Mercury Revolts (15 page)

“Mmmm,” groaned the man.

“Are you sure?” asked Mercury.

“Yeah,” said the pilot. “I’m fine. Head hurts, but I’m
fine.”

“OK, good,” said Mercury, and slapped the man hard across
the face. “That’s for firing on civilians, you ass-brained fucktard.” Mercury
got to his feet. “Alright,” he said to Eddie and Suzy, “we should probably go
before they send in the big guns.”

Chapter Sixteen
  
 

Vermont; May 1775

If
the political situation in Revolutionary America was complicated by the
intriguing of angels and demons, it was even more so by the bickering and
rivalries going on in the colonies themselves.
Lucifer,
short-sighted as always, had done his best to inflame local prejudices, not
realizing that this interference would make it difficult to unite the colonies
in an all-out war against the British.

Take, for example, the New
England militia known as the Green Mountain Boys, which was founded by a
farmer/philosopher/land speculator named Ethan Allen. When they weren’t at
their day jobs, the Green Mountain Boys spent their time harassing and occasionally
beating up land surveyors from New York. This was due to the British Crown
granting New York authority over land that locals considered part of New
Hampshire (now Vermont). New York’s governor insisted that the Vermonters pay
for land that they had already purchased from New Hampshire, and the Vermonters
were understandably resistant.

It was only when news of the
British firing on Americans at Lexington and Concord that the Green Mountain
Boys realized they had a bigger problem than the New Yorkers. And even then,
Ethan Allen took some convincing.

“Don’t you see?” asked
Mercury, sitting on Ethan Allen’s front porch. “It’s the British who are the
problem here. Get rid of the British and you can settle your quarrel with New
York on your own terms.”

“I’ve got a few dozen men,
all volunteers.” said Allen.
“Stout men, who could undo a
Redcoat’s buttons from 300 yards, but still, a small group.
You want me
to take on the British Empire with a few dozen men?”

“Not the whole empire,” said
Mercury. “I was thinking Ticonderoga.”

“A fort in New York,” said
Allen, grinning. “I like the way you think, Mr. Mercier.” Mercury had dropped
the Lord Squigglebottom act in favor of posing as a Frenchman who had come to
America to support the independence movement and seek adventure. He didn’t
bother with affecting an accent; he figured he looked odd enough to pass for
French in these parts without going overboard. He’d made some vague statements
indicating that he had powerful friends back in France who would be sympathetic
to the American cause.

“It makes good strategic
sense,” said Mercury. “If you hold Ticonderoga, you cut off communications
between the northern and southern units of the British army. Also, it would be
a good staging ground for an invasion of Quebec.” These were talking points
he’d received from Uzziel, who presumably got them from somebody in Michelle’s
organization. These days the Heavenly Army seemed to spend most of its time
keeping track of troop movements in Europe and America; there was a lot going
on. Mercury didn’t pay much attention to it; he just hoped he wasn’t spouting
utter nonsense to Ethan Allen. “Just think,” he went on, “if you attack the
fort now, the Brits will be taken completely by surprise. Ethan Allen would be
forever known as the first great hero of the American Revolution.” This part
Mercury had come up with on his own.

Allen threw his head back and
laughed.
“Very good, Mr. Mercier.
All right, let’s
storm Ticonderoga. It’ll take a couple of days to get the guys ready. Maybe you
can send word to your friends in France.”

“Certainly,” replied Mercury.
“They’ll be very excited to hear of your plans.”

The two shook hands and
Mercury left on another reconnaissance mission. He spent the next two days
mostly in North Carolina and Virginia. Although war had not been declared, the
scent of gunpowder was in the air after Lexington and Concord. Everywhere
Mercury went, the inevitability of war seemed to be sinking in. The atmosphere
was infused with a sort of melancholy excitement, like the lull before a storm.
Everybody—Lucifer, Tiamat, and the powers-that-be in Heaven—were going to get
what they wanted. That was good news, Mercury supposed, although he wasn’t
particularly excited about having to go through another war. Having been around
almost since the beginning of human civilization, he’d seen more than enough
wars. The good news was that once war officially broke out, this assignment
would be over and he could finally take some time off. He had nearly eighty
years of vacation time saved up, and he planned to take it as soon as he could
away from this backwater continent.

