Chapter 3: Revolution, Part 1

Rick steered his Mercedes SUV onto US-50 E on our way to Maryland. Great. I wondered where we were going, but didn't feel the inclination to ask. "Clothes?" I asked Rick, who was concentrating intently on the road even though he didn't need to. His reflexes were so great that he could deflect an accident in the time it takes to flutter an eyelash. "Packed," Rick responded. His bright green eyes never left the road. All vampire's eyes are green. He must have a lot on his mind. Out of anyone in the world, he was the one person I trusted the most. I would give my life for him, since he once gave me mine. I nodded. Not that it mattered. I could always get something when we arrived. But if we were going to some remote area, it might draw attention if I started receiving weekly deliveries from Sacks Fifth Avenue. I leaned back, settling in for a long ride, thinking of Rick, and how it all began. *** My father and I lived in Boston, Massachusetts when we first met Rick, Fredrick, as he was known then. I was young, only 16, and it was the year of our Lord 1773. I was infatuated with Fredrick's dark good looks, his light brown wavy hair with burnished highlights that glowed amber in the sun, and brilliant green eyes. I had seen him around town, but when our eyes met, I quickly averted them, as a proper lady of the day should. Not long after, he became a friend of my father's, and was very dashing, even though he was a bit older than myself, appearing to be in his mid-twenties. The British had already landed and had lived among us for a few years, hoping to regain control of the Colonies. But it was already too late. Britain had allowed us to survive on our own for many years and we had formed our own government. When Great Britain tried to exercise their control over us, we rebelled. Then one night, my father had dressed up as an Indian, going so far as to smear ashes and soot over his skin and face, and carried a tomahawk. The garb did not cover his protruding belly and he had even discarded his powdered wig-as was the style-for the occasion. I stifled a giggle upon observing his absurd manner of dress. "Where, pray tell, are you going tonight? Perhaps to a masquerade, Father?" I held my hand to my face to conceal my amusement. "No, child," Father replied. "Never you mind; just go to bed, young lady." Then, children did not question their parents, but I was almost of marrying age-a lady. "Where are you going, Father?" "Do not ask questions that you do not want the answer to!" Father bellowed. Although his voice sounded funny coming from this Indian, I did not laugh. He was serious. He began again, calmly, "I do not want you to be party to the events of this night, child. It is better that you were not involved. Now, lock the door when I leave and go to bed." "But Father ..." "Do as I say!" he ordered. With wide eyes, I nodded. Father never spoke to me in this manner! How could he do so now? "When I go, lock the door behind me, Abigail," Father ordered as he opened the heavy wooden door, making an eerie creaking sound. He paused in the doorway, "I love you, child." And a moment later, he was gone. Confused, I rushed to the door, holding it open. And in the street, my father joined other men, each dressed as Indians just as my father, with their faces and arms smeared with soot, and among the men stood Fredrick. Eying me in the doorway, he stopped and met my gaze, then turned and joined the other men. Later, I learned this was the night of the famous Boston Tea Party. My father, along with Fredrick and many other men, threw barrels of tea from three British ships in the harbor into the Hudson River in protest of taxation without representation within the British courts. It's a long story. During the years that passed, Fredrick and my father had become good friends. And although my father and other men seemed to grow older, I noticed that Fredrick did not. He stayed the same. But it had only been a few years, so I quickly pushed the thought aside. Fredrick began coming to our house for dinner or for tea. However, during these visits, he was pleasant and cordial, but always distant. He spoke always to my father and seldom to me, unless it was proper or considered rude not to do so. I came to know him as my father's good friend and an uncle, of sorts. Over the next few years, our relations with the British became strained and secret meetings were necessary. At these secret meetings, the resistance to the British was planned, for Father and Fredrick were patriots. They, along with other men, planned strategies against the British in hope of our land becoming self-governed, self-reliant, and not beholding to anyone; free nation. It was at one of these secret meetings in April of 1775 that it all ended, or began, according to your point of view. I was 18. And even though I had many suitors, I had not fallen in love and, therefore, remained unmarried. As was the custom of the day, I still lived in my father's home. It suited us both, as we got along well. My mother had died long ago and it was just the two of us. I took care of the house and him, and he took care of and protected me. "Fredrick," I greeted my father's friend, opening the door one night. "Abigail," Fredrick replied with a nod, taking my hand and raising it to his lips. "How stunning you look tonight! Is your father in?" "Of course, Master Fredrick," I replied with a smile and a shallow curtsey, pinching my skirt between two fingers and lifting it slightly as I did so. "And awaiting your visit, I might add." "Divine!" Fredrick responded. "Shall I wait in the foyer?" "No, silly," I said, laughing. "By all means, come into the drawing room, please." With his hands folded neatly behind his back, he nodded slightly and smiled as I led him into the room. There were already several men speaking in hushed voices inside. Upon my arrival, the men promptly stood in my presence, but grew silent until I left, closing the double doors behind. My father was determined to keep me out of this treachery, although I had begged him many times to include me in his plans. But they were committing treason against Britain and plotting it in my father's house, and he wanted me to have no part in it.