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South Carolina
June 1784
SAVANNAH, Ga.
In the predawn hours of the 30th, Miss Anne Whiting was slain at Pelton's Boarding House on George Street. Miss Whiting was found in the company of Mister Malcolm Kelleher, a known agent of His Majesty's Colonial Office and fled to Georgia with Maj.Gen. Thomas Heyward following his attempted murder of Mister Edward Rutledge and subsequent defection.
Following Mister Rutledge's guidance, Col. Jonathan Preston infiltrated Savannah to capture the Major General. Having apparently learned of his deliverance to Halifax, there to coordinate with enemies of America, British authorities believe Col. Preston exacted vengeance in our name and ensured Miss Whiting could not compromise us further. For this he has our eternal grati....
John Preston crumpled the paper for the fourth time that morning and threw it on his desk, pacing back and forth in front of it. He was in full dress uniform, the blue and white of the American army with a new red sash for the Carolina Guard. His sword, battered but still useful, thumped against his hip with every step. Sunlight poured in through the open window, reddening his pock-marked, severe expression and making him sweat under the broadcloth.
"John?" Cassie appeared at the door, dressed in a simple pink gown and looking exhausted. They'd been up most of the night comparing happenings and painting a fairly black picture of the Carolina landscape: Slaves found conspiring with the Indians and thrown into labor camps to be watched by the formidable but grossly under trained 'Citizen's Army.' Sedition laws silenced the naysayers, and the Carolina Guard's defensive role now included 'convincing' those people to leave.
"John?" Cassie interrupted again. "The carriage is here."
"Fine." Preston snatched his hat and walked for the door.
She stopped him, lightly touching his arm and looked up. "You won't do anything...foolish?"
"Like speak my mind?" He softened as she lowered her gaze. "No, I won't do anything...foolish."
"If something is amiss, you're far more able to change things from within," she told him.
"Aye. I wonder if that's what Tom told himself too."
------
"Colonel Preston? Pray have a seat." William Moultrie, acting Governor of South Carolina, stood. He was a big man, his head thrown back with an aristocratic air as he shook his guest's hand. His expression matched Preston's - grave and a querulous.
Who do you belong to, Colonel? "I hope my driver did not startle you by turning off." Moultrie sat, absently jerking his silver vest into order.
"I'm a little surprised Mister Rutledge did not ask to see me," John answered slowly, sitting. Moultrie was a planter by trade, though he'd fought tolerably well during the two English wars. His office consisted of a simple desk and two chairs. A shelf with various bottles sat near the dormant hearth. It was here a slave stood, arms clasped in front of him.
"Mister Rutledge is gone," Moultrie answered bluntly.
"What?" John leaned back, eyes wide.
Gone? "How?"
The governor signaled to his slave. "Colonel Preston will have some lemonade. I think he could use it, as could I." He turned back to John. "Not literally, of course. However he has been very ill these last weeks and it is time for other men to lead Carolina."
John opened his mouth, but no words came out. He finally managed, "You startle me."
"I thought I might, Colonel." Moultrie nodded as lemonade was set in front of them. "You have been sorely out of touch, and anyway we've tried not to let word spread too far. There are many who think Mister Rutledge's reforms have made Carolina strong, and it would not do to alarm them."
Preston sipped his drink. Far too sour. "You disagree then?"
"As do you, I warrant," Moultrie replied. "A man does not thoroughly investigate an attempted murder, as you have, and come out with one word reports like
inconclusive unless he has a great deal to say on the subject but does not feel, due to honor or loyalty or family perhaps, that he may. I am aware your return to Carolina after Miss Whiting's death was strangely delayed, which suggests you have continued your investigation."
"I didn't kill her," John snapped.
"I was not there, so I cannot concur or deny. It matters little. If you did not, excellent. If you did, you were under orders from a previous administration and no doubt thought to uncover a traitor. What matters now is the future, Colonel." Moultrie leaned forward. "Are you with me?"
"For what, precisely?"
