Sovereign Love

BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

The following is an excerpt from the American Revolution novel “Blood of the Martyrs,” the third book in the trilogy “All Ye that Pass By.” 

***

When Edmund came into the house, which was the former residence of Doctor Benjamin Franklin, he found a bevy of Andre’s Loyalist lady friends, chatting and laughing as they worked on various projects with paper, scissors, paint, glue, cloth, needle, and thread. 

Andre himself had his scarlet tunic hanging over a chair, and was lying flat on his back on some sort of pulley contraption, painting the underbelly of what looked rather like a giant papier-mache goose. Andre, meanwhile, looked rather like a rainbow had bled all over him.

“Ah, good, another helper!” he chirped, pushing back to the pulley and sitting up.

Ned wondered if he should just outright ask if he was going to be arrested for his refutation of the Test Act, but instead he found himself pointing at the papier-mache entity and remarking, “Well done on the goose.”

“No, no! It’s a dragon!” Andre exclaimed.

“I told you it looked like a goose,” one of the girls sniffed. 

“Peggie, you need spectacles,” Andre sighed, getting to his feet. “I mean, alright, the mold I got for the snout had much to be desired…”

She opened and closed her hand several times, making a quacking noise.

Andre sighed. “Fine. I yield to feminine perfectionism.”

“And your own,” she countered.

“And my own.”

“Don’t feel too bad, though,” she continued. “Geese are rather like dragons. I got bit by one when I was seven. Left me permanently scarred, inside and out.”

“Oh, my poor dear,” Andre sympathized. 

“Yes, my poor self,” she concurred. “I’d show you the scar, but I’d have to pull up my sleeve, and that would be unladylike of me, don’t you think?” She made an innocent face.

Andre smirked, then leaned over and said in a whisper everyone could hear, “Maybe later.” Then he kissed her arm through the sleeve, and she blushed. Then he declared more loudly, “But first…I shall avenge myself upon your attacker!” He went over to where his coat was hanging, and pulled his ceremonial sword out of the sheath. Then striking a fencing pose, he lunged forward and cut off the dragon’s beak. 

A little round of applause broke out from the ladies.

Ned blinked. “That was…dramatic, Captain.”

“I am playing Saint George for the evening’s entertainment,” Andre declared, sheathing his sword. “Call it dragon-slaying practice.”

“Self-appointed lead,” Peggie twitted.

“Well, I am the production manager,” Andre noted. “And it’s probably taken ten years off my life! Might as well get some fun out of it!”

“You are,” another girl declared, gesturing to a platter of biscuits with jam centers. “I made those just for you!”

“They are the perfect sweetmeats to help the tea go down, my lamb,” he declared, bowing slightly and pouring himself another cup from the teapot.

     “John, you’ve had nearly fifteen cups of tea since morning,” Peggie observed. “How are you ever going to sleep again? Why must you do this to yourself?”

     “Staying alive, Peggie, staying alive,” he replied, taking another deep sip. “You Americans really must learn to treat tea with more reverence. Besides, I’ll have plenty of time to sleep post-mortem! Caffeine is for those who love life!” 

    “Your blood has had caffeine in it from birth,” Peggie decided. 

     “Why, thank you, my dear,” he replied. He turned to Ned and extended the platter. “Want a biscuit?”

    “Oh, I…don’t mean to intrude on your Christmas party,” he said awkwardly.

    “This isn’t a Christmas party!” Andre retorted. “This is a preparation party for the Christmas party!”

    “Yes, there is a difference,” Annabelle insisted, eating one of her own biscuits. 

    “Too many people scoff over partying,” Andre remarked. “They have no real idea of the amount of work that goes into it! There’s countless arts that must be brought to the fore to make a party worth having. It can be positively intensive labor. But what can I say? Anything to bring a little culture to primitive lands!”

    “Hmph! Watch who you’re talking to!” Peggie scolded him, folding her arms.

     “…lands blessed with natural beauties endowed with the sensitivity to assist in cultivating said culture!” Andre added, then glanced over his left shoulder. “Annabelle, did you just throw a ball of tissue paper at me?”

     “Yes,” she snorted. 

      He groaned. “We are running low on our supply, and it’s no good after being all crumpled up! Waste not, want not!”

    “What are you going to do about it?” she dared him. “Hang me?” 

     Andre gave her a wicked grin, and made a pretend noose out of a paper chain.

    “Oof!” she exhaled. “You’re incorrigible!”

     “Yes, aren’t I? Though I imagine you could get me to grant you clemency with some gentle persuasion…”

    “And what if one of us decides to spy on you?” Peggie pressed him.

