Night was falling, a bitter cold January night. It seemed likely to catch Prince out on the road, with no shelter to be seen.

Prince was a tall man, tall and skinny, not the sort of robust fellow who could laugh at the worst nature could do. He had been born in a much warmer country, as one might guess from his rich dark skin, his broad nose and full lips, the tight curls of iron-gray hair on his head. He was getting along in years, too. He felt the cold in his bones.

Set aside the message he carried, no matter how vital it might be. Set aside, as well, the proposition he hoped to place before certain powerful men. For the moment, survival had to move to the top of the agenda. A night spent out in the open might end in a bitterly cold death.

Prince took a moment to curse the redcoat patrol he had met that morning. Fortunately, the soldiers had not suspected him of being either a patriot or a spy. They had done no worse than to relieve Prince of his horse. Not that he could claim any skill as an equestrian, but the beast had carried him a long way. Further than he could have managed on foot.

Prince stopped, rubbed his hands together, and considered his prospects.

The last farmer who offered him directions had seemed honest enough. The road was like any other back-country New England path: a dirt track, currently trampled into slush and mud, rail fences to either side. It led by an indirect route toward the town of Springfield, not too many miles ahead. Or so the man had said. Truth be told, at the moment Prince wasn’t sure if he was in Massachusetts, or Connecticut, or the hinterlands of hell. Any of the three seemed equally likely.

With the sun almost vanished, Prince couldn’t be choosy. He decided to keep walking, and hopefully find the army camp, or a tavern willing to serve his kind. Or even just a compassionate farmer with a snug, dry barn.

While stars shivered into visibility overhead, Prince moved on through gathering darkness. While he walked, he prayed under his breath, and repeated a few scraps of Latin, calling up the power in the words. It kept him warm for a time, although he knew he would pay a price for it later. Somehow he kept moving, and stayed on the road.

Hours passed, and a full moon appeared in the distant East. Suddenly Prince began to think he was close to his destination. He heard voices up ahead, faint but in significant numbers, and saw hints of campfires on the northern horizon. He hurried.

So intent was he on finding warmth and light, that he forgot to be alert. He had just barely come in sight of the closest campfire when he heard a voice call out. It came from behind and to his right, and it had a broad Tidewater tang.

“Hey now, who’s that?”

That doesn’t sound like a sentry, Prince thought, turning to see.

Four men emerged from a nearby stand of trees, moving across the snow-covered ground to confront Prince. They were pale-faced men, with long hair and beards, wearing scraps of buckskin and linen that didn’t add up to anything resembling a uniform. Two of them carried muskets.

“Who’re you?” one of the men demanded, as they fanned out around Prince.

“It’s a darkie,” said another, peering into Prince’s face. “Some kind of spy?”

“I’m no spy,” said Prince calmly. “Is General Washington here?”

“Hoo, he wants to see the general! You one of his darkies?”

“Long way from Virginia. Maybe he’s lost.”

“You lost, darkie?”

That quickly, it turned into a nightmare, of a kind Prince had spent years working hard to avoid. Pale faces, angry and dirty, loomed out of the night. Mouths hung open, gaps in the teeth, drooling curses and epithets. The men pushed and shoved, weak from hunger and cold, but still four to his one. Then one of them produced a knife.

Desperate, Prince glanced behind his assailants, toward the nearest campfire. There were other men there. At least one of them wore an actual uniform: a blue coat with red facings, and a bicorne hat with a black cockade. An officer?

Prince shouted, pitching his voice to carry. When he saw he had his target’s attention, he made a very specific two-handed gesture.

Then the first of his attackers launched a wild swing at his jaw. Old street-fighting instincts kicked in, the product of years in the taverns and back alleys of Boston. Prince dodged that first blow, and counter-punched the man into stepping back, but then the other three moved in.

Prince muttered a quick Latin phrase under his breath . . . and ignited.

The magic showed no visible sign, which was just as well. Prince had no desire to attract attention with a flashy show of power. Still, a rush of warmth spread out from his heart, filling all his limbs with speed and vigor, rendering everything crystal-clear to his perceptions. The four men advancing on him seemed to slow to a crawl, making it easy for him to see where they would move next.

Four to one, still, but Prince began to feel that the odds were not so bad.

He dodged a blow from a clubbed musket. A quick strike to the side of the man’s knee put him down in the snow, with a shriek of sudden pain. Another man spread his arms wide and charged in, but Prince was able to eel out of the grapple and turn away. That one went off-balance, easy prey for a hard shove in the back that dumped him into the snow as well. The knife gleamed in the moonlight, held high, but Prince was long since gone by the time it came down.

“Stop!”