"Colonel, I thought I was clear." Moultrie frowned and leaned back. "Then again, perhaps not. I will do so. With Mister Guerard's infirmity, I am Governor of South Carolina, appointed by the State Assembly. Mister Rutledge was appointed by the Patriot's League, which while containing many of the outstanding citizens of our community has no place in the state constitution. This League outfitted Mister Rutledge with a number of powers no executive should have, lest our revolt against Britain be proven folly. He has used these powers to harm Carolina's reputation in America and abroad. He has made a mockery of everything we fought and bled for. I am not alone in believing this. We will have to move carefully, Colonel, but I want you to help me take Carolina back."
-----
So, this is death. How irritating.
Or it might be so, had this really been death. Mister Black lay on his sofa, a moist cloth over his eyes and forehead. Strangely it helped ease the headache that threatened every so often to tear his body in twain.
At first he thought Rutledge's body was dying. It would be too early, and entirely inconvenient, but not unheard of. Perhaps he'd waited too long to heal the man's broken body following the fire, perhaps some insidious poison or infection had crept into his bloodstream.
No, however. It wasn't Rutledge. It was far, far worse.
A low, angry grunt brought Black back to the present. "You have returned, Jasen."
Exeter growled his assent.
"I assume you are the one who killed Anne?"
Another growl.
"It was unnecessary."
This time Exeter sounded threatening. Black sighed and ripped the cloth from his forehead. His all too human eyes failed to adjust to the light readily, but he didn't need them to sense his hulking companion. "I would not take that tone," he said shortly. "I made you, I can unmake you. Is that what you wish, Jasen? To be penniless and helpless in Florida once more? I can arrange that!"
The former British general snarled.
"Our fates are entwined now, Jasen. Anne's death was unnecessary, but we can still use it. More importantly, did you kill Thomas?"
Exeter didn't reply. Black sighed again and dropped the cloth back over his eyes. "So he is truly on his way to Halifax. Not good. Leave me, Jasen. I need to think."
Black could feel events slipping through his fingers. Already people were turning against him, with that fickle sense of loyalty that made humans such unfit companions for God. Thomas was still out there, and though anything he said would sound like a madman's words - how many did he really need to listen? Had this all gone wrong some how? And why was it so hard to think, let alone do anything? What had the son of a bitch done to him? Why did he feel almost...
...mortal?
-----
Massachusetts
Old North Church, Boston
Carriages moved up and down the cobbled streets of Boston as the sun sank lower in the western sky. Some shops had closed early, though most stayed open, eager to take advantage of the warm, pleasant days to transact as much business as possible. People followed in the wake of the carriages, exchanging the latest gossip about this dance or that rout, business and friends, the continued perfidy of the handful of London merchants still in town.
Thomas Heyward stepped out of the Old North Church on Salem Street. He'd spent the day poring over the church records looking for any clues about Mister Black. None, of course, though the Bible had more interesting things to say:
The Old Testament ran mostly silent, though three cases implied that God might have sent evil possessing spirits. It sounded like something the harsher, pre-Resurrection God might do, which instantly made it suspect in Tom's eyes - he couldn't fathom God's attitude towards humanity changing, at least on something as important as this. Further, the Jews' insistence on a monotheistic answer to everything might cause them to believe that God had to be responsible for evil spirits as well.
The New Testament was much more detailed. Possessors could grant strength and take on the speech of their host. They could grant special powers and cause illness. This, to Tom, sounded more like Black. Multiple demons could inhabit one individual. Exorcising could only be done by Christians, and was inherently dangerous... Tom thought this would require a little more effort than "In the name of Jesus, be gone."
That, of course, assumed Rutledge had been possessed. If Mister Black had simply replaced him somehow, much as he'd replaced the 'real' Thomas Heyward, then the situation complicated significantly ... and why was Black so eager to kill Cherokee?
Tom stopped in front of a small yellow house on the outskirts of the city. Today he wore a black coat and breeches, marking him as a civilian to avoid attracting any attention. He smoothed his brown hair back under his wig, put on his hat and approached the wide oak door.
"My name is Heyward," he told the servant, handing him a small card. "I believe I'm expected."
"Yes, General. Captain Waymouth is waiting for you in his study."