    “Well, then, my dear, I’ll be the first to know!” He tossed the chain over to her. “Part of my job description and all that. But I’m entirely convinced you’re all among the most loyal ladies to draw breath in colonial air.” 

    “The air is too cold here,” Annabelle lamented. “I despise it.” 

    “But there’s snow, my lamb! Far more than in England! That’s one of the most enjoyable parts of this tour of duty!”

   “Yes, I noticed when you threw that snowball at me outside,” she shot back, folding her arms.

    He shrugged. “I did take you on a sleigh ride, though.”

    “And I was cold!”

    He rolled his eyes. “I’m working on sorting out a lining for your cape for the party, alright?” He gestured broadly around the room. “Working on designs for all of you, in fact.”

     “Your designs are always exquisite, John,” one of the other girls preened, batting her eyelashes. 

    “Your in-put is of greatest value, Daphne,” he replied.

     “Then host a joust!” she pleaded. “It would be epic!”

     “I’m not disagreeing with you, especially since I already own a lance,” he said. “It was one of those birthday presents to myself. But I would need significantly more durable armor than I currently am in possession of if I do not wish to be skewered. I’ve been wanting to have some made, but I also have to abide by some sort of budget…”

    “Do you, though?” Daphne pressed.

    “Well…” Andre shrugged. “I’d feel obliged to update all your wardrobes too…keep the running medieval aesthetic…and that would economically sink me…plus we’d need other participants with equally durable armor…”

    “Aww,” cooed Peggie. “Just charge it to General Howe!”

     “Possibly,” Andre conceded, “if the party was in his honor. Perhaps it can be arranged. I don’t know. I’ll need to make some floor maps now for where a jousting arena could be erected in this city…”

    “I know some places,” Peggie insisted. “We can go scouting together.”

    “I know places too, you know,” Daphne countered, just a little jealously. 

    “I would be happy to survey the lay of the land with you both,” he assured. “But…first things first. It’s Christmas, and we’ve got a show that must go on this Sunday.” He spun around to face Ned. “I say, have you ever made snowflakes out of cloth?”

    “No,” Ned admitted.

    “Well, now’s the hour to learn. You see, I intend to have these sewn onto the cloaks for an added perk, and uniformity. So you’re just the man we need.”

     “I am?” Ned asked incredulously, still wondering if and when he would be arrested.

     “Absolutely, dear boy.”

     So Ned found himself trying to cut out snowflakes out of cloth for around a half an hour, while the girls argued over who would get the role of the princess rescued from the dragon in the play, and Andre declared it should be solved by drawing lots ala Jonah and the Whale, since he could not possibly choose among so many fair damsels he would enjoy rescuing. Finally, he turned his attention back to Ned and his snowflakes. 

    “Oh,” Andre said. “Those…look rather like stars cut out of Swiss cheese. I know. I made them in Geneva.”

    Ned raised an eyebrow.

    “It was a mood, probably brought on by the dour surroundings,” Andre explained. “You see, I was making a party platter of meat and cheese for myself and several friends, and I thought it would be more entertaining if I trimmed the edges of each piece before putting them on the toothpicks. It became my specialty.”

     “Oh,” Ned sighed. “Well…I suppose snowflakes aren’t my specialty.” He pushed the fabric away. “I’m not terribly good at making things in general, aside from daisy chains…”

     “Ever tried paper chains?” Andre queried. 

    “I helped make a few with my sister for a barn dance once…when I was around ten…”

     “A protégé! Magnifique!”

     Ned soon found himself being given a small pile of colored paper, a jar of glue, a brush, and another jar of some unidentified glittery substance which he was instructed to use liberally.

    “Make it shine, brother soldier, make it shine!”

     So Ned, encouraged by Andre’s choice of address for him, set about doing his worst. He picked up the scissors he had used for the snowflakes (or Swiss cheese stars) and started to cut long strips of paper. He just hoped the width was not too radically different from one strip to another.

     Then Annabelle started shrieking incoherently, and Ned automatically stiffened, his heart pounding. He hated how easily he could be set off these days, even as he made out part of her screeching pertaining to “fabric scissors!” She was soon shouting quite close to his face, and he found himself shrinking back in his chair.

     “Shoosh, Annabelle,” chided Andre, swooping in. “Your theatrics have got him in a fright.” He leaned over Ned, his face sympathetic then explained calmly, “You were using fabric scissors to cut paper, Lieutenant. You see, fabric scissors must not be used for paper, nor paper scissors for fabric. Those are the rules of war.”

   Ned squinted. “Of war?”

   Andre shrugged. “Well, something like that. It just comes down to using the right tools…”

    “You chopped off a papier-mache goose’s beak with a military sword,” Ned observed.

