The brotherhood walked through Boston Neck toward Roxbury under a white February sky. British soldiers stopped them at the guard post on the Neck to question their business and destination, and then let them pass. The cold wind daggered their freezing faces. Their hats constantly threatened to blow off their heads. Their cloaks and coats rippled in the wind.
“I’m gonna start lookin’ for horses tomorrow,” Patrick said as he buttoned his coat. “I’ll stay at the farm with them even if we ain’t ready to move yet.”
“We are ready,” Liam assured him.
“No, we aren’t,” Michael said. “Otherwise, we wou’d have checked out of the inn.”
“You got somethin’ there you need?” Seamus asked.
Michael shrugged.
“Then we’re checked out,” Seamus said.
Brandon said, “Why didn’t you tell us we were moving today?”
“Too many ears is why.”
“Seamus thought there would be less of a chance that demons would follow us,” Liam said.
Michael asked, “How come ya knew?”
“I am more perceptive and smarter,” Liam answered with a straight face.
“Fuck ya!” Michael spit back.
“Put a period to it and listen,” Seamus warned. “We’re gonna start drillin’ with the Boston militia as soon as I talk to Paul or William. Me and Ian is goin’ back to Boston to do that, and a few other things. Patrick, you cain go with us and start lookin’ for horses.”
“Ian, ya aren’t fooling us,” Michael said. “Ya are going to fetch that ghost girl ya brought with ya from Charles Town. Ya think we didn’t know? Where’s she at? Granary Burying Ground?”
Ian ran at Michael, shoved him and said, “Sidonie’s none of your concern!”
Michael shoved him back. “She is if she’s distracting ya!”
Ian jumped on Michael, and they fell into a drift of new fallen snow. Ian fisted his hand and pulled it back to strike Michael’s face. Seamus caught his fist before it connected with Michael’s nose.
“Get off him!” Seamus ordered.
Michael spit in Ian’s face.
Ian jerked his wrist from Seamus’ grasp. He put both hands on Michael’s chest and pushed until Michael was submerged in the snowdrift.
Seamus bear-hugged Ian and tried to pull him away, but Ian tightened all of his muscles and pushed on Michael’s chest harder. Liam wrapped his arms around Ian from a different angle to help Seamus.
“WHAT’RE YOU DOING, IAN?” Patrick screamed. “LET HIM UP!”
Michael could neither move nor breathe. Ian was killing his body. Just before he passed out he thought, where’s my spirit going to go?
Patrick ran to the snowdrift screaming, “GET OFF HIM!” He waded in past Michael’s head and kicked Ian in the face. Ian’s head snapped back, and his tightened muscles relaxed. Liam and Seamus pulled him off of Michael.
Patrick and Brandon dug Michael out of the snowdrift. They moved his body to a snowless area of ground. The boys tried to revive him by calling his name and slapping his pale face until it was red.
Ian panted and struggled to calm down and catch his breath.
Seamus said, “Damn you, Ian! Fightin’s tolerated. Killin’ each other ain’t! Now, I gotta come up with a way to punish you.”
The sound of Michael groaning was relief to all the angels. Patrick and Liam helped him to his feet. Brandon fetched Michael’s wet hat from the snow. Michael coughed hard. His eyes watered. He was soaked from head to toe. He shivered in the freezing wind.
Ian’s remorse was evident from the downcast expression on his face.
Seamus looked at the apprehensive brotherhood. What just happened scared them, and Colm wasn’t there to soothe them.
“Let’s get movin’ before we all freeze solid,” Seamus said.
Patrick stayed by Michael’s side the rest of the journey. No one spoke nor did they look at one another. Ian’s remorse pressed heavily on their spirits. That remorse was punishment enough for all of them.
Jeremiah Killam waiting for them on the farmhouse porch was a welcome sight that eased their oppression. Jeremiah lived most of the forty years of his life alongside the angels. He knew when things weren’t right with them.