Rather to Prince’s surprise, the fight did stop. He stood still, crouched in a guard position, breathing hard. For the moment, no one seemed interested in him.

An officer had arrived, young, short, rather fat, with a face like the moon at full. At close range, Prince realized that he knew the man, from a brief encounter some months before. At the moment the officer stood with fists on wide hips, small eyes snapping with rage, looking like an angry boar. Most of Prince’s new friends were taller men, but somehow none of them seemed willing to meet the officer’s eyes.

“Will one of you fine fellows explain what is amiss?” he demanded.

“We caught this one trying to sneak into camp,” said the man with the knife, hurriedly putting the weapon away.

“I was not sneaking,” objected Prince. “It’s dark and I don’t know the country. I was lost.”

“I see,” said the officer. “My memory is poor. I don’t recall the four of you being posted as sentries. What are you doing out beyond the edge of camp? Going out for a little foraging in the moonlight, perhaps?”

Four men glanced at each other, shifting their weight from one foot to another.

“Now, let us suppose that you were acting with authority as sentries. Will one of you remind me of the proper procedure, when sentries discover an intruder approaching the camp?”

More glances, more scuffing of feet. Finally, one of them muttered, “Bring him to the Officer of the Day for the question.”

“With or without assaulting him first?”

“He put up a fight!” objected one.

“Only to save my skin,” said Prince. “I would have come along quietly, if anyone had bothered to ask.”

The fat little man nodded. “Well. It is fortunate that an officer was so close at hand. You men have discharged your duty. I suggest you find your captain and stay very close to him for the rest of the night, so I may have no further reason to come seek you out.”

There was a chorus of grumbled agreement, after which the four men shuffled away toward the camp.

“Thank you, Mr. Knox,” said Prince quietly. “Or should I say, Colonel Knox?”

Now the small eyes peered at Prince with surprise. “You know me, sir?”

“This spring, before the war began, I visited your shop in Boston. I purchased several books from you.”

Knox frowned for a moment, and then a gentle smile lit up his face. “I believe I do remember you. Mr. Hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You came looking for some of the more . . . esoteric works in my stock. I was rather surprised to see your interest.” Then the smile vanished, and Knox gave Prince a penetrating stare. “Although, given a certain sign that I perceived from you in your distress, I think that may not be such a mystery. You must be a traveling man.”

Prince nodded in agreement. “That’s right.”

“I should like to know how that came about, but I sense the story must wait. If you have come all the way from Boston, in the dead of winter, you must have good reason.”

“I have an important message for General Washington, from some of our brethren in the city.”

Knox nodded decisively. “Then I shall take you to him at once.”

As Knox led him along a muddy path, Prince saw rows of slapdash wooden huts, barely enough to keep men out of the worst of the cold and damp. The soldiers they encountered looked filthy and dejected, many of them painfully thin and pale.

“Mercy,” he breathed. “I thought it was bad living under the king’s men in Boston, with smallpox in the city. This is worse.”

“The men are dispirited, after months of retreat in the face of the enemy,” said Knox. “Not to mention that the Congress has failed to provide, and so we suffer privation.”

“Is the Congress unwilling, or unable?”

“Unable, I should think. When the enemy broke out of Boston, it put men in fear all across these colonies. Many are reluctant to offer funds or supplies, or to enlist in a cause that may be doomed.”

The general had made his headquarters in a large stone farmhouse, at the base of the low bluff where the militia had once drilled in times of peace. Even late at night, it was a busy place. Officers and men came and went, and sentries stood an alert watch. Knox was well known here. He exchanged a quick nod with the men at the door, and then opened it, gesturing for Prince to follow.

Inside was the glow of firelight, and the rank scents of stale food and unwashed bodies. Prince blinked for a moment, enjoying the sudden comfort of warmth after days on the road. He took off his wool cloak and folded it over one arm, suddenly feeling hungry and very weary. The power had caught up with him, exacting its usual cost. He wished for a place to sit down.

There were several other men in the farm-house’s main hall. As Prince did inventory, he realized they were all white men, and felt the old unease of being alone among possibly hostile strangers. No, wait, there was one other African in the room, a man of about Prince’s age who wore subdued livery, sitting in a shadowed corner until he might be needed. Prince caught that one’s eye for an instant, receiving a subtle nod of acknowledgement in return.

One younger white man sat at a side table, eating a rough meal while he scratched away on paper with a goose-quill pen, paying little attention to the newcomers. Prince tagged him as a junior officer, probably a military aide. Two others sat by a warm fire on the hearth, sipping mulled wine from simple cups, apparently deep in conversation. One of these glanced toward the door as Knox appeared, and then set his cup aside and unfolded himself from his chair. Suddenly Prince knew who he must be.