     “A dragon’s snout,” he countered, “but point taken. We can all afford to improve ourselves.” Andre brought over the paper scissors and placed them on the table in front of Ned. “Carry on, my good man.”

     So Ned did, rather nervously, and got glue and glitter all over everything in the process. He hoped no one would notice. Fortunately, by the time he was done, they all seemed to have wandered off to the adjacent room.

    “Would anyone like to steal anything before I do the final trawl, ladies?” Andre queried. “I don’t want to be greedy. The spoils of war should be shared amongst the loyal!”

    Ned went into the next room and observed that they had congregated around a bunch of crates, mostly filled with books. “First, you were Saint George, and now you’re…Robin Hood?”

     “Eh, I wear many hats.” He grabbed a random book. “Would anyone like a book on arachnids of North America? Daphne?”

    “Eww! Keep away from me with that! You know I despise spiders!” She shuddered.

     “Ah, but there’s an entire section on dancing spider mating rituals…” He winked. 

     “You’re perverse!”

      He laughed. 

      “I don’t know,” Peggie sighed, glancing around.

     “About my being perverse?” Andre finished for her.

     “No, I know that already…”

     “Well, good,” Andre replied, putting a hand on his chest, as if relieved.

     “I mean I don’t know about stripping this house. I still feel awkward about it, even if it does belong to a traitor. He used to be our neighbor…” 

     “The not-so-good Doctor Franklin, having forsworn his allegiance to his sovereign, is now being wined and dined in the land of my ancestors, with a glass of burgundy in one hand, a croissant in the other, and a cheeky mademoiselle on each knee,” Andre declared. “And here I am, poor soldier…”

    “Poor soldier,” Peggie repeated sarcastically, making a little pout with her mouth.

     “A starving artist!”

     “Are you insulting my jam biscuits?” Annabella demanded.

     “Why must you interpret everything personally, mon cheri? Anyway…a wayfaring poet, on a pilgrimage through life…”

    “Is this meant to be a motivational speech, Captain?” Ned queried, amused.

    “I’m just saying…think of it like a book sale! But better, since it’s free!”

     The corner of Ned’s mouth twitched.

    “If we’re going to be stealing anyway, why limit ourselves to books?” Annabelle inquired, then pointed to the nearby chaise. “I want those pillows.”

     Andre sighed. “Whilst you covet the man’s pillows, I covet only knowledge! And possibly the doctor’s portrait on yonder wall, so I can brag about capturing the old rascal…” His eyes twinkled. “Though I must say, Annabelle, you and pillows make a delicious combination…”

     She hit him in the side with one of the pillows. When she turned around, he promptly took the second pillow and hit her in the back side. She squeaked and gave him a scolding look. And more blows from both sides in the pillow fight ensued as Ned looked on, not quite sure what to make of it all. 

    When the ladies had finally said their goodbyes, promising to reconvene the day after tomorrow to finish their projects, Andre took Ned back over to the crates.

    “I saved something special for you,” Andre said, picking up a book with a gold-embossed binding. “The writings of Francois Fenelon. I am afraid Roman Catholic archbishops from France are not quite to my usual taste, given my Huguenot heritage, but…he once wrote, ‘All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers.’ I find that rings true to me. Royalists and Revolutionaries, Papists and Protestants, you and me…it’s all the same tragedy, with fear and hate and revenge running on, seemingly without end, claiming more victims by the day. But we can endeavor, in our own small ways, to disrupt that pattern.” 

     “You seem the sort to do it, Captain,” Ned remarked.

     “Sometimes, yes, I try…” He gestured broadly. “I remember one day seeing our soldiers herding a couple of rebels onto one of the prison hulks, where so many of their comrades lie rotting. These two were mere boys, fourteen or fifteen at most. One even started to weep, and could not be moved. I was struck suddenly, oh-so suddenly, by the thought, not quite my own, that they were, as Fenelon said…my brothers. And my heart bled for them as it might bleed for my own blood. A bitter grace, that, in such a bitter war as this. So I found myself going over to the boy who was weeping and taking his hand to calm him. I talked with him for a spell, and he told me how he had been happy with his family that very morning, and now he and his brother would never see their mother and sisters again.” Andre bit his lip. “I told him not to cry, but rather to show himself manly. Then I ordered the soldiers not to touch either of them till my return. I went off and pulled what strings I could with the general. I manage to do that ever and anon, you know…beg poor devils off, according to his good pleasure. So I went back, and the guards were saying the fool lads should thank their lucky stars that I had seen them, and I felt a dreadful weight at the prospect of so many others like them I had not saved. I told them I had good news for them, that they were put under my authority, to do with as I pleased…and that I would be pleased if they ran away.” Andre chuckled, then grew solemn. “I told them to go home and to fear God. I told them to be good boys, and love one another, and honor their parents, and say their prayers, and keep all the commandments, and that if they did so, the Lord would bless them. I told them…” He winced. “I told them not to be like me.”

