Angels & Patriots_Book One

by Salina B Baker

  She lowered her head to hide the smirk on her lips, and went to do as he commanded. He swayed and stumbled while she dressed his muscular body. For love of their creator—The Great Spirit, Our Grandmother—he tempted her carnal desire.

  “Eat,” she said when he was dressed.

  “I cain’t.” He stumbled outside and threw up.

  Mkwa filled a bowl with stew.

  Jeremiah stumbled back inside, took the bowl she offered him, and sat on the dirt floor beside her with a plop. “I told Colm I’d meet ’im in Boston by the end of the month. If I don’t leave this mornin’, I ain’t gonna git there in time.”

  “Who’s stoppin’ you?”

  “I’m gonna miss you, woman.”

  She covered her trembling lips with her fingertips.

  He set his bowl aside and tried to take her in his arms.

  She resisted and asked, “Why are you willin’ to die for them?”

  Jeremiah attempted to memorize her flawless brown face, long shiny black hair, and eyes so dark they seemed like doors to another universe. God help him if he never saw her again. Aside from her, the angels were the only family he had.

  “Do you really gotta ask that?” he asked.

  She swallowed her tears and shook her head. “Finish eatin’. It’s time to git you goin’ on your journey.”

  “Mkwa, I know you ain’t had your time in two months.”

  Her stomach lurched. She couldn’t tell him that she was terrified of white women as much as a war with an enemy she couldn’t picture. The two things were the same. She couldn’t speak. Don’t tell me you’ll return to take care of us.

  He saw the wetness in her eyes. He shouldn’t have told her he knew she was with child because it made no difference. He was leaving her to bear her burden alone. Nausea rumbled in his stomach. He ran outside into the pristine white snow and vomited.

  The brotherhood was lodging at the Greystoke Inn in Boston where Fergus was already staying. The afternoon after their first encounter with the Sons of Liberty, they gathered outside the inn to ensure they were not overheard. The angels’ exhaled gossamer wisps of frost as they spoke.

  Colm asked, “Do we let the patriots fight for a cause that may be a demonic illusion? Can we become their allies without telling them who we are?”

  “Their fight isn’t an illusion. Their freedoms are still at stake,” Fergus said.

  Michael laughed. “Two months ago, ya didn’t know what a patriot was. Now, ya know everything about them?”

  “Shut your mouth,” Fergus warned.

  Michael tempted Fergus by saying, “Ya’re an idiot.”

  “Cain you control your mouth for the time bein’?” Patrick asked Michael.

  Michael shrugged.

  Seamus said, “That don’t mean we gotta tell them who we really are.”

  “I agree,” Brandon said. “There’s nothing to gain by telling them. We’re just patriots, same as them.”

  “They’re gonna see things ain’t right with us,” Patrick countered. “They’re smart men.”

  Liam shook his head. “It is more than that. The sum of the tension I felt in the tavern is beyond our comprehension.”

  “We still don’t know for sure if Henry’s poking the colonists,” Michael suggested. “Aren’t we going too fast?”

  “Maybe,” Colm said. However, if they waited for certainty, it could be too late to suit the patriots with the proper armaments. Colm was unsure if there were such weapons, but he knew many of the patriots were deeply religious Christians born of Puritan roots. They were raised to believe in angels and demons and God’s wrath. How would they react if they actually saw those things at work?

  Colm looked at the faces of the loyal angels whose intentions were never heinous. Despite the lustful transgressions Ian, Seamus, and Michael had committed, they were honorable and trustworthy. He didn’t want to engage in allied warfare with human men whose characters were anything less. An important reason, in his opinion, the brotherhood should proclaim itself.

  There was another pressing matter. “Fergus, ya need to be punished for desertion and revealing ya name to men ya don’t know.”

  Fergus looked at Colm.

  “I was going to ask the men for a vote on ya fate, but I’ve changed my mind. Build trust with the patriots and show them ya strengths. I’m releasing ya from my command.”

  The angels rustled their wings in distress. With Fergus no longer under Colm’s command, their brotherhood would be incomplete.

