Phantoms In Philadelphia (28 page)

When we reached Centre Square, the
place was alive with activity. Tents were thrown open with displays
inside, and the more affluent citizens had tables spread with an
array of food and drink for their friends. The captain of the horse
guards was lining up his men,
and in the
background rose the white marble pump house. It was a square
building with a large, round, water tank on top. Until last year,
water was drawn from the Schuylkill River at the Chestnut Street
pump house, and then pumped to a sufficient height so that it could
flow by gravity through a tunnel to Centre Square. Those who paid
water rent and constructed a connecting pipe could have water
delivered directly into their homes as we had. There were too many
issues with the steam engine that pumped the water, so last year;
this pump house was shut down, and the new Fairmount water works
now distributed the water.

It was my first year attending this celebration in
Philadelphia, but Dudley assured me it was not to be missed. I
needed some sort of amusement that would help to take my mind from
Guinevere.

After she gave me the cut direct at the Harvey’s
party, I set out to show her that whatever Richard had told her was
a lie, but she would have none of me. I was turned away from her
house every day without a glimpse of her. I did not know how much
more of the separation I could take. It felt as if my heart had
been torn from my chest, cut in two and then only half returned.
Guinevere held the other half, and I was afraid that until I made
her my wife, I would not feel whole.

I stood beside my mother as the speeches were given,
my eyes always searching the crowd for a fiery head and a pair of
purple eyes. After the band played, my mother and Bess bid me
goodbye, and I set off in search of friends, food, and fire water;
not necessarily in that order.

As I walked through the crowd, there were men and
women at tables with petitions, people selling goods, men dressed
in military uniforms telling stories about the war, and some men
already boisterous from generously flowing ale. I stopped beneath a
picture of George Washington that was hung from the top of a tent.
The nation’s flag swayed in the wind above the portrait, reminding
me of why we celebrated and why I was a Phantom.

The last year had been spent trying to recover from
the war to rise above the losses, the destruction, and become a
better united nation.

The strange behavior of the weather was making
recovery difficult. Some called it a purging of the nation after so
much blood had been shed, and so much anger had been exchanged. On
this day, a day that should have been hot and the dangers of
disease rife, the weather was like what would be expected in
April.

“John!”

I turned to find a group of my friends advancing
upon me with Dudley at the center. We spent a few hours laughing as
we watched some of our friends participate in the strong man games
that were offered by the owners of a traveling carnival. It was
dusk when we sat down to dinner. Andrew still had not returned, not
that I blamed him.

Most of the men were well and truly drunk, as they
started toasting the reigning beauties. I could hold my wine better
than most, my father having schooled me at a young age how to hold
my liquor.

Every night for a week, my father, forced me to
partake of strong spirits until my tolerance was high. I was only
twelve at the time, but my father was adamant, saying that to hold
one’s liquor was important to a spy, for one would never know when
that skill would come in useful. I looked around me and examined my
friends’ actions. There were chucklers, thinking everything was
humorous; swearers, damning everything and everyone; high-lows, one
minute being jolly and the next ready to fight; and then there were
mopers. Dudley was a moper.

One chap by the name of Philip, who was a chuckler,
raised his glass, saying, “To Dudley’s lament.” Laughter rolled
down the table, but they were not finished. Philip started to sing,
and after a moment, the others joined in.

“When first a babe upon the knee, My mother us’d to
sing to me.

I caught the accents from her tongue, And e’er I
talk’d I lisp’d in song.

I’m little Bess the Ballad singer

I’m little Bess

I’m little Bess

I’m little Bess the Ballad singer.”

They broke off in shouts of laughter, and I could
not help but laugh along. I was thankful Andrew was not there.

Dudley jumped up; red faced, shouting, “You will not
be-smirch my ff-air ff-lower's nn-ame! Nn-ame your ss-seconds.”

I pushed Dudley down to a chair, laughing. “My
sister will never marry you if you are to create scandal by
fighting over her fair name.”

