by Smith, Skye
"It is a bit of self-government that the English King and his Prime Minister begrudge us here in New England. They have no choice since there are no letters delivered between here and England during the winter. In the winter we are on our own. The king could die today, and we would not know that until April."
"You sound like you belong to the Caucus Club," Britta giggled, but stopped her tease when she saw his frown.
He put a finger over his lips. "These are not safe times for members of the club, my dear. Not since those smugglers from Rhode Island became pirates again."
"You mean the Gaspee?" she asked.
"What does a chit of a girl like you know about the Gaspee?"
The answer spilled out before she could stop it, "My brother was there. Do you want to hear the true story?" The Indian Tea made her speak without caution. She put her hand over her mouth, for she realized that she had just put her brother in danger. "That is a secret. You must tell no one. Please. Never. No one."
"You can seal my lips with a kiss," he said with a wide smile.
Britta suddenly felt sad. He was being so nice, and now he was just like all the rest. She leaned over to kiss his lips, and expected his hands to explore her breasts while she did so. Instead he turned his head and accepted the kiss on his cheek. She froze in place, almost wanting him to touch her breasts now that she was expecting it.
"I cannot allow your lips to touch mine, Britta," he said softly, "else I never again would be satisfied with my wife's kisses."
Britta pulled back and took a good look at the man. He did not look like he had a wife. His clothes would have been expensive a long time ago, and they needed cleaning and mending. She made a quick decision. She turned her head and called, "Jon, come here and meet Sam. He wants to hear your story."
Jon brought a chair, and a cup of the hemp tea, over to the table, and began to speak softly. Britta said nothing. Sam punctuated the story with words such as, "what were they thinking?" and "the fools!" and ended with "that blasted John Brown! He has endangered the lot of us." Jon stopped his story, for Sam's words had reminded him of the danger he himself was in.
Sam leaned closer to Jon. "Would you mind telling your Gaspee story to some of my friends?"
"I'd rather not," said Jon warily. "Each person that hears it could mark me to the naval agents. We already had to leave Providence because of it. No, I don't think so."
"You could disguise yourself. Wear a mask and a hood. They need not know your identity."
"But," asked Jon, "why should I risk it? You know the story. You tell it. I assume that your friends also belong to the Caucus Club."
"Well yes, the Caucus, but I meant just the members of the central committee of the club. They are all trustworthy. They will want to ask questions. Questions that I can't answer. This is important, Jon. The Brown family is the richest and most powerful family in Providence, but they have become a danger to the Caucus movement. They are bad people. They are smugglers and privateers. They sell to anyone. They don't just run molasses and rum and Dutch spices, they run slaves and opium and weapons. They even make weapons."
"And they will kill me if I am ever named as a witness," hissed Jon. "If they have questions, bring the questions to me and I will answer them, but to you and to no one else."
Britta got up and put more water in the tea pot and then heated their cups with more tea. She said to Sam, "I like what you wrote, but I haven't gotten very far. It would be easier if you read it to me."
Sam picked up the first page and looked all around to make sure that no one but them could possibly be listening. He cleared his throat and spoke just above a whisper.
"Among the natural rights of the Colonists are these: First, a right to life; Secondly, to freedom; Thirdly, to the pursuit of happiness; together with the right to support and defend them in the best manner they can. These are evident branches of, rather than deductions from, the duty of self-preservation, commonly called the first law of nature." He looked at the teens and asked, "What do you think so far?"
Jon said, "Well, I like the first sentence, but that second one is confusing."
"What I am trying to say is that the three rights cannot be denied because they are basic to all that is natural. What do you think, Britta?"
" 'Colonists' is not right," she said, "the Red Indians are not colonists. Is there another word you can use that would include them?"
"Well, I suppose there is, but the purpose of this whole essay is to list the rights of colonists."
"But won't the natives have the same rights?"