By the time he returned to
Vermont, the Green Mountain Boys had assembled and were nearly ready to march
on Ticonderoga.

“Mr. Mercier!” cried Ethan
Allen, upon seeing him. “You almost missed the excitement! You are coming
along, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said
Mercury, trying his best to express enthusiasm. “I love killing people over
real estate.”

The next morning they were
trudging through the woods toward the mouth of Lake Champlain, and a week later
they were in the town of Castleton, awaiting supplies and reinforcements. Ethan
Allen had just called a war council of his officers in the town square when
several men came galloping up horses. Mercury and the other men jumped to their
feet, ready to square off against the newcomers, but it was clear from their
clothing the men weren’t Brits.

The leader, wearing the
insignia of a colonel of the Continental Army, pulled up short. He looked to be
in his mid-thirties, with an angular nose and small, piercing eyes. Mercury
felt his gut tighten when he saw him. He’d seen this young colonel before,
dressed in civilian clothes and drinking beer in an upper room in Boston.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” said
the man, handing the reins of his horse to an underling and stepping toward the
assembly. “I am Benedict Arnold of the Continental Army. I’ve been empowered by
the Massachusetts Committee of Safety to seize Fort Ticonderoga from the
British.”

Mercury edged backwards,
trying his best to look inconspicuous.

“What, you and a dozen men?”
cried Ethan Allen, regarding the small group on horseback.

“The rest of my contingent is
back at the Massachusetts border,” said Arnold. “We received word that your
little band was planning an assault on Ticonderoga, and I came as quickly as I
could. I’m afraid that I must insist that you delay your attack until my men
arrive.”

The entire assembly of Ethan
Allen’s men broke into laughter, Allen included. When he recovered, he clapped
his hand on Arnold’s shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Colonel. You’re completely
right. As an officer of the Continental Army, you outrank me.” He turned toward
his officers. “Men, you heard Colonel Arnold. He’s in charge now. Do whatever
he tells you to do, alright? If he tells you to sit on your asses for a week so
that his sorry collection of Massachusetts shopkeepers can catch up, you do
that. Understood?”

“Understood, sir!” shouted
several of the men in near-unison.

Allen sunk to one knee, removing
his hat. “Kind sir,” he said with mock pathos, “I would be honored if you would
retain me as a member of your staff, perhaps as your official boot washer. But
far be it from me to presume to usurp the judgment of a colonel of the
Continental Army!” He drew a massive hunting knife from a sheath at his belt,
and several of Arnold’s men gasped in surprise or terror. But he then proceeded
to hold the blade against his own neck. “Say the word, my colonel, and I shall
slice my own head clear off and serve it to you on a platter. Although, now
that I think about it, I should probably prepare the platter first, as I may
not be in a position to garnish it properly after I’ve severed my own head.
Men, find Colonel Arnold a platter!”

Hoots and catcalls rose from
the group. “Tell him to get his own fucking platter!” shouted one of the men.

Ethan Allen sheathed the
knife and got to his feet, putting his fists on his hips in feigned
indignation. “Gentlemen, perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he growled. “I said that
Colonel Benedict Arnold is now in charge of the Green Mountain Boys. Now say it
back to me. Who is your leader?”

“ETHAN ALLEN!” howled the men
without a moment’s hesitation.

A smirk creeping across his
face, Allen turned to Benedict Arnold, who was turning red with anger. “Sorry,”
Allen said, holding up his hands. “Nothing I can do. They won’t submit to
anyone else’s authority. So,” he said, his voice hardening, “I’m afraid I must
insist you butt out of our business. Once we’ve taken Ticonderoga, you can try
to take it from us, if you like—assuming your men ever show up.”

