Angels & Patriots_Book One

by Salina B Baker

  “I am not sure of what happened here,” Howe said to Prescott. “This was no ordinary battle.” Howe regarded Joseph’s and Colm’s bodies. Colm had fallen so that he was lying beside Joseph with one arm draped across Joseph’s chest. “They are not ordinary men.” He pointed at Colm’s body. “In fact, General Pigot claims that he is an archangel.”

  General Pigot shivered in the stifling heat of the late afternoon. The thick black clouds overhead signaled something much more ominous than a brewing thunderstorm.

  “You are not surprised by that statement?” Howe asked Prescott.

  Prescott said nothing.

  “Well, then, I suggest you start running before I change my mind.”

  Gold lightning bolts lacerated the sky.

  The rebels ran.

  Hundreds of British and American men lay dead and dying on the blood-soaked earth.

  The sky sizzled with gold light and thundered with unearthly ire.

  Howe knew that many more men were about to die. It would not be until the next day that he would realize the man who lay dead beside the archangel was Dr. Joseph Warren.

  No longer fettered by a human vessel, Colm’s power had no bounds. His gold radiance was free. It raced with unleashed fury through the skies over the northern hemisphere and into the heavens.

  He sensed Henry leave his human vessel.

  Henry’s army of demons—disembodied or not—remained on the Charlestown peninsula under the impression that the archangel would not strike them dead if they were among the children of man.

  Colm unfurled his wings. Silver crystals pelted the earth with deadly apocalyptic hailstones that built horrible mountains of anguish. He reined in his power and redirected it. Gold radiance swept the sky over Charlestown like a plague of locusts. The disembodied demons exploded all at once in a firestorm just above the surface of the earth on the lower Charlestown peninsula.

  Hundreds of terrified British marines and regulars caught fire. They ran screaming toward the waters of the Charles and Mystic Rivers only to accelerate the flames that melted their clothing and charred their bodies. Fire and sparks ignited gunpowder. Regulars were maimed or killed when the muskets and cartridge boxes they were carrying exploded. Loaded field pieces fired cannon balls and grapeshot as if ghosts had lit the touch holes. The cannons on the deck of the HMS Falcon and HMS Lively fired wildly, in kind.

  Stupefied and appalled, General Howe and General Pigot tried to control the panicked troops by shouting orders, but it was a ridiculous effort in the face of what was happening. The generals were caught up in the maelstrom and stampeded, alongside their men, toward Morton’s Point and the boats waiting on the shores of the Mystic River.

  A tempest of embers whirled and rushed across the Charles River and Boston Harbor, and were extinguished in the waters.

  The people watching the battle from Boston ran for shelter from the lightning, hail, and sudden explosions. Generals Henry Clinton and John Burgoyne, and their aides, fled Copp’s Hill and made a mad dash for the sanctuary of nearby Christ’s Church.

  General Thomas Gage paused among the cannons and tombstones to watch the bank of heavy smoke roll over the Charlestown peninsula. The hailstones pelting him were what he deserved. Through his spyglass, he had witnessed General Henry Hereford’s perverse acts with a frightened young man.

  “I have been a blind fool, but no more,” Thomas declared. “I will not allow that filthy general near Margaret and my children ever again. I will send my family to England, or to the ends of the Earth, if that is what it takes to keep them away from him.”

  What Thomas Gage had not seen was Joseph Warren die at the hands of Captain Robert Percy. There had been a time when Thomas would have been happy to hear the situational leader of the rebellion was dead. But when he learned of Warren’s fate the next day, he told General Howe that Joseph Warren’s death was as damaging as the loss of 500 men.

  In Braintree, Abigail Adams and her children, Nabby and John Quincy, stood on Penn’s Hill and watched the smoke and fire, and listened to the cannonading from the Charlestown peninsula.

  Abigail hurried the children out of the storm and into the house. Before she followed them inside, she paused and studied the sky. Gold lightning flashed and static electricity raised the hairs on the back of her neck. In her heart, she knew that the angels were in the battle and if they were there, Joseph was with them.

  If the storm was the result of an archangel’s grief and anger, Abigail also knew that not all of them had survived. She sat on the portico step and let the silver crystalline hail pelt her while she cried.