"Hmmm," said Sam, "I hear what you are saying, and you are right, but my, my, my. That would change everything. We are sending the essay out to wealthy men. Many of them have claimed or want to claim native land. No, I must leave it as colonists."
"We, l anyway," said Britta, "I really like the freedom part. That means getting rid of slavery and bondage."
"Oh, dear," Sam said and scratched the word 'freedom' out.
"What are you doing?" said Britta. "That was the best word."
"I think so too, but most of the wealthy men who will be reading this own slaves and indenture bonds. I fear that they will not read any further than that word." He wrote "liberty" above the scratch-out. "There, that is better. Not so wide a meaning, but almost the same."
"Does that mean that slaves won't be freed?" asked Britta.
"It will keep my audience from thinking of slave rights."
"But then the other good part, the pursuit of happiness, doesn't make sense," complained Britta. "Slaves have to pursue what their masters tell them to pursue."
Sam scratched that out too, and then sipped more hemp tea while he thought. "I hate doing this, but I'm considering the wealthy audience." He wrote in "property" and sighed.
"Slaves can't own property," complained Britta.
"I know, but the men that will read this own a lot of property. This will speak to them. Reassure them in their wealth. We need them to donate some of their wealth to pay our costs." He read it aloud to them again now with liberty and property. "What we have left is just life, liberty, and property. Yes, that is much better. Thank you, Britta."
"I liked the original better," Britta sighed.
"As did I," said Sam, "but it can't be helped. The purpose of the essay is to gain us the support of wealthy men. So, where were we? Ah yes." He cleared his throat. "All people have a right to ..."
"People," Britta interrupted him, "I like that better than colonist. It includes everyone, natives, men, women, children, slaves. Why not change the first sentence to people?"
"Oh dear, you are so right." But instead of crossing out the word colonist he crossed out the word 'people' and wrote in the word 'men'.
"Men," Britta said, "you can't use 'men'. That is worse than using 'colonist' because it leaves out women. That is half of all people."
"Ah," said Sam, "but it includes slaves and natives without saying so. Besides, women and children are protected by their fathers and husbands. I think the word 'men' is for the best."
"I have no husband, I have no father," Britta pouted. "Have I no rights?"
Jon laughed. "Britta, you keep refusing offers of marriage. Sam has a point."
"They only offer marriage in hopes they can bed me. Notice that when I refuse the bed until after we wed, they quickly change their minds."
"Oh dear," said Sam, skimming ahead on the page and scratching and writing. "I will have to change all these sentences to say 'men'. Oh look, I have to change all those words 'freedom' to 'liberty'."
Sam began to read again, but Britta decided not to interrupt him anymore. Each time she had done so, he seemed to scratch out and change words so as to exclude women, and natives, and slaves, and the indentured.
"Well, what do you think? Did you find nothing more wrong with it?" asked Sam.
"Of course I did, to me, a mere woman, but I was pretending to be a wealthy male slave owner, and could find no real fault."
"B
ritta, what can I say. I have told you that my audience is ..."
"I know, I know. Rich men," she said. "Don't change anything. Even the crazy things you say about religious tolerance. I have lived around Puritans long enough to know how intolerant they are."
"What do you mean? I am asking for tolerance."
"Yes, tolerance for other Puritans. You say that there will be none for Catholics, and you don't even mention Jews or Mussulmen or Goddess worship."
Sam reread what he said about religion while Britta went and got them more tea. She felt quite giddy when she stood up, but pleasantly so. She could not stop smiling. As she poured, she watched Sam's face. He was all smiles too.
He looked up at her and asked, "What do you know of these religions, lass?"
"Well, only that Catholics, Jews, and Mussulmen all pray to one god and it is the same god that you pray to. The biggest difference is the bible they use. I always thought religion was about gods and goddesses, not books. Books are written by people."
"You speak as if there are more than one god."
"I have been to Ely Abbey in England," Britta said proudly. "It is filled with statues of gods and goddesses. Are you a Puritan?"