“All right,” said Arnold, who
was fighting to remain calm. “We’re all on the same side here. If you
insist—that is, if you choose to press forward before the rest of my contingent
arrives, then I certainly won’t try to stop you. All that I would ask”—this
clearly pained him to say—“is that you allow me and my men to accompany you in
a support capacity.”

Ethan Allen grinned broadly.
“The more, the merrier,” he said. Then, more quietly, “Just stay out of our
way.” He then turned back to his officers and launched into his tactical plan
for the attack. Arnold and his men tied up their horses and joined the meeting.
Mercury managed to slip away without Arnold getting a good look at him—or so he
thought.

He observed the meeting from
a distance, and it appeared that after their initial rocky start, Allen and
Arnold were at least going to be able to cooperate on the assault without
killing each other in the process. It was hard to say whether the small band of
men—they now had just under a hundred, including Arnold’s—would actually be
able to take the fort from the British, but if not, the remainder of Arnold’s
contingent could probably finish the job in a few days. Mercury figured he’d
done as much as he could to stoke the fires of war, and decided to slip away
before Allen noticed he was gone.

But he hadn’t gotten more
than fifty paces from the town square when a familiar voice called to him from
behind.

“Lord Squigglebottom!”

Mercury sighed heavily, stopped
in his tracks, and turned to face Benedict Arnold.

“I knew that was you, even
without the ridiculous wig,” said Arnold, as he approached. It took Mercury a
moment to process this statement. In fact he hadn’t been wearing a wig the last
time Arnold had seen him. He’d merely been wearing his own hair (which he’d
grown to shoulder length) pulled back in a ponytail. Currently he was wearing a
brown wig which he thought made him look French-er.

“I’m actually undercover
here,” said Mercury. “So if anybody asks, call me Monsieur Mercier.”

“But why…?”

“Don’t ask.” In truth, there
was no good reason for the different aliases (in Virginia, he was a German
industrialist named Hermann Engel and in New York he was a Dutch investor named
Marcus Uittenbroek
[5]
).
It was often difficult to remember who he was supposed to be in a given
location, but fortunately none of his portrayals of these different characters
was particularly nuanced. In short, Messrs. Mercier, Engel, Squigglebottom and
Uittenbroek shared every aspect of each other’s personas except for their
names, nationalities and choice in wigs.

“What is your involvement
here, Squig—er, Mercier? I find it very strange that a man of your station
should be found amongst a gang of ruffians such as this.”

“Long story,” said Mercury.
“I bought a colonial in Boston. Nice place, but a bit of a fixer-upper. I asked
around a bit for some advice on home furnishings and I ended out here in the
wilderness with Ethan Allen and the boys.”

“Cut the nonsense,” said
Arnold. “Sam Adams and those guys may have fallen for your charade, but I never
bought it. I don’t know who you are, but you’re no Lord Squigglebottom or
Monsieur Mercier. Where do you people come from? Are you even
people
?”

“I’m sure I don’t—”

“I saw you
fly
,
Mister. And it’s not just you. I know there are others. Like that Mr. Rezon.
He’s one of you, isn’t he?”

“Mr. Reason?” asked Mercury,
confused.

“Rezon.
R-E-Z-O-N.
Lawrence Rezon.
Don’t play dumb.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what
you’re—”

Faster than Mercury could
even blink, Arnold pulled a knife from his jacket and plunged the blade deep
into Mercury’s chest.

“Ow!” shouted Mercury. He
looked down at the knife protruding from his chest. A dark stain was spreading
outward over his shirt from the wound. “What in the name of Queen Victoria’s
third nipple do you think you’re doing?”

“Just a little test,” said
Arnold. “You seem to be faring pretty well for someone who was just stabbed in
the heart.”

Mercury gripped the handle of
the knife, took a deep breath, and yanked it out. He dropped the bloody knife
to the ground and then fell backwards, his eyes rolling into his head. He hit
the ground with a thud.