  Fergus had not considered that, in order to achieve his aspiration, he would have to yield to someone’s command other than Colm’s.

  “Can ya arrange a meeting with the men we met in the tavern?” Colm asked Fergus. “I want it to take place as soon as Ian and Jeremiah join us.”

  “Most of them will be gone before that. Samuel Adams, John Adams, Dr. Joseph Warren, and John Hancock are leaving soon to attend an important meeting in Cambridge. They referred to the meeting as the Provincial Congress.”

  “Then arrange for just the two of us to meet with them before they leave. I think they’ll be more apt to respond to what we got to tell them if they feel they’re in control.”

  “You mean without us overawin’ them,” Seamus said.

  “Aye.”

  Three days later, on Monday, January 30, Colm and Fergus met Samuel Adams, John Adams, John Hancock, Paul Revere, William Dawes, and Dr. Joseph Warren in the basement of the Green Dragon Tavern.

  John Hancock disguised his disquiet by saying, “Get on with it, Mr. Bohannon.”

  The basement door swung open. Twenty-three-year-old Dr. Samuel Prescott descended the steps. When he saw the strangers in the basement, he stopped.

  John Hancock motioned for Samuel to join them. “You have arrived from Concord just in time.”

  Samuel remained where he was and asked, “In time for what?”

  “Shut the basement door,” Paul barked. “And get down here.”

  Samuel Adams repeated what John Hancock had said. “Get on with it, Mr. Bohannon.”

  The disruption caused by Samuel Prescott’s arrival gave Colm time to decide how to begin. He asked, “What are ya opinions on angels?”

  “We are not here for a sermon,” Samuel Adams said. “We are here to discuss who you and your men are, and your patriotic intentions.”

  “Answer me,” Colm insisted.

  Paul took a step toward Colm. “Did you not understand what Samuel said?”

  Fergus slid his right hand inside his coat and gripped the hilt of his dagger.

  John Adams said, “I would be more than happy to discuss my opinions concerning angels if my cousin wishes to withdraw from the conversation. I can see that you have a point to this Mr. Bohannon, and I am curious enough to play your game.”

  Joseph Warren saw Colm’s jaw tighten.

  Ya know this isn’t a game, Colm thought.

  “I no longer cling to the doctrines of my Puritan ancestors,” John Adams said. “I have turned to the more liberal views of the Unitarian Church. But that is not what you have asked Mr. Bohannon. The Puritan minister, Cotton Mather, claimed to have had an angel sighting, yet he and his father had denounced such sightings. They believed they were mischief or a transformation of Satan. Why would the Good Angels of God make themselves visible to man?”

  “That, Mr. Adams, isn’t an opinion,” Colm pointed out.

  Dr. Joseph Warren watched Fergus. Fergus did not look at Colm when he spoke. He listened with intensity, and constantly gauged the tension in the room. In contrast to Colm, with his long curly brown hair and pleasant thin face, Fergus was exceedingly handsome. Colm wore homespun. Fergus was dressed like a gentleman.

  “No, it is not,” John Adams agreed. “Rather it is an old-fashioned opinion that angels have no function except to look over mankind while we sow our own fate with no real guidance from God. That opinion has changed in recent years. There has been a shift in the religious world view. I believe there is the mira
culous intercession of a heavenly messenger as we search more actively and optimistically for our ultimate destination in the house of the Lord.”

  William said, “My wife and I believe that if an angel comes to us after we have prayed, and tells us we shall be among the saved, then it will be so if we listen to the word of God.”

  “What I found unbelievable about Cotton Mather’s sighting was the description of his angel,” John Adams noted.

  “Well, here is my opinion,” Samuel Adams snickered. “Mather was in his cups. He claimed the angel had the features of a man. Angels do not have a gender unless they have possessed some poor hapless slob.”

  “I have read Mather’s description,” Paul said with assurance. “The angel wore white and shining garments and a long robe. That seems to be the view most agree with in these times—an angel with a shining face wearing a splendid tiara with wings on his shoulders.”

  “It is what our churches depict in the beauty of their stained-glass windows,” William added.

  “This is absurd,” John Hancock spat.