Liam led the disheveled angels to the porch. Jeremiah and Liam embraced. “It’s good ta see you,” Jeremiah whispered. “Tell me what’s happened when they git warmed up and settled in.”
Liam nodded.
One by one, the angels embraced Jeremiah as they filed into the blissfully warm house. A fire crackled in the living room’s open brick fireplace, and a jug of rum waited on the mantel. Michael sat on the brick hearth that was level with the floor. The layer of ice that coated his hair and clothing began to melt and muddied the ash-littered hearth.
The room was far from cozy. There were two wooden couches against opposite walls, and a large, round wooden table surround by six slat back chairs. An empty china closet and built-in shelves flanked the big fireplace. Three wrought iron floor candle holders held the remains of partially burned tapers. There were no rugs on the dirty floor.
Patrick took the jug from the mantel and handed it to Michael.
“There’s guns in the barn,” Jeremiah said as he sat in a slat back chair near the fireplace. This announcement somewhat soothed the angels’ disquiet. Weapons equated to security.
Michael guzzled rum from the jug. Patrick took the jug from Michael’s outstretched hand, drank from it, and passed the jug to Ian.
Angels did not hold grudges against one another.
Ian handed the jug to Liam.
Liam drank from it, and then announced to Jeremiah, “Ian tried to kill Michael.”
Seamus frowned. “It ain’t your place, Liam.”
“Jeremiah asked me to tell him what happened.”
Ian’s eyes shifted to Michael then to Jeremiah.
“You gonna tell me why?” Jeremiah asked.
Ian shook his head.
Seamus walked to one of the two windows in the living room, and looked out over the snow-covered landscape.
“I ain’t no angel, and I ain’t been runnin’ from demons for thousands of years,” Jeremiah said. “But your bodies are human just like mine, and humans git tired eventually. It just took you much longer ta git ta the point of bein’ exhausted. That’s why this happened.”
“No it ain’t,” Seamus said as he turned from the window to look at Jeremiah.
“I ain’t sayin’ you’re weak. I’m sayin’ take this time ta rest your bodies and spirits because all Hell’s gonna break loose. You gotta help them patriots and put a stop ta the demons once and for all. I’m glad I ain’t you.”
Thirteen
Boston, Massachusetts
Margaret Gage became increasingly uncomfortable as February came to a close. She noted her husband’s propensity to discuss gubernatorial and military strategies with General Henry Hereford was growing. However, the discussions, which often took place at supper, were not her primary concern.
Thomas was under the direct command of the British Parliament and King George III, and therefore obliged to follow the orders of the British- appointed Secretary of State for the colonies, Lord Dartmouth. Communication between Gage and Dartmouth was painfully slow because Dartmouth was in London. It took at least two months, sometimes three, from the time Thomas Gage sent a letter to London until he received a reply.
Margaret believed that Henry was taking advantage of her husband’s anxiety over waiting for Dartmouth’s cross-Atlantic replies.
There was no strategic conversation at supper the night after the stables burned. Margaret and Thomas spoke of their grief over the death of Squire and his grandson, Will. While their standing supper guest, Captain John Brown, expressed his condolences, Margaret measured Henry’s reaction to the Gage’s loss. In her opinion, there was none. Nor did she see any reaction from the general’s aide-de-camp, Captain Robert Percy.
Margaret listened without comment a
s Thomas, Henry, Robert, and John discussed rebuilding the stables and replacing the dead horses. Her eyes wandered to Henry’s face on occasion. He was a living oxymoron—devilishly handsome, and in deeply religious colonial Boston, the devil was a serious matter.
When the meal was over, the men at the table stood and waited for Margaret to rise.
“Please excuse me. I am going to retire,” she said with the brightest smile she could muster while Henry stared at her as if she were dessert, and he was waiting to be served a slice.
Thomas kissed her cheek and said, “Good night.”
Margaret mounted the stairs as the men walked to the living room. She gripped the banister in her sweating palm and thought, I have not been able to sleep well since General Hereford has arrived. As soon as possible, I will seek a doctor who can prescribe something for sleep; a doctor who is not attending Thomas or his officers. From behind, Margaret heard the living room double doors close with a loud click.
