Liam and Michael stared at Ian. His physical body looked so different now.
Ian’s straight graying brown hair was in a thin queue that ran down his back to just below his shoulder blades. Ian’s former vessel had been lean. This one was a little thicker. His eyes were dark blue instead of pale blue. But Ian’s red aura was bright and strong.
When Ian reached them, Michael asked, “Where’d ya get that vessel?”
“In Salem. He was a crew member on the HMS Lively.”
“He was British?” Liam asked.
“No, he was Irish, like my other vessel. He wasn’t in the navy. He was a civilian crew member.”
“Why’d ya take an old vessel like Fergus did?” Michael asked, wrinkling his nose.
Ian frowned. “He’s not that old. He’s forty-one. And when he was dying, I heard women say he was handsome, and they were going to miss his favors.”
Liam smiled and shook his head. Ian had definitely come back to them.
Michael laughed. “It sounds like those women were whores. Did he die in a whorehouse?”
“No. The women were standing on the docks near where the ship lay at anchor. I guess they knew he was dying.”
“How’d he die?” Michael asked.
“A lung ailment. Why’re you asking me so many questions?”
Michael shrugged. He turned to Liam and said, “Come on.”
“Where are you going?” Ian asked.
“I’m going to do something about Liam seeing Abigail Adams.”
Ian raised an eyebrow.
Michael and Liam walked to the house. Ian followed them.
In the living room, Colm, Gordon, Jeremiah, Abe, and Seamus leaned over the table where they sat and watched Paul Revere etch the Sigil of Lucifer into the blade of Jeremiah’s skinning knife.
“Colm, I need to talk to ya,” Michael said.
Colm glanced up at him.
Liam sat on a couch. Ian sat at the table.
Michael tried again, “Colm, I need to talk to ya.”
Colm kept his eyes on the knife and said, “Be quiet and sit down.”
Michael sighed and flopped into the last empty chair at the table.
Paul held the knife up by its haft and twisted his wrist back and forth to examine his work. “That is the best I can do without my own tools.” He handed the knife to Jeremiah.
“Michael, give Paul your blade,” Colm said.
Michael pulled his curved surgical blade from his coat pocket and slid it across the table toward Paul. Then he asked, “Colm, can Jeremiah take Liam to see Abigail Adams?”
Silver light flashed in Colm’s eyes.
“Liam’s already dying,” Michael pointed out. “She can soothe him.”
Paul furrowed his brow. “What does that mean—she can soothe him?”
“Her and Liam are friends,” Michael said. He didn’t understand Paul’s implication.
“Michael, stop it,” Liam said. “I do not think I can make the trip to Braintree anyway.”
“And I never volunteered,” Jeremiah added. “But Michael’s got a point.” He looked at Colm and said, “I’ll take ’im if you’ll let ’im go.”
“I am still waiting for someone to tell me what Abigail Adams would do to soothe Liam,” Paul demanded.
“Don’t go gittin’ yourself worked up,” Jeremiah said. “The angels meanin’ of soothin’ ain’t what you think.”
Jeremiah’s answer satisfied Paul. He set to etching the sigil in Michael’s surgical blade.
“Maybe Michael and Jeremiah shou’d take Liam to Braintree. If they run across demons, they could test the sigil etched in their knives,” Gordon suggested. “Once William gets here and tattoos the sigil on their necks, Michael and Jeremiah and Liam will be ready for the test.”
“Fuck ya,” Michael said to Gordon.
Gordon was used to Michael’s hatred for him. In the beginning, he took it in stride, but now Gordon wanted to understand and fix whatever it was he had done to anger Michael.
Colm flashed his eyes at Michael.
Michael rolled his eyes at his brother.
Horses’ hooves clattered toward the farmhouse.
“There is William now,” Abe said.
William and Joseph tethered their horses and came in the house.
William went to the table.
Joseph sat on the couch beside Liam. He noted Liam’s tired blue eyes and asked, “May I touch your wound?”