George Washington was tall, even taller than Prince, and towered over Colonel Knox. He was slender but very strong, with the grace of a trained athlete. His pale face was broad, compelling rather than handsome, with a prominent nose, a small, thin-lipped mouth, and silver-grey eyes. He smiled slightly at the sight of Knox and gave Prince a measuring stare.

“Well, Harry, what’s this?”

“General, this is Mr. Prince Hall, a free citizen of Boston.” Knox paused, enjoying his moment of drama. “I found him accosted by a party of would-be marauders, although he seemed to need very little rescuing. As it happens, he is one of our brothers in the Craft.”

The man still sitting by the fire took an interest at that, turning in his chair to stare at Prince with interest. Prince thought for a moment that he looked familiar but could not place him.

The general seemed to take Knox’s assertion in stride. “Of what lodge?”

Prince cleared his throat. “I was raised to the degree of Master Mason, sir, with fourteen of my African brethren, in Lodge No. 441 under the Grand Lodge of Ireland.”

“A military lodge, then, serving the king’s soldiers in Boston?”

“Yes, General. Attached to the 38th Regiment of Foot. This took place about a month before the battles at Lexington and Concord. Sergeant John Batt was Worshipful Master at the time.”

“Interesting. I was not aware that any negroes had been initiated into the Craft.”

Prince cocked his head, watching Washington closely. “As far as we know, there are no others. We had earlier applied to St. John’s Lodge, but they ignored our petition. It seems the king’s soldiers were more willing to see us as men.”

The general proved very difficult to read. Prince could not tell what effect his narrative was having.

“Are you certain your degrees were conferred in regular fashion?” Washington inquired. “I assume you and your friends paid a fee to the lodge.”

“We did,” Prince agreed. “Forty-five guineas in all.”

“Might Sergeant Batt have simply pocketed the money and passed you off with a show of initiation?”

Prince smiled. “No, sir. I have good reason to believe that our initiation was entirely regular.”

“I see,” said Washington calmly, raising one eyebrow in mild surprise at Prince’s confidence. “Then what brings you to my camp in this bitter season?”

“Sir, I bring word from Grand Master Rowe.”

“From Rowe?” demanded Knox. “Why, was he not the very man who rejected your petition in the first place?”

“He was. With all of our Masonic brothers who were known to be patriots forced to flee from Boston, the Grand Master found himself with few trustworthy men to keep watch upon the British, or to carry messages in secret. This fall, he humbled his pride and turned to me and my friends.” Prince stood a little taller. “We have not failed of his trust.”

“Let me see this message, then,” said Washington.

“Sir, it is not written down. I have it by heart in case I should be taken by the redcoats.”

Washington looked skeptical for a moment, but then nodded.

Prince bowed his head, setting himself into that frame of mind, the one in which he had engraved every word upon the palaces of his memory.

“To His Excellency George Washington, General of the Armies of these United Colonies. Sir: I regret to inform you that Admiral Howe has certainly arrived at Halifax, with Lord Cornwallis and some six thousand troops. They are to take two thousand more and sail to New York City, as soon as the weather shall give them leave. This news has put me in great fear. With General Howe before you and Cornwallis behind, it seems you are at risk of being cut off. I beg you take such steps as are necessary for the protection of the army, and in pursuit of the cause for which we both hope. My compliments to you and your officers. Your very humble servant, John Rowe, Esquire, Provincial Grand Master of Masons.”

Silence fell for a moment. Prince looked up again, searching Washington’s face for clues.

Then Colonel Knox could contain himself no longer. “Now, this is preposterous! How could Grand Master Rowe know such a thing?”

Washington held up a hand to restrain the younger man. “One moment, Harry. Mr. Hall, this is very useful intelligence, if it may be relied upon.”

“As to that, sir, you must be the judge.” Prince smiled slightly. “You may have heard that General Howe has taken up with the wife of one of Boston’s Loyalists, a Mrs. Loring.”

Washington snorted. “Even in an army’s winter quarters, gossip is king. Mrs. Loring is quite famous here.”

“It seems that in private, the general talks too much to his paramour. Who talks in turn to her maidservant, a girl named Polly. Who talks to us.”

“The chain is long,” objected Knox.

Prince nodded in agreement. “That is true. Brother Rowe is too cautious to accept Polly’s word alone, but we have other evidence. Our men have seen the preparations, and heard officers talking among themselves. The king’s men talk in front of Africans, you see. They forget that we have eyes and ears, and minds to think about what we see and hear. There can be no doubt. Howe plans to march against you the moment the weather clears. He has some stratagem in mind.”