Robert, Thomas, and Captain John Brown each poured healthy glasses of wine before they made themselves comfortable.
“Thomas, we must discuss undertaking a mission to determine provisions which might be had off the land and from the local farms in the countryside,” Henry said.
“I am waiting to receive a course of action regarding my admonitions to Lord Dartmouth,” Thomas said.
Henry sat in a winged easy chair and crossed his legs at the knees. “What was that advice?”
“I believe if a respectable force of soldiers is visible in and around Boston, the rebel leaders are seized, and pardons granted to others, the government will come off victorious to the opposition.”
John lit his clay pipe and took several puffs from it before he said, “I am in agreement with that counsel.”
“I will admit that it is sometimes difficult to contain my patience when situations here change before I receive a reply from London,” Thomas said. He did not want what he had just said taken for insubordination so he quickly followed it with, “I am sure it is equally difficult for Lord Dartmouth to control his patience when waiting for my report.”
That was the moment Henry found a way to barge in through the door of not only the King’s military might in Massachusetts, but matters of government. If he could circumvent Dartmouth’s replies, he could become a master of puppets over the loyalists.
Thomas Gage was a loyal soldier of King George, but he was not a royalist. His concept of government leaned toward the government of Parliament and men. That political ideology was useful from the standpoint that he believed he had a right to make decisions if pressed upon. Henry was well aware of Thomas’ beliefs.
Henry took a sip of wine before speaking. “Have you seen a change recently?”
“It is not what I have seen, but what I deem has become more pressing,” Thomas replied. “My concern is twofold: the rebels’ powder and armament stores, and our access to local provisions.”
“I see no harm in gleaning information about what might be had off the land and local farms west of Boston—provisions such as cattle, horses, and straw. If the King’s military presence needs to be increased those things may be useful, especially if Dartmouth does not want to comply with your counsel.”
Thomas pressed the back of his head against his chair back. Henry’s body odor was offensive. Perhaps that is why John lit his pipe, Thomas thought.
John silently puffed at his pipe. He had detected an offensive smell all evening, but he did not equate it with Henry. The pipe did little to curtail the stench.
“Henry, I will take your idea under advisement,” Thomas said.
“There is not time to ponder uncertainty,” Henry reprimanded.
John recalled a campaign Thomas and he had participated in during the French and Indian War. Thomas had been hailed for his foundry of light infantry in America. The tactic was a far cry from the stiff ordered European practice of marching in neat columns toward an enemy assumed to march in the same formation. Light infantry was capable of moving through heavy woods with the stealth of American Indians. “What about scouting the terrain?” he advised.
“Yes, a clandestine reconnaissance,” Thomas replied. “Tell me more.”
“We could sketch areas that may be defensible by the rebels and also sketch the general landscape—rivers, passes, hills, and fords.”
Henry leaned back satisfied. His work was done for the evening.
Two days later, on February 22, 1775, General Gage gave Captain John Brown and Ensign Henry de Berniere the order to travel as inconspicuously as possible through the Massachusetts countryside to complete the discussed mission. The officers, poorly disguised as farmers, took Captain Brown’s manservant along and passed through Charlestown toward Cambridge. Their first mistake was lack of consideration for the fact that farmers did not have manservants.
On the same day, Colm and Joseph left the Provincial Congress in Cambridge on horseback headed to Boston. Fergus stayed behind. The Committee of Safety had appointed him a major in charge of the Cambridge- Watertown militia.
“I spent my youth on a farm in Roxbury. I am the eldest of four sons,” Joseph said. “My family grew russet apples. My brother, Samuel, and my mother, Mary, still live on the farm. I do not see them as often as I should what with my medical practice and growing political involvement.”
“And ya father?”
Joseph sighed. “He died when I was fourteen; I had just begun my education at Harvard. He fell off a ladder and broke his neck. My youngest brother, John, only three years old, witnessed it.”
