At the west wall, Major John Pitcairn’s marines were heavily assaulted and their lines broke, but they didn’t retreat. Confusion ensued and John Pitcairn tried to locate his adjutant, Lieutenant John Waller. Waller and a large number of marines were pinned down by provincial fire behind a stone wall and some trees. Pitcairn saw simmering orange eyes among them. He thought he’d left his demon-possessed troops behind and that the archangel had destroyed them.
John Pitcairn shook off the morbidity of seeing those eyes. What was much worse were the growing numbers of dead and dying British soldiers surrounding him. From the redoubt, he heard Colonel Prescott shout the order for a short pause in the firing.
Lieutenant Waller and Major Pitcairn took the opportunity to get the marines in order. Then, they rushed the redoubt. One hundred marines jumped a dry ditch and landed at the base of the redoubt wall. Major Pitcairn waved his bayonet at the rebels and yelled, “Now, for the glory of the Marines!”
Peter Salem, Patrick, Gordon, and the other rebels at the west wall opened fire.
Andrew Hay, the marine captain who suspected there were two wars being waged, was shot in the throat. He collapsed into the dusty ditch. In the distance, he heard someone shout, “Captain Hay has been hit!” Captain James Murray and two ensigns ran to Hay’s side and attended him as he died.
John Pitcairn’s son, William, watched in horror as Peter Salem aimed his musket at his father. “NO!” William screamed. He reached to shove his father out of the musket’s site. Peter fired and hit John Pitcairn in the chest.
John collapsed into William’s arms. While the marines charged forward in the final assault, William carried his wounded father out of the line of fire. Soaked in his father’s blood, William laid him on the ground, and cried, “You will be fine, Father! You will be fine!”
John Pitcairn was an experienced veteran. He knew his chance for survival was poor. Despite the searing pain in his chest, John whispered to William, “Go on and finish this.”
With Major Pitcairn down and two of his captains, Hay and Forsyth, dead, Lieutenant Waller ordered the marines to stop firing their muskets and execute a bayonet assault. Hundreds of marines, as well as General Pigot’s regulars, climbed the redoubt wall.
The first demon-possessed marine that clambered over the top jumped Patrick and snatched him by the hair. With a vicious yank, the demon screeched, “You will die angel!”
The demon suddenly fell backward. Patrick fell with his hair tangled in the demon’s hands. Patrick heard a grunt. Orange light flared. Then, someone was untangling his hair. He looked up at his rescuer and saw Gordon holding a bloody butcher knife with the Sigil of Lucifer etched in the blade.
“STAND UP!” Gordon shouted at Patrick.
Patrick scrambled to his feet.
The man within the demon-possessed body emitted an ungodly scream when he caught fire. His screeching pleas for help went unanswered.
There was neither time nor inclination to help the burning marine. Demons and humans armed with bayonets and muskets were swarming over the wall. The rebels defending the west wall had no more gunpowder. Gordon and Patrick wielded their sigil-etched butcher knives. It took as little as one touch of the blade on human skin to ignite the destruction of a demon and the vessel it possessed.
A demon snatched the back of Peter Salem’s shirt and whipped his bayonet up to Peter’s throat. Peter threw his sigil-carved forearm backward and dragged it over the top of his attacker’s head. The demon, and the man it possessed, shrieked when the body they shared caught fire. Peter’s back and neck were burned as he twisted away from the demon’s grasp.
A young rebel screamed in pain when a British regular stabbed him in the knee with a bayonet. The young man fell to the redoubt floor where a bayonet-wielding marine attacked him. “God help me! God help me!” the young rebel pleaded as the marine stabbed him to death. Blood flowed from the young man’s filleted abdomen and spurted from his jugular vein.
Patrick felt the struggle the man’s soul endured as his body died, but he could do nothing about it. He could no longer hear God’s instructions, nor could he summon a reaper. He felt sorry for what was no longer a part of him.
A short stocky redheaded marine tried to run his bayonet through John Greenwood. Greenwood jumped back, wheeled around, and punched the marine in the mouth. Blood slid from the corners of the marine’s mouth. He bent over and spit out four teeth.
