Philadelphia
November 1784
Eric Maslow sat in the balcony overlooking Congress, alone except for two merchants who sat some distance away eagerly awaiting the defeat of New York's proposal to put tolls on major roads backed by the presence and force of the Army. This only enjoyed indifferent support, for many of the gentlemen in the room below were merchants themselves who stood to lose. Further, weren't tolls and road maintenance really a state-by-state matter? Did Philadelphia really have a right to be involving itself in such minutiae?
"This is all very interesting," John Adams called from below, "and should I have need of someone to watch over Massachusetts' welfare, I'm sure I could
probably do worse than the august gentlemen in this chamber. However, we do not need any kind of national oversight. Massachusetts does quite fine on her own without congressional 'help.'" Maslow nodded slightly. "Perhaps we should spend our time considering foreign issues, like this Carolina Federation."
Maslow grit his teeth.
"Mister Monroe, when can we expect Virginia to let General Arnold proceed!?"
Monroe replied by standing, taking out his pocket watch and staring at it for nearly a minute.
"Well?"
"I am waiting for hell to freeze over, Mister Adams."
"Very well. Mister President, Massachusetts moves that we oblige Mister Monroe and Virginia to cause hell to freeze over!"
"Enough nonsense." Maslow glanced out a window at the darkening grey sky and glanced at his own pocket watch. Time. He stood and put on his hat.
The guard, a clean shaven boy whose only weapons against people throwing things at the delegates from above were gentle admonitions and a truncheon, stood as well. He was used to this newcomer leaving early. "Good day, sir. Do you need an escort leaving?"
"No, sir. I know the way." Maslow bowed and departed, but rather than take the wide staircase heading down and so out, he darted around the corner and through a small door into the steeple. Up narrow, treacherous stairs that showed signs of rot in places, and so to the bell. People rarely came up here: The steeple was so badly worn by age and weather that they only rang the State House Bell on special occasions.
PROCLAIM LIBERTY THROUGHOUT ALL THE LAND UNTO ALL THE INHABITANTS THEREOF commanded the bell in Romanesque lettering, but liberty from whom? Maslow felt they'd only exchanged one master for another, British for American.
BY ORDER OF THE ASSEMBLY OF THE PROVINCE OF PENSYLVANIA... the bell went on. This seemed closer to the mark. Let Pennsylvanians, Carolinans, everyone take care of their own problems and come and go as they please. This national assembly was madness, tyranny of the more numerous and smaller northern states given form and voice. Well, that would end tomorrow wouldn't it? Guy Fawkes Day would once more represent freedom from oppression and the willingness of patriots to throw off their yokes at any cost. He smiled at the happy coincidence that allowed him to do this on November 5, when around America people would continue the old British tradition of lighting fireworks in celebration.
"I warrant you won't best my display," he told the tiny, departing figures far below.
*******
"I tell you, he hasn't left," Anne Foster insisted.
"How would you know?" Waymouth demanded. They stood on the steps of Independence Hall on a cool damp, evening. She wore her now habitual cloak and cowl and stepped away from the lamps being lit in front of the building.
"Have I not been by the door this entire time? He couldn't have gone past me."
"There are other exits."
"All closed off," she snapped. "Pray don't be a fool. That way they can control who comes and goes if they have to."
"Mrs. Foster, I don't know why you are obsessing about one man. So he likes to observe. So he took a job bringing wood in. None of these make him criminal"
"They're enough to raise questions. God's death, Waymouth, you know what I did for...what I did before. I'm
trained to notice when something is out of place, and I am telling you something is
wrong. General Heyward bid me help you, so let me!" She pointed at the building. "I tell you he's still inside."
"And you don't trust the guards to flush him out if he is?"
Foster stared.
"Right."
*******
Maslow stood slowly, wincing as his muscles protested hours in the cold and damp. Below him, below the spitting and flickering lamplight, Philadelphia slept other than the occasional watchman or flitting shadow off on this or that errand. Somewhere a church bell rang nine times sounding stifled in the night air.
Slowly he descended the stairs. After a very few steps he had to chance a light and drew a shuttered lamp from the haversack bumping on his hip. A few scrapes of flint and steel produced the necessary spark on a strip of cloth, which he breathed into life before using it to light the wick and resume his descent.
Back to the second floor, then the first, stopping every few feet to listen for footsteps. His week spent watching Congress convinced him there should be no guards. Why patrol an empty building? Nonetheless, it didn't hurt to be safe, especially in the spacious, open halls that connected the Congressional meeting hall with that used by the Pennsylvania Assembly and a handful of smaller offices. Quiet, though occasionally the wind shook a window pane making him jump, draw his pistol, and stare.
During one of these frightened silences he thought he heard murmuring voices and spun about again. Nothing but a dark hallway and darkened chambers. _____, was someone here? He crept back down the hall, pistol at waist level and held his lantern high.
*******
"This is the first time I've been in the dark with a man in quite some time," Anne Foster murmured. They sat in the president's room, really rather small with only a desk, chair and a fair view of the street. Shadows hid her smile, but ambient light from the street reflected off the edges of her blond hair giving her an almost ethereal presence.