Liam nodded.
Joseph tentatively touched the unhealed gash on Liam’s forehead. The tissue around the gash was dark and felt spongy under Joseph’s fingertips. The wound exuded a noxious smell. Having seen the symptoms of Ian’s near death experience, Joseph recognized them in Liam. He asked, “Does your body hurt?”
“Yes.”
Jeremiah got up and walked to the couch. “You doctorin’ angels now?”
“If only I could.”
“Michael thinks I shou’d take Liam to see Abigail Adams. What do you think?”
“Is that what you want, Liam?” Joseph asked.
Liam’s eyes watered. This odd sensation was the first time his human vessel had shed tears. He nodded.
“You told me not to let Colm bear the burden of Ian’s death alone. Tell me what I should do about letting Colm bear the burden of your death?”
“My death makes no difference,” Liam said. “What Paul and Gordon and William are doing today to help us combat the demons is much more important. I am but one spirit.”
Colm got up and went to Liam.
“Why can you not infuse Liam with more of your aura?” Joseph asked.
“I’ve told ya why.”
Joseph’s eyes searched the archangel’s face. “Tell me again. And this time tell me all of it.”
Colm glared at Joseph. “Why are ya making me say it again?”
“Perhaps, I need to convince myself that it is acceptable to let someone die, no matter the risk, when the preventative is at hand.”
“Joseph, I have asked you before not to interfere in what goes on between Colm and me,” Liam said. “Let it go.”
Joseph’s eyes remained on Colm’s face.
Colm crossed his arms over his chest. He sighed, then said, “I did it in an act of desperation. I have no idea what will happen if I try again.”
“And?” Joseph asked.
Colm’s eyes flashed. “I couldn’t control it. I think it will kill us both.”
“Why was that so difficult to admit?”
“Can the two of you put a period to it?” Paul asked. “Your imaginary duel is very distracting.”
Joseph and Colm exchanged one last look, and then let the subject drop.
Paul finished etching the sigil in Michael’s surgical blade. He slid it across the table to Michael, and then started working on Seamus’ new butcher knife.
Gordon pointed to his sketch of the Sigil of Lucifer and said to William, “This is the sigil we want you to tattoo on our necks. Start with Michael, Jeremiah, and Liam.”
“You must be Gordon Walker; you’re the only black man in the room,” William observed.
“Is that how Joseph described me?” Gordon asked.
“Yes.”
Gordon smiled. “Well then. I have distinction. So, Mr. Dawes, can you tattoo the sigil?”
William was wary, but his fellow Sons of Liberty seemed undaunted by the sigil. Paul was etching it and Joseph didn’t react to Gordon’s request.
“We shall see. I was able to find a book with a description of how tattoos are done in Polynesia. I am a tanner by trade, and I can tool leather—I assume the techniques are similar. Like Paul, I had to borrow tools because I cannot return to Boston to fetch my own.”
Ian got up so William could sit beside Michael at the table. William removed leather-tooling instruments, a bottle of ink, and a quill from the bag slung over his shoulder. He chose a tool with a sharp point.
Michael gathered his hair and tied it back into a ponytail. He ti
lted his head to the left and offered the right side of his exposed neck.
“Are you certain you want the tattoo on your neck?” William asked.
“Aye.”
“You will have to be vigilant about wearing a cravat; otherwise you will scare every human who sees the tattoo.”
“Will ya just do it?” Michael snapped.
William reached for the sketch and put it on the table where he could see it. He punched tiny holes in Michael’s skin while delivering ink to the holes with the quill. It was a makeshift method, but it worked.
A day later, the seven angels and three men who lived on the farm had the Sigil of Lucifer tattooed on the right side of their neck. Every knife in the house, whether it was used in the kitchen or for self-defense, had the sigil etched on its blade.
They had yet to find out if it was worth the effort.
The Hudson-to-Champlain corridor was the most direct line between New York and Quebec; an adversary who controlled it could sever New England from the rest of the colonies.