  “If they did walk among us, what do you think they would look like?” William asked Colm.

  Colm had no physical form before he took his thirty-two-year-old vessel; therefore, he had no idea what he looked like. That concept was difficult for all of the angels. No matter how many times they saw their own reflection, they couldn’t connect what they saw to who they were.

  Colm said, “What they look like isn’t important.”

  Joseph noted that neither Colm nor Fergus fidgeted. They did not appear to be hatching a lie. He detected uneasiness in their demeanor.

  Joseph knew what Colm was about to say was going to sound unbelievable because what Joseph suddenly saw was unbelievable. Moreover, it appeared that he was the only man in the basement who could see it.

  “Paul and William, may I have a private word with you outside?” Joseph asked.

  Paul gave Joseph a suspicious look. “Why?”

  Joseph did not bother to answer. He and William exited through the exterior basement door. Paul shot a doubtful look at Colm, and then followed the others outside.

  Samuel Prescott and Samuel Adams walked to the basement window and peered through the small, blistered glass panes.

  Paul’s voice rose above the others. “Do you know what you are saying, Joseph? They cannot…” The sound of his voice abruptly ceased.

  Joseph, Paul, and William returned to the basement. William shut the door and threw the bolt latch. He climbed the stairs to the interior basement door and locked it.

  The angels rustled their wings. It was one of several ways they comforted themselves. Most of those habits revealed their celestial being. Therefore, they were often deprived of self-comforting. A human who could hear their wings rustle was extraordinary.

  Joseph heard the rustling. He looked at Colm and Fergus as if they had reinforced everything he had just said to Paul and William.

  Colm made eye contact with Joseph.

  John Hancock’s foreboding intensified. “I have had enough of this.” He turned to mount the steps.

  “No, John…wait,” Joseph implored.

  John complied.

  “What Joseph told Paul and me is so fanciful, that I cannot grasp it,” William said. Yet, he felt calm, and strangely soothed.

  Samuel Adams frowned and asked, “What did Joseph tell you?”

  Fergus willed his eyes to stay focused on whoever was speaking.

  Joseph and Colm made eye contact again.

  Joseph said, “Mr. Bohannon, if what I am about to say is true, I expect you to demonstrate integrity and tell the truth.”

  “I will.”

  “You and your men are angels of God.”

  John Hancock erupted. “That cannot be, Joseph! You have been led astray!”

  Fergus tightened his hand around the hilt of the dagger inside his coat.

  “Dr. Warren speaks the truth,” Colm said. “We’re banished angels. Some of us disobeyed God and created the Nephilim—children of angels and human women. God, in his fury, summoned the Flood of Noah to kill the Nephilim, and he created an army of demons to kill us. The demon who leads them will never stop chasing us until we’re dead.”

  Samuel Prescott turned to flee the basement. Paul seized his arm and said, “No, Samuel!”

  “You cannot believe this!” Samuel shouted. He jerked his arm away from Paul’s grasp. “War may be upon us, and now we have been cursed by the workings of Satan. This is too much!”

  “We aren’t doing the work of Satan,” Fergus objected.

  “What does your sin against God have to do with us?” John asked.

  Colm said, “Angels can’t sin. Only the children of man can sin.”

  Samuel Adams challenged Colm. “Prove your claim, sir.”

  “We can’t unless ya truly believe angels are representations of God’s work; and even then, I’m not sure ya will be able to see our proof.”

  “You had better find a way to prove yourselves,” John Hancock said indignantly.

  “Joseph, they have bewitched you!” Samuel Prescott shouted.

  Fergus allowed himself to look at Colm. They conjured memories from a time before three of their brotherhood learned to feel lust; before they were afraid of God’s demons; before they took human vessels and the names they had now. They listened to hear the beatific melody of Heaven. It was a tune so ancient that no living thing could recreate the tones and chords.

  Without a sound, Colm and Fergus unfurled their divine silver wings. Silver crystals showered upon the patriots’ faces and wet their hair. The delicate crystals gathered on the floor and drifted into the corners of the basement.