Gordon lost the tip of his middle finger on his right hand to a musket ball. He stared dumbly at it for a moment—long enough for a regular to jump him and knock him to the ground. Gordon’s head smacked the blood-soaked dirt. His vision blurred, and he readied himself for death.
Peter Salem slammed the butt of his musket into the regular’s head and killed him. Then, he offered his hand to Gordon and yelled, “Get up!” Gordon grasped Peter’s hand with a grunt, and Peter hauled him to his feet.
Captain John Chester ordered the men at the west wall to retreat to the redoubt’s south wall where Howe’s grenadiers and light infantry were overwhelming the rebel defenders. Most of the men did indeed retreat, but not to the south wall. They fled the redoubt. Some were killed by grapeshot fired from British field pieces. Others were mildly injured, losing a finger or an eye.
Still, what was ending the rebel resistance was neither lack of courage nor unstoppable British resolve. It was the depleted supply of rebel gunpowder.
As they ran to help the men at the south wall, Patrick, Peter Salem, and Gordon saw Degory Bennett, Ian, Peter Brown, Barnabus Miller, and Salem Poor grab the barrel end of their empty muskets and swing the butts at the grenadiers pouring over the south wall. Some of the rebels picked up stones and threw them at their assailants. Others turned and ran.
Colm, Joseph, Michael, and Seamus were together. Michael swung his curved surgical blade in a wide arc over and over again. He cut off the heads of four demons and two human infantrymen in rapid succession. Colm and Seamus were defending themselves with the sigil-etched butcher knives Gordon had given them before Jeremiah and Brandon left the redoubt. Joseph wielded Jeremiah’s skinning knife.
Patrick ran to fight by Seamus’ side.
Barnabus Miller dropped his musket and began punching and kicking his way through the throngs of regulars until he was able to escape the redoubt.
A regular ran Degory Bennett through with a bayonet. Peter Brown tried to keep the old man from falling where his body would be trampled, but the effort was impossible. Peter fled with the rest of the terrified provincials.
Colm backed away from the wall in step with Michael and Joseph, who were to his left. To his right, someone cried for help. It’s a trick, Colm thought. Robert and Henry are here, and they’re trying to distract me. What he saw stumbling toward made him feel ashamed.
John Greenwood was supporting a twelve-year-old-boy whose face was so battered and bloody that he was unrecognizable. The boy was clutching his stomach. He had been eviscerated. His intestines and blood spilled through his splayed fingers.
The boy’s knees unbuckled and he slipped from John’s grasp. Colm caught him before he fell into a pool filled with the blood of so many other men. The boy looked up into the archangel’s eyes and sighed. Colm felt the struggle the boy’s soul endured as his body died. Like Patrick, Colm could no longer hear God’s instructions nor could he summon a reaper.
A musket ball gouged Michael’s forehead. He fell onto the bloody, gut-slicked floor, hitting the back of his head on the stony surface. Dizzy and disoriented, he labored to get to his knees. As he pushed his upper body up, someone clutched his hair and dragged him backward. Suddenly, he was jerked to his feet. His hair was pulled so hard that the back of his head nearly touch his shoulder blades. Robert Percy wound Michael’s loose wild hair tight around his hand, and breathed in Michael’s ear, “Will he choose you or will he choose Warren?”
Michael tried to wrench away, but the position his head was in thwarted his movements. His wings rustled.
Robert laughed and said, “It is over angel. We have won.”
Michael raised his arms, bent them backward over his shoulders, and groped for a hold on Robert. In response, Robert broke Michael’s wrists in two smooth movements of his right hand. The contact with Michael’s skin burned Robert’s hand badly. He shoved the angel away in surprise and disgust.
Joseph saw Michael stumble. With bruising strength, a British officer stepped in and wrapped his arms around Michael like a perverted lover. It took Joseph a moment to realize that the British officer was Henry.
Michael’s spirit and human vessel writhed in agony under Henry’s vicious grip. The physical pain was worse than anything Michael had ever imagined.
Henry turned Michael around so Michael’s back was touching his chest. “Keep squirming,” Henry crooned. “The feeling of your body against mine is luscious.”
