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Connecticut
July 1784
Butler Tavern: The humid, still summer air, thick with tobacco and the bitter scent of alcohol, made it hard to breathe as Thomas Heyward sat at a narrow table nursing his beer. Butler Tavern catered to politicians and merchants rather than laborers: The State House was but one block away, and the tavern held some prestige for being the scene of Connecticut's earliest defiance to English rule when the colonial assembly refused to surrender their charter in 1687.
He waited here, while Philip Waymouth made his case to the Connecticut Assembly. Rhode Island's William Ellery guaranteed his state's support, he being a veteran of Edward Rutledge's intrigues. Connecticut proved a tougher nut to crack with friendliness to their Massachusetts neighbors weighed against possible consequences for rocking the boat.
Politics are not my thing, Heyward thought. Perhaps Rutledge had done him a favor all those years ago getting him out of Congress. Hard to say. He knew he had to go back though, knew that if he was to thwart the thing ruling Carolina he would need America strong ... and free. From Waymouth's explanations it sounded like they were careening towards autocracy, if not fascism. That would never do. Aside from purely idealistic motivations, an America like that wouldn't be inclined to help stop Germany...
"Evenin' mate!" A sailor who apparently didn't mind being out of place sat down across from him. Thin, forties, he smelled of the sea despite Hartford being forty miles inland.
Must have come up river, Tom realized. He lifted his gaze to the sailor, who stiffened at the look in his eyes. "I'm waiting for someone."
"'E's not here," the sailor reasoned. "And the room's right crowded." He lifted his mug in salute then drank.
Tom stared into his glass. Clearly he needed Congress then, which meant at least seven votes for a majority, eight for two-thirds. So far he had three...
"Nice night!" the sailor remarked. "Bit hot though!"
"Yes." He hoped short answers would hint he wanted to be alone. He hoped in vain.
"Cooler by the shore. You get a right sea breeze goin' there."
"I'm sure."
"'N the ladies are freer if you get m' meaning!"
Tom looked up sharply.
"What's wrong, mate? Don' be glum! Come, le's have a drink!" He reached across to hand Heyward his glass, but being slightly drunk he missed and shoved the glass on his lap. "'Oops!"
Tom stood, beer dripping from his breeches and glared.
No, the sailor thought.
Don't care for the bugger's eyes at all. Think I'll do something about it. Before he could reply, he felt a beefy hand on his shoulder.
"Take your drink elsewhere, son," Waymouth said.
He turned and regarded the congressman. "You're an old bugger," he observed. The next minute he found his face smashed into the bench. He squealed and tried to break free to no avail.
"I was fighting before you left your mother's teat," Waymouth growled. "Bigger men than you have tried their luck. I've fought in three wars and have more notches in my rifle than some
armies. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Leggo!" The sailor finally wrenched free. He felt his nose: His hand came away red. "Hell! You broke my nose!"
"Yes." Waymouth reached across, took the sailor's glass and drank.
"Bugger!"
He thought about it. "Probably." He finished the drink. "Leave." He watched the man scurry away, cursing.
Heyward regarded his confederate solemnly. "Remind me never to debate you."
"Bah!" Waymouth sat. "He just needed someone to remind him there's always a bigger fish. Most boys his age need to be thumped now and then for their own good."
"Like John?" Tom smiled.
He snorted. "Especially John!"
"I suppose I should thank you for keeping an eye on him all those years ago." Heyward signaled the waitress for two more beers.
Waymouth shrugged. "Do it for all my boys, General. That's what command's about where I come from."
"Is that why you took Harding in?" Heyward paused. "I apologize. I appear to have overstepped."
Waymouth forcibly unclenched his jaw. "Harding's a good boy. I like him."
"So do I, but he is..."
"A cripple?" he snapped.
"...He is not home where they can take care of him."
"Boy doesn't need taking care of. Someone who understands what he's gone through maybe. You think someone who hasn't been in a fight can help with that? You know better."
Tom nodded slowly. Certainly he'd never understood battles or warfare until he'd been in both. "Being shot at changes one's perspective amazingly."
"Aye." Waymouth took his beer from the hovering waitress and waved her off. She left, muttering to the other waitress that neither of the older gents even glanced at her. Her companion theorized they might be
particular.
"How did it go?" Tom asked.
"Eh? Oh, them. They're
debating now. Andre...Andrews is observing and offering advice on behalf of the great state of New Hampshire." He snorted. "Best settle in."
"You trust him?"
"Andrews? Hell no. We have his hide in a sling. He'll never forgive us for it. Still, I think telling him his friends might benefit has swung him for now. He wants to be able to go home handsomely. I can accept that. Plus, Harding's watching him."
They sat silently for some time, lost in thought. Heyward was working out what he could say in Philadelphia when Waymouth spoke again: "How
is John?"
Heyward shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't talked to him in...well, it's only been a few months. It feels like years." He smiled grimly. "We argued last time. We do that often."
"You should stop."
Tom chuckled. "It's hard. I see him and my blood boils. I think he feels the same way."
"All the more reason to stop."
Heyward looked up at the sadness in his voice, reached across and gripped his wrist. This confirmed the waitresses' suspicions who pursed their lips in disapproval.
"Do you have children?" he asked quietly.
The door to the tavern slammed open and Harding strode in like he'd just won the Battle of Ticonderga by himself. He grinned at the room. Andre edged in after him, more subdued but still looking pleased. They strode over and wondered at Waymouth's hard expression.
"Good news?" Heyward asked, looking up.
"Connecticut's with us," Harding boomed, drawing several curious stares.
"Then that's four."