  Eight-year-old John Quincy came out onto the portico and wrapped his small arms around his mother’s quivering shoulders. He would become the sixth president of the United States, and he would never recover from the death of the Adams’ gentle family physician, Dr. Joseph Warren. Dr. Warren had repaired young John Quincy’s badly injured finger so that he was able to write again. Dr. Warren was his hero.

  Every member of the provincial army stationed in Roxbury was perched in trees, sat on rooftops, or stood outside with their necks craned and their eyes on the sky. Fergus and his officers watched and listened to the battle from the roof of Dillaway House.

  His wings rustled uncontrollably throughout the battle, and his purple aura shined so brightly that some of his officers complained. He lost spiritual contact with his brotherhood. Fergus knew things had gone terribly wrong, not only for the angels, but also for the rebels.

  When gold lightning raced through the black clouds over the skies of New England, Fergus knew Colm had left his human vessel. He climbed down from the roof of Dillaway House and walked the road to the farm. Tears flowed down his dimpled cheeks and soaked the front of his vest and shirt. He tried desperately to establish contact with his brotherhood. Then, he saw Brandon running toward him. Fergus caught Brandon in his arms.

  Patrick fell at the crossroads on Charlestown Neck. He lay on the dirt, curled up into a tight ball and cried. His spirit was in agony, and he had no way to soothe his pain. All he could see in his mind was Henry snapping Seamus’ neck and his brother’s human vessel lying dead on the filthy redoubt floor.

  When his body began to shake uncontrollably, Patrick rolled over and threw up.

  He felt wet silver crystals hail down upon him. The energy from those silver crystals was familiar and soothing. Patrick pulled his knees up under his stomach and cried harder. Something had happened to cause Colm to leave his human vessel and unfurl his wings in the sky over New England.

  Patrick had never felt so afraid and so alone. He spiritually reached out for his brotherhood, but no one responded. He threw up again. His body curled into a tighter ball in the pool of his vomit.

  Static electricity filled the air around him.

  Then, beyond the noise of his cries, the thundering skies, and running and screaming men passing him by, Patrick sensed Michael’s physical and spiritual agony. He got to his feet, wiped the tears from his eyes, and pushed his hair away from his filthy vomit-coated face. On shaking legs, Patrick followed his senses until he found Michael lying face-down in the front yard of a vacant house.

  Patrick collapsed beside Michael. Gold lightning raced through the thick black clouds overhead when Patrick kissed the top of Michael’s blood and dirt-caked head.

  “Michael!” Patrick cried.

  Michael responded and rolled on to his back. The angels curled up together like baby birds trapped in a nest, to which their mother would never return.

  Jeremiah was riding through Dorchester, south of Boston, when black storm clouds rolled in from the north. The lack of wind associated with the moving bank of clouds was his first clue that it was no ordinary thunderstorm. He tried not to look skyward again, but gold lightning, static electricity, and silver crystalline hail were signs he couldn’t ignore. Colm had left his human vessel, and the final showdown with Henry was about to commence.

  Thoughts of his son were the only thing that kept
Jeremiah from turning the horse around and riding to Charlestown. He slowly stroked his beard in a symbolic act of self-control meant to keep him sane when he knew insanity had prevailed in the little fort on the wrong hill. His hand traveled to the empty pocket on the thigh of his deerskin breeches.

  “Joseph, I hope you put my skinnin’ knife ta good use,” Jeremiah whispered. “I know if you had the choice, you tried, but I got a feelin’ you didn’t have that choice.” He resisted the sobs forming in his throat.

  He looked skyward and wondered why he had let Colm, Joseph, and Ian talk him into leaving the battle. Ian was probably right. My stake in the battle with the demons wou'dn't make no difference ta the outcome. But it ain’t that, not really. It’s the fact that I ain’t got no idea what’s happened ta them. If Colm’s rage is causin’ that storm—

  Jeremiah shuddered and tried to leave his thoughts alone. It was a wasted effort.

  Gold lightning streaked across the sky in all directions.

  He reined his horse and turned around in the saddle for one last look at Boston. A wall of fire exploded over the lower Charlestown peninsula.