From behind him, Joseph heard a familiar voice say, “I cannot touch the angel, but I can touch you,” Robert purred as he slid his arms around Joseph’s waist and chest and pulled him into a backward embrace. Joseph struggled and tried to pull away, but Robert was almost as strong as Henry. Robert plucked the skinning knife from Joseph’s hand and threw it over the redoubt wall. It was the last bastion of Jeremiah’s place in the battle.
Robert turned Joseph around and shoved him into the redoubt wall. He splayed his fingers and dug them into Joseph’s cheeks. “The bruises I left on your face less than a month ago are faded. Perhaps, I should blacken them.” Robert squeezed Joseph’s cheeks so hard that Joseph’s teeth cut the inside of his mouth. Blood drained down his throat.
Despite the pain that erupted in his jaw, Joseph rammed a knee into Robert’s groin and pulled Robert’s punishing fingers from his cheeks. He darted sideways.
Robert exhaled a grunt, but the blow only served to anger him. He snatched Joseph’s coattails, jerked Joseph back into his embrace, and slammed him against the redoubt wall. Robert doused his eyes and jammed the palms of his hands into Joseph’s chest. “Did you really believe that you could slip from my grasp that easily?”
Their eyes met.
“If you intend on killing me, then do so,” Joseph spat. He tried to pull Robert’s hands away from his chest. The deed was impossible.
“The time has come for the archangel to choose,” Robert said. His fingers returned to punish Joseph’s cheeks. “If the archangel chooses his brother, I will relish in killing you.” He let go of Joseph’s cheeks and stepped in so close that their bodies touched. “In fact, I may kill you anyway.”
Joseph did something he learned from Michael. He spit in Robert Percy’s face.
As the last of the provincials retreated from the filthy little fort on the wrong hill, Colm realized that his little brother was in the hands of Henry Hereford.
“There you are, archangel!” Henry exclaimed. “I must tell you that if you insist on making any kind of movement, I will rape your brother and then kill him.”
“Fuck Henry!” Michael shouted at his brother. “Let him do whatever he wants, but get the rest of us out—”
“No, Michael! Don’t speak!” Colm ordered.
Henry mocked Colm. “No, Michael. Don’t speak!” He ripped Michael’s shirt off and threw it into a muddy pool of blood. “I have imagined myself raping this beautiful angel so many times. Whores just do not quite fulfill my fantasy as they should.”
Terror and mania threatened to ignite Colm’s spirit. He couldn’t let his eyes or mind wander from Michael and what Henry would do to him, and he didn’t know where Joseph was.
“Now that you have rejected Heaven, my fond name for you—preceptor—no longer seems appropriate,” Henry gloated. “But I suppose it makes no difference because you will die today.”
Colm saw Ian and Seamus creeping up on Henry from behind. He tried to spiritually warn them away, but Henry’s presence was blocking their ability to communicate.
Seamus signaled for Patrick to stand down. Patrick’s aura brightened as his brother stepped closer to Henry. He tried in a panic to dim it.
Seamus and Ian exchanged glances. They both knew they couldn’t kill Henry, but they could distract him. They nodded at one another and continued to move in on Henry.
Colm had no idea what to say to make Henry let go of Michael. Joseph would know, and he would do it with a calm demeanor, Colm thought. He became agitated as he watched Ian and Seamus inch closer to Henry.
Henry barely flinched when he whipped a hand behind him and broke Seamus’ neck. Seamus crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.
“SEAMUS!” Patrick screamed. His wings unfurled, and his aura blinked out.
Ian buried his sigil-etched dagger to the hilt in Henry’s spine between the shoulder blades.
Henry snapped Ian’s neck without a backward glance.
Patrick’s spirit became irrational. He heard Colm scream, “RUN, PATRICK!”
The sight of his dead brother was enough for him to understand that he had to take Colm’s order. Patrick ran.
Colm was hobbled by his love for Joseph. After seeing Seamus and Ian die, he couldn’t let Joseph become a victim of the collateral damage he had promised would occur if he was to defeat Henry.
Trapped in Henry’s cruel embrace, Michael could neither see nor understand what had just happened. He spiritually tried to draw Colm’s attention, but something was terribly wrong, and Colm wasn’t responding.