Phillip Waymouth, who found himself distracted by her scent despite himself, merely grunted.
"I have been meaning to speak with you, Waymouth," she continued quietly. Foster spoke not for her benefit but his, for he seemed the kind not used to long waits, and she could still hear noises from outside their chamber. "You have been very kind to me and I thank you, but you were never clear on why."
"You needed help, and you were at least trying to help Heyward. Why not?"
"I can give you five different reasons why not, including my being a known enemy. So why?"
He turned away and folded his arms. "You looked like you needed protecting."
She stifled a laugh. "Protection? Oh dear, my hero!" She paused as he folded his arms tighter. "I'm sorry sir, but you're lying. Or at least not telling me everything."
He turned and glared. "I do not care for your insinuations, Mrs. Foster. You are paranoid and see hidden motives everywhere. Like with this person you insist is in here somewhere. Where!?"
"Hush!" She lifted her head and listened, then stood, crossed the desk and knelt beside him. "You don't have to protect your precious honor from me, you know," she whispered. "Usually when a man is so quick to defend a lady, he is either young and foolish - you are neither, or he wants something in exchange - you've not asked, and you don't strike me as shy. So what is it, Waymouth?"
"You are ridiculous!" he snapped. "Stop looking for an ulterior motive, woman. Hell and death, it must be nigh on ten. I am tired and...what?" He paused at Foster's horrified expression. She pointed at the pool of light coming under the door.
"You in there! Come out!"
Foster started to rise, but he gripped her shoulder hard and shook his head. "Alright! I'm coming out!"
Waymouth stood, opened the door and shut it quickly behind him to stare into the barrel of a loaded pistol. He squinted at the light shining on his face and raised his hands. "Peace, friend. I'm not unarmed."
"I heard you talking!" Maslow retorted. "Who's in there?"
"No one. I was preparing to argue with my wife." Waymouth stepped away from the door. "What are you doing here?"
"I'll ask the questions!"
"Son, what are you doing here? It's very late."
"Be quiet!" Maslow raised his lamp higher. "You! You're from Massachusetts!"
"Yes, that's right."
A delegate!? "Christ!"
"No, that's Mister Adams," Waymouth smirked. "Come on, son. I'll buy you a drink at Hearle's and we..."
"How did you know about Hearles!?" Maslow screamed.
"I...I have lodgings there." Phillip stepped back as the pistol wavered, steadied, wavered again. "You don't want to do anything you can't take back," he said. "Let's go and..."
"I need to search that room!" One witness he could deal with, delegate or no. They walked in and out of sessions all the time, by the time anyone missed him...
"I told you, son. I'm alone. No!"
Maslow stalked to the door. Waymouth stepped in his path and grabbed the pistol.
"Give me that!" Eric cried. The lamp shattered as he let go, gripping his weapon in both hands. In the insane, flickering light of the dying flame they wrestled. The former soldier had experience on his side, but Maslow's youth and his injuries more than made up for it and he found himself shoved him into the wall, hard.
By now Waymouth had both hands on the gun as well, and they continued to struggle. He used the wall as leverage and shoved back, forcing the younger man off him. The pistol arced away from both of them and landed in the flame. The fire instantly reached the gunpowder inside, which flash burned and fired its deadly cargo.
*******
Anne Foster stood and yanked open the door at the gunshot. Waymouth down and bleeding, the stranger staring at her as if he'd seen a ghost. She screamed and drew a knife from her boot. Maslow turned and fled down the hall.
"Foster..."
She started after the spy, then looked down and inhaled sharply. The pistol had fired up at a sharp angle, hitting just below the armpit. Blood, thick and red, pumped from his side. She knelt next to him. "I'll get a doctor," she said, but training and instinct told her it was far too late for that.
Him too. He shook his head and whispered, "My son."
Foster looked up to make sure his assailant wasn't returning, then leaned close. "What son?"
"Why I tried to help you. My son."
He coughed up a crimson glob as she looked down at him. "You rest, Waymouth. I'll find your son if you want. Where...?"
Waymouth shook his head. "Dead. Hung himself. He'd gone mad...like you had. Thought I could beat it out of him." He choked again and wheezed. "More fool I."
Anne raised him to a sitting position to ease his breathing. He nodded gratefully and drew several shuddering breaths.
"So you helped me to make up for not being able to help him?" she asked.
He tried to laugh, but coughed instead. "Not just you...all my boys. The ones I commanded. Thought I could do it one more time." He cast watery eyes after Maslow. "Couldn't even save myself."
"You were ... you have been a good friend." She hugged him as another coughing fit erupted.
"Not enough," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Not enough."
Running footsteps, and three soldiers with muskets attracted by gunfire and light coming from the windows of a supposedly empty building ran in. They lowered their guns at the sight of a blood caked woman holding a dying, dead older man.
"What happened here!?" one of the soldiers demanded.
"God will forgive you," she murmured at Waymouth. "If he didn't long ago." Gently she lowered him to the floor, retrieved her knife and stood, still looking at him.
"What happened?" the soldier repeated, eyeing her knife warily.
"What happened?" she asked. Slowly she lifted her gaze and he shrank involuntarily. "Your delegate has been murdered!"