  William Dawes, William Prescott, Abe Rowlinson, and Gordon Walker heard the explosion and felt the heat just as they crossed Charlestown Neck. The men kept running toward Prospect Hill. Abe got a stitch in his side and slowed to a walk. Then, he stopped and bent over to catch his breath.

  Gordon realized that Abe was no longer with them and shouted, “STOP!”

  Both William Dawes and William Prescott stopped. They went with Gordon to join Abe. Abe straightened up and gave them a reassuring nod.

  Prescott said, “I have to report to General Ward.” He cast a nervous glance toward Charlestown. “I wish you—” He frowned. “I nearly said I wish you Godspeed. Life looks different now. I think I shall forget the disdain I have for Israel Putnam if I ever see the old scoundrel again. I hope Colm succeeds in destroying Henry. I hope we, as humans, recover from this horrible tragedy.”

  He turned and walked toward Cambridge before his intense sorrow paralyzed him.

  Abe, Gordon, and Dawes watched him go.

  “We shou’d go home to the farm,” Abe said. “Someone shou’d be there if any of them…come home.”

  Gordon tried to swallow the heartbreak he felt, but it choked him. His chest hitched in a sob.

  William Dawes turned his eyes to the sky. He had lost one of his oldest and closest friends, and the angels he had grown to consider his brothers. If he did not concentrate on his breathing, he was sure to break down and cry. Without a word, he began walking toward Watertown to take the news to Paul Revere.

  Abe shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath to steady his own desolation. When he opened his eyes, he saw Colm’s grief streak through the sky. Abe’s heart begged for the return of a family he knew had been blown apart.

  Forty-three

  Colm soared above the churning black clouds of his horrible grief. He couldn’t cope with the suffocating flood of his emotions. He considered letting his gold radiance escape him completely. Perhaps in doing so, he would incinerate everything in a world where there was very little worth saving. If he destroyed the surviving angels’ human vessels, they would be free to join him in the cosmos where they belonged. If Jeremiah, Gordon, Abe, Paul, and William died, their souls would rest in Heaven with Joseph.

  He told himself that he was through with the children of man and the pain that came from loving and protecting them.

  He suddenly yearned for the millenniums the brotherhood had spent running from God’s demons. Everything they cherished lived in those centuries—family, love, and devotion. They were whole.

  They would never be whole again. Liam, Seamus, and Ian were gone.

  With their brotherhood in pieces, Colm understood that if he carried through with his promise to sacrifice himself to protect his angels, the survivors would suffer more than if they had died at Henry’s hands. He had to disconnect his spirit from his angels to protect them if Henry did kill him.

  Colm reached to soothe their spirits. Michael, Patrick, Brandon, and Fergus fell into unconsciousness. Then, he tried to dam the flood of his emotions, but he had no inkling where to place the first stone to build the dam.

  With Jeremiah gone and Joseph dead, he had nothing and no one to turn to for guidance. Henry had taken that away from him. The churning black clouds of his grief intensified. Funnel clouds formed in the violent rotating wind of his anger.

  “FACE ME, DEMON!”

  Thunder rumbled.

  “WHY ARE YA HIDING FROM ME?”

  He isn’t hiding from me, Colm thought. He’s planning his attack while he basks in the black clouds of my grief. I have to let them go.

  The archangel susurrated his imperial silver wings and the resulting breeze cleared the skies above New England. The sun’s rays baked the earth once again. Colm looked down onto the Charlestown peninsula. Henry’s demons still possessed General Howe’s regulars and Major Pitcairn’s marines, even after the battle was over. Colm’s gold radiance bolted through the sky and blew the demons and the humans they possessed apart.

  “ANSWER ME, DEMON!”

  Henry’s voice slid through the atmosphere. “I am here, archangel. I see you no longer have qualms about killing the children of man.” Henry’s brief laugh rumbled like distant thunder. “It makes no difference. Your human toy is dead.”

  “Toy?” Colm asked in disbelief and anger. “If ya believed Joseph was nothing more than a toy to me, why did ya murder him?”

  “Me? I did not murder your toy…I mean your pet. Robert did. But I suppose it is all the same to you.”