"I am a Puritan, yes. Those statues were of papist saints, child, and many of us think they are heresy," he said softly.
"It has always seemed strange to me that Puritans don't believe in saints, and yet they believe in demons. Some people's demons, and angels, and saints are other people's goddesses."
"I think we must stop this talk," said Sam reaching across the table and putting his hand on top of Britta's. "You are skirting blasphemy and heresy. Thank you for your help with my essay. It has a better focus now."
Britta knew better than to talk religion with Puritans. Their minds were closed to anything beyond their own interpretation of the bible. It must be the tea, but she wanted to defend her belief in Freyja, the fertility moon goddess. She was glad that he had stopped her before she had said too much.
She watched Sam start to pack up his papers, and blurted out, "What about the babies of a slave woman? Is it right that a baby be born a slave? Is there no where you can mention that in your essay?" She gave him a warm smile. "If you can think of some words, I will make you some of my chocolate drink to keep you warm when you go out into the snow."
While Britta made the chocolate, she kept looking towards Sam. He was bent over scribbling on a fresh piece of paper. When she arrived with the cup of steaming chocolate, he stopped writing. She looked anxiously at him until he took a sip.
He smiled at her. "Delicious. Mmm. I love that chili pepper heat at the end of the sip. It cuts the thickness of the chocolate and makes your mouth ready for the next sip."
Britta gave him a very pleased look. She enjoyed watching people as they drank her chocolate for the first time. She always felt like she should give it away because it made people feel so good. For that matter the special Indian tea that they had been drinking was also making them feel good. "What did you write?"
"Well, I feel a fool for writing it, because it undoes all of the corrections I just made to focus the essay towards wealthy men. I probably won't include it, but here it is." He cleared his throat and said, "The right to freedom being the gift of God Almighty, it is not in the power of man to alienate this gift and voluntarily become a slave."
Britta was silent. He looked at her and patiently waited for her to collect her thoughts and be critical. He watched as a tear swelled out of her left eye and crept down her cheek. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on both of his eyes.
"It is wonderful," she sniffed, then sighed and said, "but you will never include it."
"I may," he said, taken aback by the sensuousness of the kisses. He started to pack his papers again, but then stopped and asked "This used to be a tavern, didn't it? What is through the door behind the ladies' retirement room?"
"That opens to the half of the tavern that we don't rent," Britta answered. "The landlord uses it as a storeroom. The door is not locked if you want to look."
Sam disappeared for a few moments and then returned. "Do you rent out that room for meetings?" He looked at the blank look on the teen's face. "Well, it already has tables and chairs and it is a space big enough for twenty or even thirty to meet. If I rent it for a meeting, will you be able to supply coffee for that many?"
"It will use up all of our cups," replied Britta, "but if you give us a day's warning, we can buy more cups. Go next door and ask the landlord what he would charge you. Just so you know, he likes to bargain."
"I will talk to him when I leave. Meanwhile, I must finish this chocolate. It tastes so good that I must force myself to drink it in tiny sips, rather than gulp it all down."
Britta leaned forward and tried to steal a sip of his chocolate. He covered it with his hands and growled like a wolf at her.
"I'm sorry," said Britta abashed, "it is the Indian tea. It makes you hungry and thirsty."
"Ha," said Jon who was stoking the fire, "if that was Lydia's special recipe, it makes you more than that. It make you lust..."
"Shhhh," giggled Britta, "don't be crude." The giggling felt good and she did more of it, and then Jon started to giggle. Sam had to look away. When Britta giggled, her young breasts jiggled and he did not want to stare. No, that was not true. He wanted more than anything to stare, but he didn't want to be seen to be staring. He looked back just in time to see Britta sipping at his chocolate. She pulled away quickly and smiled at him. Her look sent him into peels of laughter. She had a brown mustache.
Britta and Jon switched from giggles to laughter with him, and it became infectious, until it hurt to laugh so much.