Colm wanted to soothe Joseph’s obvious pain, but he was unfamiliar with the appropriate social comments regarding the loss of loved ones.
Joseph continued his lament, “My wife, Betsy, died in 1773. I fear only the eldest of my four children will remember her.” Then, to Colm’s surprise, he chuckled. “People delight in speculating about my relationship with my children’s nanny, Mercy Scollay.”
“Why is that amusing?” Colm asked.
“It is…well…, it does not matter.”
“Then, why did ya say it?”
Joseph chuckled again. “Religion is an integral part of our lives. We believe that we are devout and well educated on the subject. Then here you are, and I realize I know nothing about the celestial attendants of God. I am having difficulty believing I am befriending an angel.”
Colm smiled. “Ya need to meet Jeremiah Killam. Ya can talk about the challenges of befriending angels. He’s the only human friend we’ve ever had.”
As they approached a slight curve in the road, Colm and Joseph saw three men walking toward them dressed in brown clothing with red handkerchiefs around their necks. When they were past the curve, Colm saw two men in the woods shadowing the walkers to their right.
“Do those farmers’ clothes look right?” Colm asked.
“Questionable, indeed. The man walking behind them carries himself like a servant.”
“They’re being shadowed,” Colm said. He tilted his head toward the woods to his left.
“Ignorant British officers,” Joseph scoffed. “Whatever it is they are doing has been discovered.”
“Shou’d we stop them?”
“No need. The local folk have this in hand.”
The walkers bid them a good day as they passed. Joseph delivered a curt nod in response. Colm said nothing.
They rode in silence for a time before Colm said, “I need to ride on to the farm. Would ya come with me and stay the night? I’d like ya to get to know my men. I can’t promise ya will be comfortable sleeping.”
“Angels sleep and eat, yet you cannot have a woman,” Joseph stated. “Why do you adhere to God’s rule if he has banished you from Heaven?”
“If we create Nephilim, God will destroy the children of man like he did in the Flood of Noah…Michael and Seamus struggle with their urges, but they’ve managed them. Ian went to extremes to satisfy his.”
“And you?”
“I’m an archange
l. A warrior. We’re the closest spiritual entities to God. Our spiritual burdens are none—”
“—of my concern?”
“Aye.”
“But you also carry the spiritual burden of others.”
Colm’s attention shifted from Joseph to the road ahead. He didn’t want to talk about his failures as an archangel—how he’d failed to stop his flock of Grigori angels, and Seamus, Ian, and Michael from creating the Nephilim. Spiritual burdens were what he deserved.
Joseph now saw Colm differently—as a gentle brave king who did not need to don the guise of finery or pretense. Colm’s actions were for the ones he loved, not his own comfort.
“I would very much like to get to know your men.”
Colm didn’t understand why, but he was relieved that Joseph agreed to go to the Roxbury farm.
The farmhouse’s downstairs’ windows were backlit with soft yellow light. A single candle burned in an above stairs window.
Michael, Brandon, and Patrick burst through the front door and into the yard. They slowed so they wouldn’t startle the horses as they yelled, “Colm!”
They are greeting him just like my children greet me when I have been away for a long time, Joseph thought.
Colm and Joseph dismounted.
Colm’s relief at seeing Michael warmed his freezing body. He wrapped his arms around Michael, hugged him, and then let him go.
Michael looked at Joseph. “Are ya Joseph Warren?”
“Yes. And you must be Michael Bohannon.”
Michael nodded.
Colm embraced Brandon and Patrick. His boys were safe. “Joseph, this is Brandon O’Flynn and Patrick Cullen.”
“I’ll tend to your horse, Joseph,” Patrick said. “Brandon, cain you tend to Colm’s horse?”
Brandon and Patrick led the horses to the barn behind the house. Michael went with them. A dim light flared inside the barn. The horses softly whinnied. Although Colm had never been to the farm, he knew he was home.
Joseph followed Colm into the house. The remaining members of the brotherhood had gathered at the door, anxious to greet them.
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