“Sh-ee will not marry me, regardless-ss, and it
is-ss all the fault of that damn Madis-son,” grumbled Dudley as he
slouched in the chair. “He prom-issed. He ss-said I sh-should have
her if I would ss-urrender her fortune.” Dudley leaned on the arm
of the chair, sinking his chin onto his hand.”

Philip directed a question to me, “Why not give your
consent and allow the man to marry?”

Another fellow shouted from down the table,
“Because, I would not be able to marry her.”

Ignoring the others, I sat beside Dudley, asking
quietly, “Who said you should have her?”

“That pp-uffed up pp-eacock,” replied Dudley, his
brows knit together in a scowl.

Of all that is holy!
“What is the name of the peacock?” I asked,
needing to hear it from Dud.

Dudley’s eyes moved toward me, and then his body
shifted to lean on the other arm of the chair near me. “Your
ff-uture ff-ather.”

Murderous rage was racing through me, but I kept my
voice level as I asked, “When was this?”

Dudley stared at the men down the table laughing and
drinking and did not reply.

“When did Richard promise that you should marry
Bess?”

Dudley sighed and closed his eyes. “It does not
matter. My hope is dashed; my dream is gone. My dove has found a
new man to love,” Dudley whispered in perfect clarity.

My anger grew rampant. There was no end to Richard’s
vice. I blamed Dudley not at all. All blame lay at Richard’s feet.
To make Dudley such an offer, knowing that Dudley would never
refuse as his love for Bess outweighed everything else was, to me,
a crime that could never be forgiven. My thoughts turned to
Guinevere, causing my hands to ball into fists. The thought of
Richard threatening her made my blood boil to a nearly
uncontrollable degree. Well, things would change tomorrow. I was
going to find her in the morning, and I would not leave until she
promised to marry me. I would see her well away from Richard if I
had to destroy the man.

Thomas called to me, “Who is the fair beauty you
mean to toast, John?”

“Would that I could but look upon her face, know her
thoughts and her dreams,” I replied reverently.

The men laughed and demanded to know who the fair
maiden was, but I would not utter her name.

“Should I hazard a guess as to the fair name?”
Thomas asked with raised brows.

I spread out my hands but said nothing.

Thomas looked at me for a moment. “I take it to mean
that you have given up the church?”

Raising my glass to my lips I paused but a moment,
smiling, then took a long drink. That was reply enough.

“You have succeeded where most of us here have
failed,” Thomas told me.

Another man quipped in, “She never asked me to go
riding with her, and I am a much better horseman.”

Philip looked at me. “Whoever she
is, she must prefer
little
men.”

I was too sober to allow the comment to rankle me.
Instead, I lifted my glass toward Philip and took another sip.

“You will not rile him this night. Well, gentlemen,
raise your glasses. To John’s not-so-secret love,” said Thomas,
raising his glass. “May he soon look upon her face.”

I raised my glass to that, hoping beyond anything
that tomorrow would be my fortunate day.

Thomas thumped his glass on the table and stood,
pushing his chair back. “I’m ready for more entertainment. Who’s
with me?”

Dud’s anger abated; he went along with the others. I
stood on the corner of Chestnut Street and watched as they piled
into a carriage and drove away singing loud and slightly out of
tune.

“How does my Lady’s garden grow?

How does my Lady’s garden grow

in silver bells and cockle shells

and pretty maids all in a row.”

Not in the mood for more ‘fun,’ I decided to walk
home. I could have hired a carriage, but much was on my mind, and a
walk in the moonlight suited my mood.

It was a half hour walk from Centre Square to my
house, and I could not let down my guard, especially on this day.
The town had its share of thieves, and they came out in force on
holidays.

When I made it to the corner of 4th and Spruce
Street, I was chilled all over. It was so cold that I could see my
breath as I exhaled. I was about to turn down Spruce, when I saw a
figure hooded and cloaked in black several paces in front of me on
4th Street. The way the person was hurrying caused my curiosity to
get the best of me. I followed.