The French had understood this. In the summer of 1757, they chose to take a defensive position at Fort Carillon at the southern end of Lake Champlain. This intensified the British efforts to capture the fort. The following year, the French blew up Fort Carillon rather than surrender it to the British. The British took control of the post, renamed it Ticonderoga, and rebuilt it.
By the spring of 1775, Fort Ticonderoga had fallen into a state of disrepair. It was also severely undermanned. The prize of the fort was not just its strategic location, but also dozens of aging heavy cannons, howitzers, and mortars. Given the meager resources among the Americans, the armaments would make a treasure-trove of rebel artillery.
Fort Ticonderoga was a topic Hereford and Gage had discussed regarding resources.
Thomas, Henry, Robert, Captain John Brown, and the newly demon- possessed dead Captain Anthony Jameson were relaxing in the Province House living room over dinner drinks when the subject of the fort came up.
John lit his clay pipe then said, “I have heard talk that the rebels have turned an eye toward Ticonderoga and the cannon housed there.”
“Yes, John. We have all heard that talk,” Thomas said. “I sent a letter to the fort’s commander telling him to be especially on guard. He is sparsely manned, and I believe there are also a number of women and children living within the walls.”
“Do not be so modest, Thomas,” Henry said. “Tell John the rest.”
Robert choked back a smirk. There was nothing impressive to tell John.
Thomas sipped his claret. “I have sent a missive to the governor of Quebec advising him to send troops to the fort in ready for a possible rebel attack. And I have ordered British troops stationed there to hold themselves in readiness for Boston, on the shortest notice.”
Henry smiled. “Such forethought is the characteristic of a truly remarkable general, do you not agree, John?”
Robert swallowed hard to keep from laughing.
Thomas frowned. Is Henry making sport of me?
“Well, yes…of course,” John stammered. He puffed on his pipe and wondered, what does the general find remarkable about that?
Henry’s vessel was dead; his offensive body odor was gone. He was a confident demon, but now, his confidence as a human had increased two-fold. He smiled brightly.
Captain Anthony Jameson said little that evening. The demon that once possessed British Lieutenant William Sutherland was engaged in adjusting to its new thirty-year-old vessel.
As the conversation continued in the Gage home on Beacon Hill, a young Connecticut militia commander named Benedict Arnold was regaling the Massachusetts Provincial Congress and its president, Dr. Joseph Warren, with tales of the treasures at Fort Ticonderoga.
Whether the fort was on land that belonged to New York or New Hampshire was a highly contested debate. As a result of Arnold’s story, the Massachusetts Committee of Safety sent a missive to New York noting the importance of Ticonderoga and claiming they would not infringe on the rights of their sister colony.
But Joseph and his cohorts did just that. They gave Benedict Arnold a temporary commission as a colonel, authorized him to raise a force for the specific purpose of capturing the fort, and financially backed the mission. The commission he carried was ironically signed by one of the Committee of Safety’s most trusted members—Dr. Benjamin Church.
It was also a decision of dire portent. The congress’ financial backing included 200 pounds of rebel gunpowder.
Abigail Adams’ distress over her husband’s health abated. She received a letter from him assuring her that he was well and looking forward to the proceedings of the Second Continental Congress.
With John away, her hands were full managing a household and a stream of constant visitors. The day a forty-year-old, scruffy, blond-haired, bearded mountain man, and two angels of God came to her doorstep, her already evolving definition of religion changed forever.
Abigail was not in the habit of answering the door. That task belonged to her houseman, Philomon Morris. But on a brilliant sunny morning in May, Abigail hastened to throw open the door of her home to the sound of a knock she knew belonged to the knuckles of an angel she so much wished to see again—Liam Kavangh.
She vaguely recognized Jeremiah from the incident at the meetinghouse in March. The young angel with curly black hair and beautiful facial features raised such a vague memory that she could not place him.
Neither Jeremiah nor the young angel stirred her emotions. She only had eyes for Liam, and she knew something was terribly wrong with him.