     Ned touched his arm. “I think if the world had a few more people like you, it would not be worse for wear.”

     “Well, let’s just say I hope those two young scoundrels end up with twelve children a piece, and then they each have twelve children a piece, and on down their lineage, so that when this rebellion is subdued, and the King’s peace restored, it can be said that I helped to repopulate British America!” He smiled his wonderfully warm smile as he handed the book to Ned. “I figured you might find it suitable reading on the voyage home.”

    The word “home” made Ned’s heart leap in his chest. “Captain, if I am indeed going home, shall it be as a free man, or under arrest?”

     “Don’t fret,” Andre said kindly. “I’ve had a good long conversation with General Howe, and, well, he agrees with me that you pose no imminent threat. It is my job to ascertain these things, and I’d like to believe I am thorough about it. All you need to do is quietly resign from the service upon your return to England, and no further inquiries will be made. At least…not unless you give us a future cause. I do hope you respect me enough not to prove my judgment ill-founded.”

     Ned swallowed hard. “I would rather have my hand struck off than ever to raise it against my countrymen.”

     Andre nodded. “I have chosen to believe that, and put my name to it. Speaking of which…please, call me John, or Jean, my family’s preference. I answer to both.”

     Ned smiled. “Thank you.”

     They walked back into the room where various crafts for the party remained incomplete. It felt somehow melancholic to Ned, a moment of life so full of laughter, now consigned to silence. He thought back on so many of his friends, consigned to silence as well, and found himself worrying for Andre.

     “Oh, Ned,” Andre exclaimed, glancing down at the table where Edmund had been set to work making paper chains. “What’s this?”

     He picked up a cross, braided from the leftover scraps of colored paper.

     “When I was young, I used to make them out in the tall grass behind our house during Eastertide,” Ned explained. “I know it’s Christmastide now, but…”

     “But nothing,” Andre dismissed. “It’s gorgeous!” He held it out in front of his face, studying it for a long while, and his eyes became hazy. Then he murmured, “Late have I loved Thee.” He turned back to Ned, and must have seen the surprise on his face, for he repeated, “Late have I loved Thee, beauty so ancient and so new. For behold, Thou were within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside, and in my unloveliness, fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou were with me, and I was not with Thee. I was kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all…” The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, sadly. “Yes, I’ve studied Augustine, just as Calvin did. Geneva, remember? Besides, I have a cracking good memory for such things. To this day, I find myself memorizing a hymn or two, if it makes me feel something, beyond the monotony and frivolity that fill my days…” He turned his eyes back to the cross. “Augustine also said, ‘Lord, make me chaste, but not yet!’ Yes, Lord, make me holy, but not yet…Lord, make me Thine, but not yet…” His voice drifted off. “You know the part they never talk about? How much the man who says ‘not yet’ suffers, how much he starves himself. Yes, he is to be pitied, that man…” His eyes grew glassy now, like pools of water so deep the bottom could not be seen. “He touched me, Ned, early and late, and how I have burned to see His face and know his peace. But the world is full of distractions. My hope is that His Sovereign Love may yet hatch some scheme to arrest me, and give my soul a hiding place…then I shall have Him, and in Him, everything else as He meant it to be had. It would be the greatest romance, adventure, and achievement…” 

      “Saint George,” Edmund blurted.

      “What?” 

       “He was a martyr, you know.”

       “Yes, of course.”

       “That’s why I made the cross…the Christmas play you’ve been preparing reminded me of him, and his passion, in Christ’s imitation.”

       “Yes, it’s like the Cross of St. George,” Andre connected. “Our flag…”

       “Yes, blood-red for our patron saint.”

       “Yes. And a soldier.”

       “Yes, Jean, patron of soldiers too. And our coats match the flag. And his blood matches Christ’s blood. So, you see…” Ned let out a shaky sigh. “Perhaps we would do well to emulate him, beyond the play. Perhaps we should learn to love what he loved and how he loved.”

      “Pray to him, don’t you mean?” Andre snorted. “I know how you Papists think…”

     “I think he will intercede for us regardless, for he has not forsworn England.” Ned looked at Andre earnestly. “He will always point us back to the cross, for we cannot escape it, just as he could not escape it.”

      Andre turned back to the cross himself. After several moments of silence, he said thickly, “I do not wish to escape it.” 

      Then, unexpectedly, Andre brought the criss-crossed strips of paper to his lips, quickly but passionately, then blushed bright red, gently set it back upon the table, and fled the room.

And Edmund realized, in his heart, that he did not wish to escape it either.