“Hmm.” Washington frowned, deep in thought. Prince suspected he was reviewing maps in his mind, measuring distances, estimating numbers. “If General Howe could have his brother land eight thousand troops in New York, that would certainly qualify as a brilliant stroke. Harry, how would you like it if we were forced to fall back across the Berkshires, only to find Cornwallis already holding the Hudson valley in force against us?”

Knox shook his head, his jowls quivering in distaste. “I would not like that at all, General. Still, another question comes to mind. How could they coordinate such a maneuver? Difficult enough to plan the movements of one army in detail. To plan the movements of two, across hundreds of miles in bad weather?”

“You forget that the Howes are our brothers in the Craft. What’s more, they are both of them illuminati.” Washington frowned, sifting through old memories. “I never met the Howe brothers during the previous war. Still, I heard stories about them. They turned their study of the esoteric arts to the problem of military communications. They found ways to convey orders and intelligence quickly, and across great distances. Doubtless officers under their command benefit from their talent as well.”

“The Loyalists in Boston are very smug about the illuminati who lead them,” said Prince. “They believe that if they can call on the esoteric arts, as well as the strength of the king’s soldiers, they cannot fail to suppress the insurrection.”

“They may be right,” said Washington. “I do not think we can afford to ignore this warning, Harry.”

“No indeed.” Knox shook his head, his round face set in lines of worry. “Bad enough that the enemy has an advantage in men and materiel. If they can turn even the Craft against us, then we are in dire straits.”

“The tree of Masonry has its strongest growth in Britain,” said a new voice. The other man by the fire, the one Washington had been talking to before Prince’s arrival, rose now from his place. “Many prominent men of England, Scotland, and Ireland have been raised in the Craft, and many of those serve in His Majesty’s Government or in his armies. Knowledge of the esoteric arts is much further advanced there. Here in America, Masonry is a mere offshoot, new and not well-founded, torn by contention between Ancients and Moderns. Small wonder that we have so far been able to make little use of it in support of our cause.”

Washington smiled slightly at Prince, seeing his confusion. “I have forgotten my manners, it seems. Mr. Hall, this is General Joseph Warren. He also bears the title of Grand Master of Masons in America, but under the Ancient dispensation.”

Warren was a handsome white man, somewhere between Knox and Washington in age, with a pleasant oval face, full lips curved in a friendly smile, and keen brown eyes. Prince bowed slightly. “Of course. General Warren is well known to me by reputation.”

“I find myself rather embarrassed,” said Warren. “I cannot say that if you and your friends had applied to my St. Andrew’s Lodge in the spring, rather than Brother Rowe’s lodge, you would have received any more favorable reply. Yet you have already done more for our cause than most, proving yourself to be a just and upright Mason. I would be pleased to take you by the hand.”

For a moment, Prince hesitated, but Warren’s sincerity seemed clear. He extended a hand and felt it taken in a firm grasp. “You honor me, sir.”

“It is I who am honored, to meet a brother and a patriot.”

Prince nodded, moved despite himself. Then he glanced back at Washington, who showed no signs of planning to follow Warren’s lead. The sight prompted Prince to suppress a cynical smile.

The great man is not quite ready to consider me his brother, it seems. He is courteous to me out of habit, not because he is willing to treat with me as an equal.

Well, perhaps I have another argument for him. Time to make it and let the chips fall where they may.

“General Washington,” Prince ventured, “I wonder that you have overlooked a source of strength for our cause.”

“What might that be?” the general inquired.

“During the battles outside Boston, several of African race stood against the redcoats, and fought bravely and well. General Warren and Colonel Knox will surely attest to this.”

“We had such men with the militia at Lexington and Concord,” agreed Knox. “Several fought at Roxbury and Cambridge as well. They did not want for courage.”

“Yet when you took command of the army, General, you gave orders that all Africans be sent home, and that no more should be permitted to enlist.” Prince cocked his head slightly, watching Washington. “If I may be so bold, why did you issue such a command?”

For just an instant, Washington’s eyes flickered with irritation, the Virginia aristocrat not liking such a question from a black man. Then it was gone, and the general spoke as politely as ever. “I was not of the opinion that negroes would make good soldiers.”

“I think perhaps, sir, we have proven otherwise, and will do so again if given the opportunity.” Prince cocked an eyebrow. “I have heard that the British do not hesitate to arm free African men, or even escaped bondsmen, if they will fight for the king.”

“Perhaps so,” Washington admitted.

“As for whether my people are capable of turning the Craft to good use . . .” Prince glanced around the room, and spotted an unlit candle sitting on a table, next to the young officer who continued to work with pen and paper. He pointed to collect everyone’s attention, and then snapped his fingers with a crisp sound. “Fiat lux!”

