates

  Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben

  Daniel Morgan

  John Sullivan

  Louis Duportail

  Matthew Miller

  “I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved,” Franklin said. “Mr. Jefferson seems to have nicked the first spot, and Matthew has made the last. I can only hope that Sir Ferguson intends to distribute bribes in proportional to our ranking.”

  “Unless it’s an assassination list,” Matt quipped.

  Franklin looked up over the tops of his glasses. “Let us consider sophisticated alternatives before assuming that Sir Ferguson is a habitual assassin.”

  Matt shrugged. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

  Sarah emphasized the phone she was holding and glanced at Matt. “There’s something different about your name,” she said. She handed him the phone.

  “The ink or quill wasn’t the same, almost like my name was added later,” Matt said. Would it be higher after my meeting with Ferguson last night or dropped from the list entirely?”

  “What did you talk to Patrick about?” Sarah asked.

  “He discussed the first and second lists,” Matt said, “but not the third.”

  “How will he use them?”

  “He’ll pay incentives on both sides of the Atlantic,” Matt explained, “and assume as much debt as he is able until British opinion turns favorably to American representation.”

  “He wants to delay the American Revolution?” Sarah asked. She looked, then, at her husband Thomas to double-check that he was still with them. He rolled his eyes.

  “Prevent it,” Matt replied. “There’s a strong sentiment in London that Americans mostly seek independence from their creditors and that the shouts of ‘no taxation without representation’ is a ruse.”

  “List Two?” Thomas asked.

  “British businessmen and bureaucrats,” Matt said. “It’s an insurance policy. He’s rich, but his funds aren’t unlimited. He mentioned some of these men.”

  “He’ll bribe them?”

  “Not outright as he sees it,” Matt replied. “He described it as making sure that their business interests are in line with American representation. It sounded like he wanted to build relationships.”

  “What’s in it for him?” Thomas asked. Sarah faced him and smiled. It had taken her husband very little time to adjust to this new state of affairs. His question was a confident one.

  “He grew up poor,” Matt replied. “His father was orphaned in the Second World War.”

  Thomas looked back at him questioningly.

  “It was a war that engulfed almost the whole globe starting in 1939,” Matt explained. “Almost
seventy million people died. London was reduced to ruins.” Matt saw the look of shock on Franklin’s face at the prospect.

  “And he’d want to avert this war?” Thomas asked.

  “His family lost everything,” Matt explained. “Ferguson said his father was a broken man.”

  “He wants to change his family’s place in history?” Franklin asked.

  “He wasn’t sure it would work,” Matt answered. “He wants to try.”

  “And if he changes the fate of his family in some unexpected way,” Franklin asked.

  “Does he disappear?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t know,” Matt said. “He thinks it’s worth the gamble for him to restore the Fergusons to their rightful place, and it’s hard to argue against keeping all those people from dying.

  “Ambitious men,” Franklin said quietly while still perusing the list. He raised his head. “It’s as consistent as the sun rising each day.”

  “He convinced me,” Matt said.

  “Why did the third list remain secret?” Franklin asked.

  “I could have another meeting,” Matt replied. “I’ll ask him if there are other plans.”

  “Too blatant,” Franklin answered.

  “I know many of these Americans,” Thomas said. “They’d not be so easily bought.”

  “Something can be learned from these men Ferguson has chosen as his representatives. The ones that are assigned.”

  “We could ask around,” Thomas said. “Maybe one or two would tell their story.”

  “I’m uncommon sure that Ferguson employs many men who’d report back on Americans walking around and asking questions.”

  “What about Sutton?” Matt asked. He’d been trying to keep David Sutton active in productive activities since they had arrived in London. Matt saw the blank look in Sarah’s eyes. “He’s a young man who sailed with me on the Norfolk,” Matt explained. “He lives down near the docks. Even if he were caught asking questions, he’d be tough to trace back to us.”

  “Do you trust him?” Thomas asked.

  Matt nodded. “I saved his arm from being amputated on the journey, and he’s counting on me to be his benefactor. Smart kid, but a little rough around the edges.”