Sam had to look away again, for Britta was almost bouncing out of her bodice. He closed his eyes and tried to control himself. Goodness, he had a daughter her age. He had a wife at home, a good Puritan wife who did whatever he desired as part of her wifely duty. The thought made him laugh all the more, until he couldn't catch his breath.
The fit of laughter ended in dribs and drabs and finally silence, as they so often do, and then with the clarity of the moment of silence, Jon asked, "If you rent the back for a meeting, will that be for the Caucus? I mean, we have served at Caucus meetings before in Providence, and it was not pleasant. Just a lot of young lawyers pandering to old rich men."
"It would not be like that," replied Sam, "it would not be the wider club, but only the central committee. The French would call it the politbureau. We used to meet at the Freemason's Arms over in the North End, but we have recently decided to distance ourselves from the Freemasons. Our agenda and theirs have now parted due to our different reactions to the Gaspee incident."
"I don't understand," said Jon. "The Gaspee was a crime. It didn't start as a crime, but that is how it ended. I thought the Freemasons was a club for judges, and the military leaders, and others who are above the law."
"Perhaps in England, lad," replied Sam, "but not here or in Rhode Island. Here they are clubs associated with Scottish freemasons, and the members are successful local businessmen, which means slavers and smugglers and privateers. Our political party can no longer afford to be directly associated with them. We are trying to prove to the English that we can govern ourselves peacefully, not turn our ports into dens for pirates."
"So will there be rough men and fighting if you meet here?" asked Jon.
"Fear not. We have no desire to bring attention to ourselves. The wider membership meets in Faneuil Hall, above the market."
"Would there be anyone from Providence, because, well, you know..."
"I will make sure there isn't," assured Sam. "We are not pleased with the Providence Caucus or their freemasons at the moment. As you say, they are opportunists in the pockets of the likes of John Brown."
"Opper what, what is John Brown?"
"Opportunist, Someone who joins in for the profit after all the hard work is done. Umm, like, well politicians have a bad name, but there are good politicians. The good ones sha
re a vision and form a party to press for something important, and they work, and starve, and are sometimes beaten and jailed. If the party is ever successful and gains power, then suddenly the good politicians are pushed out of the way by all the bad politicians who just want to use the new-found power to feather their own beds."
"Poor, Sam," whispered Britta and squeezed his hand. "It sounds like it has happened to you."
"It has, and to my father. Three times. Opportunists are the demons of politics, and of business."
Sam did not have a chance to say more for the tinkle of the bell above the door warned him that there was someone coming in, and he half hid himself behind the mantle.
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith
Chapter 17 - Warming the Pie Ladies
"Looking up Samuel Adams?" Nana guessed as she watched Maya click away at her netbook.
"Looking up what paper Britta was helping him to write. Oh, this looks like it. 'The Rights of the Colonists' from a report to the Boston Town Meeting. Yes that is it."
"You're kidding," Nana came and looked over her shoulder. "Samuel Adams took the advise of a girl that worked in a coffee shop. Unbelievable."
Maya pouted. "Hey, I worked in a coffee shop back in San Francisco. Lots of smart women work in coffee shops."
"I didn't mean it that way," Nana backpedaled. "I just meant that way back then, women were to work and not be heard. I'm just surprised that he listened to a mere woman. Maya, Maya?" There was no response. "Off in dreamland again I suppose. Maya? Are you awake?"
Nana sighed. It was nice having Maya as company in her lonely island cottage, and it was nice that through Maya she had Britta as company as well, but sometimes she just felt, umm, left out.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Britta looked over at the slightly open front door and saw a woman burled up in every bit of clothing she owned and layered in snow flakes. "Alo," said a woman's voice, "are we allowed in 'ere?"
Britta went closer to the door and immediately opened it wide and ushered the folk inside. It was the three women that ran the pie stall in the market. They had two children with them, and the lot of them looked cold to the bone.