With a small foosh, the candle burst into brilliant light. The lieutenant, caught by surprise, startled badly and nearly upset his chair.

“Illuminatus,” breathed Warren. “Remarkable. Brother Hall, I can see why you are confident of the efficacy of your initiation.”

Prince nodded. “As to whether Worshipful Master Batt was entirely honest with us, I cannot say. Clearly the forms and ceremonies we underwent that day had some effect.”

“If may inquire, what talents have you discovered in yourself since your initiation?”

“I seem to have inherited mastery over the element of Fire and its attributes,” said Prince. “Warmth and light, for the most part. I also seem to be able to stoke the fires of my body and mind, for greater speed, strength, and quickness of wit, although at the cost of great hunger and weariness afterward.”

“I can attest to that,” said Knox with enthusiasm. “One man against four outside the camp, and he certainly made it seem that he was in little danger.”

Warren nodded, watching Prince closely. “You say that Worshipful Master Batt raised fifteen of you to the degree of Master Mason. Of that number, how many have discovered such gifts?”

“Four that we know, including myself. We have had little instruction, but we have learned from what books we could find.”

“Four out of fifteen.” Warren turned to Washington. “General, any lodge in America, whether Ancient or Modern, would be proud to discover so many illuminati among its ranks. I suspect the Great Architect of the Universe wishes to pose a challenge to us, to test whether we mean what we say when we speak of the brotherhood of man.”

“Indeed,” Washington murmured, appearing moved for the first time. “Tell me, Mister . . . no, Brother Hall, for what cause should you or any of your brethren wish to fight in this war?”

Prince smiled, knowing that he had won a battle already, or at least a skirmish. “General, for the same cause for which you wish to fight. For liberty, and the right to stand on our own among the peoples of the earth.”

Slowly, Washington nodded. “I am well answered. Brother Hall, I must consult with my officers, but perhaps it is time for me to reconsider my orders in this matter. If so, I will also write to Congress to recommend a change in policy. For now, I think General Warren would be willing to lend his good offices, to help you make Masons and seek out more illuminati among your people.”

“You may be certain of that,” said Warren.

“Would you be willing to stay with the army for a time, while we think how best to proceed?” Washington asked. “Do you have any family you must consider, back in Boston?”

“A wife,” said Prince, “and she understands. Grand Master Rowe will see to her protection if need be. It was for this that I came, General.”

Still, Washington did not offer to take Prince’s hand, but he gave a nod that looked, for the first time, like grudging respect. “Then let it be done, and may the Lord watch over us all.”

“So mote it be,” Prince murmured.

---

Author’s Note

During the period of 2015-2016, I played the beginning genre writer’s game of producing short fiction and trying to sell it to the professional markets. I actually met with some success, if one considers the quality of rejection slips one collects. Many of the stories I wrote during that period got good rejections, the kind that indicate a managing editor actually read the story with some attention and wanted to encourage further attempts.

“A Fire in Winter” was one of the last stories I wrote during that period. It was originally written while I participated in a Writing the Other seminar, taught by K. Tempest Bradford and Nisi Shawl. That was a good experience, and it helped me pursue a number of my goals as a writer.

After the seminar was over, I submitted the story to several markets, and it probably got the best rejection slips of anything I had done up to that point. Charles Finlay, the editor at Fantasy & Science Fiction, was especially encouraging. Unfortunately, after I got down to the bottom of the list of pro markets, the story still hadn’t found a home, so it went into my limbo file.

Ironically, even with all that encouragement, “A Fire in Winter” was probably the story that convinced me to stop trying to sell short fiction. The most common critique I got from editors was that the story “read like the opening of a novel.” Which was something of a revelation! My creative process, heavy on world-building as it is, really fits the longer forms more closely. Even when I’m trying to write a short story, there always seems to be a whole novel lurking in the background. So why not just write the novel and be done with it?

Figuring out the workflows I need to produce a complete original novel has been something of a struggle, but I think I’m just about there. In the meantime, at least some of that short fiction is worth sharing with my blog-readers and patrons.

“A Fire in Winter” is a mildly risky story for me, as a decidedly White American, writing a story with a Black protagonist. Also, as a Freemason writing a story about other Freemasons in a fictional alternate universe. You may take it as read that my fraternity does not function like the one you see in this story!

Still, I’m reasonably proud of the historical research that went into this piece, and the effort to get the voices of the historical characters right. Hopefully, you’ve found it entertaining.

“A Fire in Winter” © 2020 by John Alleyn (Jon F. Zeigler). All rights reserved.