“Liam!” she gasped. She delicately took his hand. “Please, come inside.”
The two-hour journey on horseback from Roxbury to Braintree had punished his tired body. When Abigail touched him, Liam felt a relief that he had not thought possible. His palimpsest longed to call her Mother, fall into her arms, and lay his dying head upon her bosom.
Abigail was not the mother who had given birth to him and suckled him. She was not the mother who had grieved for him after he and his brothers-in-arms died battling the Normans in Wexford, Ireland. No—he had no mother. He only had a father he called God, and his father had ruthlessly slapped his face and banished him from his home in Heaven.
His confused dying thoughts led him to collapse on Abigail’s door step. Michael and Jeremiah reached to lift him into a standing position.
Abigail opened her arms and embraced a dying angel who needed her comfort to face the chains of eternal darkness.
Jeremiah and Michael helped Liam into the Adams’ living room and laid him on the couch.
Philomon came to answer the knock on the door. Seeing that Mrs. Adams had already done so, he observed her visitors from where he stood near the bottom of the steps leading to above stairs. He eyed Jeremiah’s and Michael’s dirty deerskin and homespun clothing.
He entered the living room with the intention of ridding the Adams’ household of the filthy swains. “Mrs. Adams, who are these men?”
“They are friends. Please be tolerant.”
Philomon cast his suspicious fifty-year-old eyes on Liam. “What is wrong with him?”
Abigail hated Philomon’s question. “Get out!” she shouted.
Philomon turned on his heel and left the living room. He was angered by her uncharacteristic behavior. I will see to it that she regrets her actions in front of those swains. I have been with this household far too long to be treated in such a manner.
“Mrs. Adams, I’m Jeremiah Killam, and this is Michael Bohannon,” Jeremiah said.
Abigail looked at Michael. “Are you Colm Bohannon’s brother?”
Michael was dumbfounded by her beauty and manners, rendering him speechless. He nodded.
“It took us a lot of talkin’ ta get Colm ta agree ta let Liam come here. He don’t want the angels out of his sight, partly because Ian Keogh came real close ta dyin’ a few weeks ago.”
“Ian is the angel with lovely pale blue eyes.”
She turned her attention to Liam. His blue eyes were tired and dull. She ran a hand over the top of his dark hair and down his cheek. “Are you hungry?” She asked him.
“No.”
“Perhaps some rum?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Killam, there is rum in the cabinet,” Abigail said pointing to a mahogany breakfront. “You will also find glasses. Do you mind pouring a drink for each of us?”
Jeremiah did as she asked.
Abigail looked down at Liam and asked, “Are you dying?”
Liam cried and reached for her.
Michael’s wings rustled. They had just gone through this with Ian. Sidonie had been able to save Ian because she possessed a part of his spirit. Abigail Adams had nothing similar to give Liam.
Jeremiah shoved a glass of rum at Michael. “Drink this. All of it. Then I’m gonna pour you another, and you’re gonna drink all of that too. You ain’t gonna run from this like you did when Ian was dyin’.”
Michael guzzled the rum. He thought about how he had begged Colm to let him bring Liam to Abigail, and now that they were here, he was afraid. He heard children laughing from somewhere in the house. Their happiness made him want to cry.
Liam sat up and took the glass of rum Jeremiah offered. He looked at Michael and Jeremiah, and hoped they would understand that he wanted them to leave him alone with Abigail.
Michael understood. He drank the rest of his rum. The liquor emboldened him enough to ask, “Mrs. Adams, is there an inn nearby?”
Abigail regarded Michael’s beautiful face. The Bohannon brothers look so different. Yet they both love with fierceness. She touched Liam’s cheek, and then she crossed the room to Michael.
“I will take care of him if at all possible,” she said in an effort to reassure him. “I have four children who will ask a multitude of questions about Liam and his presence in our home. My servants will gossip. But I assure you, John will understand.”
Angels & Patriots Page 33