  Colm’s wings rustled as he tried to keep the rage of his grief at bay. He needed to convince himself that Joseph’s death wasn’t his fault. “Answer me! Why did ya murder him?”

  “It was a mistake. Robert was overzealous. I intended to make you choose between Warren’s life and your brother’s life so you would suffer the torment of your decision for the rest of your existence.” Henry saw Colm’s gold radiance flicker in distress. He smiled, and cooed, “But you already knew that, archangel.”

  Colm’s control slipped a little.

  “You should have masked your love for your pet,” Henry advised. “An angel’s love is bright and ardent, and easy to take advantage of.”

  “Shut ya mouth, demon! Ya know nothing about an angel’s love!” Colm spread his wings wide. Silver crystals glittered in the sun as they fell to earth. His spirit flew at Henry, and he screamed, “WHERE ARE MY ANGELS?”

  Henry’s energy blinked in surprise at Colm’s sudden voraciousness. “I do not know. Perhaps, you should ask God what happens to angels who reject Heaven, and then die. It makes no difference. The rest will follow quickly once you are dead.”

  Colm suddenly understood that Henry, in his rapacity, had never considered that victory would only bring about his own destruction. God would have no use for him once the angels were dead.

  Like flickering ghosts, Henry’s ragged army of demons began to rise from the earth’s surface in answer to their leader’s silent beckon call.

  “What is left of your army is useless,” Colm said.

  “Perhaps, but they are no longer needed. It is just you and I now, as it should be.” Henry laughed as though he had delighted himself by solving a riddle. “Did you turn your back on the children of man in order to serve your brother, Lucifer? It is not surprising now that I contemplate it. You are a pariah. Your brothers despise you. Even the man the Christians worship had the sense to say ‘Get thee behind me Satan’.”

  Colm threshed his wings in response. He soared above Henry and the army of demons like a hawk seeking prey. Green light and gold radiance spun in a centrifuge of vehement violence. Stray electrical currents of gold lightning incited the sky.

  Henry sensed the thrust of Colm’s energy. It was not the basis of power he fought in 1318, when Colm and he had clashed at the Battle of Faughart. Colm’s energy was charged with human emot
ions. The weaknesses of that power were endless. The strengths of that power depended on the depths from which it was drawn.

  For Colm, his capacity for human emotion was an unexpected end to a journey that had taken him to a place of enlightenment he didn’t know existed. He let the flood of his emotions sweep him away.

  Henry wielded Colm’s enlightenment like a sword. He anticipated Colm’s reaction with glee when he said, “You failed to choose between your brother and your pet. Since your pet is dead, I will satisfy myself with your brother. Then, I will kill him, too.”

  “I failed? Robert took him from me!” Colm’s rage detonated with the roar of thunder. The last of Henry’s army exploded. Fire rained from the late afternoon sky.

  The electrically charged particles from his energy collided with gaseous particles in the Earth’s atmosphere, and the northern hemisphere lit up with the green lights of the Aurora Borealis. Colm redirected his tempestuous fury away from Earth. It raced through space and dimmed the sun.

  Henry escaped and returned to the Charlestown peninsula to repossess his vessel.

  Colm’s grotesque grief flared. He pictured Liam dropping dead the moment the angels rejected Heaven. He saw Henry snap Ian’s and Seamus’ necks. He heard Joseph say, ‘I love you, Colm.’ He smelled gunpowder and saw Robert shoot Joseph in the face. The tempestuous fury Colm had directed away from Earth came flooding back into his spirit.

  Then, Colm’s palimpsest, the last remnants of Colm Bohannon’s human soul that had been a part of the archangel’s spirit for 600 years, spoke to him. “It will hurt ya spirit, but ya must let Henry’s intentions play out.”

  Colm went after Henry.

  Major John Pitcairn was taken by boat back to Boston and put to bed in a house on Prince Street. General Gage sent a loyalist town physician, Dr. Thomas Kast, to tend to Pitcairn.

  “Where are you hurt?” Dr. Kast asked as he sat in a chair at John’s bedside.

  Pitcairn’s hand hovered over the wound to his chest. “Here.”