Henry’s hand snaked down Michael’s smooth bare chest. “You will want to pay attention, archangel.” His hand traveled to the waistband of Michael’s breeches and ripped the front of them open. “It is time for you to choose—your brother or your pet.”
Colm heard Joseph whisper, “I love you, Colm.”
“Joseph, where are ya?” Colm’s green eyes flashed with unimaginable dread.
“He is here, archangel.”
Robert shoved Joseph at Colm, then he shot Joseph in the face with a pistol. The ball entered just below Joseph’s left eye and exited through the back of his head. The handsome young widower with four children; the gentle physician; the situational leader of the patriotic cause; the man adored by the people of a nation yet to be born; the human an archangel loved beyond reason, died before his body hit the ground.
The heavy haze of gun smoke cloaking the Charlestown peninsula dissolved, replaced by the haze of imminent grief.
The Sigil of Lucifer, which Paul Revere had etched into the blade of the butcher knife, winked when Gordon stabbed Robert in the throat. Robert ignited into an inferno of flaming death throes.
Colm’s human vessel dropped dead onto the ground beside Joseph. Abe Rowlinson, William Dawes, and William Prescott ran to them. They fell to their knees beside the bodies.
Michael was still unable to see or understand what had happened. His fear, confusion, and physical pain weakened him. He couldn’t summon what comforted him much less remember how to leave his broken human vessel. Blood from the wound on his forehead ran into his eyes and down his cheek like scarlet tears.
Robert’s death made no difference to Henry. He slid his hand down the front of Michael’s torn breeches and reveled in stroking the treasure within.
“I so wish to have my way with you, but I suppose it is time for me to pursue the archangel,” Henry purred. “I do not think I will kill you. When I destroy the archangel, you will die a miserable death, and then blink out of existence just as the angel you call Liam did. But before that happens, I will return to have my way with you.”
He squeezed Michael’s crotch so hard that Michael squirmed and emitted a squeal of pain. Then, he threw Michael face first into the filthy redoubt floor and disappeared.
Michael’s inability to sense Colm or any of the angels scared him. He used his elbows to push himself to his knees. He couldn’t stand, and he fell forward onto his broken wrists. Agony made his ears ring with his brother’s words—“If I say run, ya run. Do ya understand me?”
Saliva dripped from Michael’s mouth when he said, “I
understand ya.”
At that moment, Michael sensed that Ian and Seamus were gone. If they were gone, and Colm was impossible to sense, where was the rest of their brotherhood? And where was Joseph?
Many arms surrounded Michael and set him on his feet. Through a blur of caustic tears, Michael saw Abe, William Dawes, Gordon, and William Prescott standing beside him. But it was his brother’s words that propelled him forward.
Michael ran without stopping to look at the dead because that was what Colm wanted. He ran through Charlestown Neck toward Prospect Hill, but grief overwhelmed him, and he sprawled face first into the grass.
Forty-two
The people watching the Battle of Bunker Hill from the rooftops, steeples, and hills of Boston saw the bright June day darken. Generals Henry Clinton, Thomas Gage, and John Burgoyne, watching from Copp’s Hill, were sure that General William Howe had succeeded in crushing the American rebellion. Then, the skies turned gray and thick black clouds scudded in like harbingers of what the next eight years of an American revolution would bring.
Except for the crackling roar of fire burning Charlestown, Breed’s Hill was nearly silent when General William Howe and General Robert Pigot saw General Henry Hereford slide his hand down the front of a beautiful young man’s breeches. The generals, their officers, and the nearby regulars stared in disbelief while Henry stroked and squeezed the young man. They saw the general throw the young man down, and then vanish.
When the regulars moved to capture the young man and his rescuers, General Howe stopped them. He watched the young man run wildly through the back of the redoubt. Then, he looked at the bodies of Joseph, Colm, Seamus, and Ian. Nearby, he noticed a pile of ash topped with a nearly melted pistol. Finally, his dark eyes shifted to Colonel William Prescott and the three men with him.
The sound of marines moving Major John Pitcairn onto a chaise to transport him to a boat at Morton’s Point distracted Howe for a moment. He had been told that Pitcairn suffered a terrible wound.
Angels & Patriots_Book One Page 48