  Colm’s imperial wings touched the ceiling, and the delicate plumes brushed Fergus’ widespread wings. Together, their wings filled the basement from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.

  The patriots drew in a breath and fell to their knees.

  Colm evoked his spiritual essence. The basement was washed in the light of his green aura, and something God had bestowed to the archangels—golden radiance. It was part of Colm’s primordial being, as ancient as the heavenly music he and Fergus heard. It was his destructive power. The green light and the gold radiance swirled and glided like a flock of birds coming home to roost at sunset.

  The purple aura God had granted to the angels entrusted to an archangel’s second in command, shined intensely from Fergus’ angelic spirit.

  The angels furled their wings into obscurity. The dazzling light that constituted a celestial being’s essence faded. The silver crystals remained.

  “Get to ya feet,” Colm said softly. “We aren’t to be revered.”

  The men rose. William ran a hand over his brown hair. He stared at the silver crystals in his palm.

  “We offer ourselves to ya cause for freedom,” Colm said. “If Henry has provoked the colonies into war to draw us out of hiding, ya must know what ya are up against. It isn’t just England’s power. It’s also a demonic army. Ya have to be prepared for the horrors of war, and the horrors of God’s wrath.”

  John Hancock was trembling. “We cannot prepare our fellow patriots for this. You must have proof that this demon is indeed provoking us. And even if we do have proof, we cannot convince the masses that Satan is behind this revolution.”

  “Ya aren’t listening!” Colm said. “Satan has nothing to do with this! These are God’s demons!”

  John Adams gathered his wits and said, “Mr. Bohannon, we shall take your council under serious advisement when you find your demon and not before.”

  Fergus was astonished by the patriots’ response.

  Colm warned, “We aren’t in control! Henry and his demons are. Ya must be prepared to fight them on the same ground as the British army!”

  Human skepticism impregnated the basement of the Green Dragon Tavern. There was nothing else Colm could do to convince these unsuspecting men that the threat to them, their families, and their country was not only twofo
ld, but also unknown.

  The HMS Invincible sailed into Boston Harbor on Tuesday, January 31. She was a seventy-four-gun, third-rate ship of the line of the Royal Navy. General Henry Hereford had commissioned her specifically for his journey across the Atlantic Ocean to Boston. She slipped through the icy winter waters accompanied by the pink and orange globe of the rising sun.

  Lieutenant Edward Anson escorted Henry and his aide-de-camp, Captain Robert Percy, above decks just as the ship docked. Lieutenant Anson’s responsibility was to see that General Hereford was disembarked and taken to his place of quarter: the home of the Royal Governor of Massachusetts, General Thomas Gage. Henry was looking forward to meeting General Gage, whose reputation preceded him. Gage was drawing criticism for his cautious approach with the colonists.

  The 15,000 residents of Boston were beginning their day as Henry’s coach rolled through the streets. The city was a small peninsula, only 789 acres wide. It consisted of five hills: Mount Vernon, Beacon Hill, Pemberton Hill, Copp’s Hill, and Fort Hill.

  These backcountry people have taken great stock in their places of worship, Robert thought, observing the many beautiful churches they passed along their route. He glanced at Henry. Goose bumps rose on Robert’s arms. I must remember to ask the Gages where they worship.

  The Gage’s lived in Province House located on Beacon Hill. Although the Gage’s brought their own personal servants to Boston, slaves and servants were already part of the household. An elderly black man, Squire, was one of the slaves to whom the Gage’s had taken a special liking. They regarded him with the fondness of a family member.

  The carriage drew up to Province House. Squire awaited their arrival. He placed a wooden step below the coach door, and then shouted at two sullen adolescent black boys to unload the luggage from the rear of the coach.

  Thomas Gage stood on the portico, accompanied by his forty-year-old wife, Margaret.

  Robert noticed the faces of many children framed in various windows. Curtains parted then closed as a child was shooed from a window only to reappear in another. Robert found children to be little more than an aggravation, but at that moment, he felt alarm for their safety. He wondered about the source of his unexplained discomfort. Perhaps it was a manifestation of being in an unfamiliar place among people whose loyalty to King George III was questionable.