The figure turned onto Cypress Street, and a flash
of skirt protruded from under the cloak. That was no man ahead of
me. I picked up my pace, determined to see that the woman came to
no harm. What any woman was doing out alone was no business of
mine, though it did not keep me from wondering. She was three
houses away from 3rd Street, when she suddenly stopped. I expected
her to turn and look toward me, but she did not. She was looking to
her right, as if something had captured her attention. She stepped
closer to a small alley between two houses.

What is the fool woman doing?

A large shadow moved out of the alley, grabbed the
woman, then they both disappeared.

My stomach dropped. I pulled my pocket pistol out as
I ran to the alley. I slowed as I neared, being sure not to let the
sounds from my shoes touching the cobblestones make a loud noise. I
was in front of the house beside the alley when a woman’s voice
floated out.

“You do not want to do that.”

It washed over me like someone throwing cold water
on me in the middle of winter.

“Ah, Guinevere, we’s only playing,” a man’s scratchy
voice replied.

Guinevere. Everything in me reeled. I pressed my
back against the house to keep myself upright.

It could not be her; it must be
some other Guinevere.
Even as I thought the
words I knew that there was no other Guinevere, it was she.
Something inside of me snapped when I heard her voice
again.

“If you touch me, I will be forced to take action,
and you do not want that to happen.” It was definitely her
voice.

Rage boiled inside of me, anger at her for risking
her life in being out alone, but full rage at whoever the ruffian
was who was accosting her. I started to move into the alley, when
the man’s voice froze me mid-step.

“Them Phantoms aptly named ye when they called ye
the white phantom.”

I grasped hold of the brick house for support. There
was a street lantern at the other end of the alley that illuminated
them enough for me to see what was happening, but not enough to
make out faces. I watched the man lean one hand against the brick
of one of the houses that made up the alley. There was hardly
enough room for one person, so when he leaned against her, there
was no space between them. Two other shadows appeared on the other
side of him. They had not noticed my presence.

This cannot be. It is a
lie!
My mind screamed the words, but my
mouth remained clamped shut in a hard line.

“Ye won’t be gettin’ away from us this time. We will
take our payment from ye an’ when we’re through, ye can run to that
pig an’ tell him we ain’t workin’ for him no more.” The large man
took her arm and yanked her away from the wall.

My wrath overcame my shock, and I raised my pistol,
but I could not fire for fear of hitting Guinevere. With the
recovery from my shock, clear thinking started to return. If she
truly was the white phantom, I could not let her see me. I stepped
to the front of the house and watched, keeping my pistol aimed at
the shadows in the alley.

“I likes me a feisty wench. Let’s see yer
mettle.”

All went quiet then the sound of ripping fabric
echoed through the alley, and my heart stuttered in complete fear.
I no longer cared if she saw me. I would not allow those villains
to assault her. I moved forward, but Guinevere’s hand came up
holding something, and she struck the man across his forehead. He
released her, swaying before falling forward against the brick
wall. Guinevere turned to face the other two, her back to me.

One of the men growled as he moved toward her with
his fists up. He tried to strike her, but she used her weapon to
strike his fist, causing a cracking sound; then she used her weapon
and hit the man in the throat cutting off his agonized scream. The
choking and gurgling sounds meant that the man had but seconds to
live. I lowered my pistol and stepped out of the alley again while
Guinevere confronted the third man. I kept my pistol in hand, as a
precaution, but I was too intrigued and confused to do anything
more than watch and wait.

The third man grabbed her weapon from her hand,
threw it down the alley, and shoved her against the wall as her
weapon landed near my feet. His large hand went around her throat.
“I should kill ya. All it would take is a little pressure.” I was
ready to interfere, but the man’s voice halted me. “A child’s toy.”
Between them she was holding a long dagger, the blade pressed
against his heart.