SOUL OF LEAD

29 November 1776

The clink of glasses and the clattering of billiards balls mingled with the boisterous sounds of patrons in high spirits. Raucous cheers and the occasional expletive punctuated the atmosphere of the tavern, where even the poorest men felt most at home. Settled into a warm nook, strategically positioning themselves near a mirror that provided Bradford with a clear view of the entire establishment, the celebration had officially begun.

Reaching for the bowl of free peanuts from the barkeep, a staple in his diet, Bennie raised his glass and offered a nod to his dearest friend. "I have toasted you many times, my brother, and yet, I never dreamed that I might one day toast to your wedding. This girl had better be something special to pull you away from our new place," he offered, only half joking. Bennie was proud of his home and had high hopes for the triangle of land they had found beneath the uptown swamps. He had done all he could to make the meager home one of comfort despite his lifelong lack of it.

"Gents," Bradford sighed as the rum burned down his throat and into his empty stomach. "She is. Connie is brilliant, beautiful, generous, and wild. In my days on this earth, I have not seen a woman act as such an untamed creature. Her father will wish to put an end to me the moment he catches wind of our marriage," he shrugged off the burn as he took another shot. "I look forward to seeing him try."

While the ambiance was one of celebration, buoyed by other patrons' laughter and animated conversations, the lines on Marc's forehead indicated neither the rum nor mood had reached him. "You say that as though she can take down the Major on her own. I worry you give your young lady too much credit. She may be clever, but I assure you her father cannot be the only one who wishes to see you crushed like the vermin men like him believe we are. Do not be foolish and naive in believing there is peace ahead for your union. If this woman is as brilliant as you claim, she will surely understand that a wedding is not a happy ending. Making it to the chapel is only the beginning of a new set of struggles."

Raising his mug to his lips, Bennie grimaced at the downcast comment. "You say that like a man who has been married before. What exactly did you get up to in Paris? I imagined you were always a tom cat," his question was only answered by a roll of Marc's eyes as he reached for a cigarette. 

Marc sat and observed, unmoved by the levity around him as he lit his match. "Let us only say that the tavern girls suffice. I have no heart left to give a bride of my own," he exhaled the idea with a cloud of smoke. Noticing the look on the faces staring back at him, his own expression softened. "I wish you well, mon frere," he added, slapping Bradford on the back. 

"Excuse me, handsome. It seems you might have dropped this," a blonde with glittering amethyst eyes bent towards Bennie and produced a fresh cigarette. "Once the smoke and rum leave you feeling good, though perhaps lonely, I will be waiting for you upstairs," The invitation left nothing unclear, even to Bennie.  

Taking the tobacco and her outstretched hand, Bennie found warmth in the gaze she returned to him. He frowned and returned the cigarette to the young lady. "Your hospitality is appreciated," he sighed. "Sincerely appreciated, though I have nothing but my heart to offer."

Observing the woman's pout and Bennie's flush, Marc felt a sense of unease for his young friend and produced a coin from his vest. "Go. I cannot bring myself to eat when you look so sad and-" he narrowed his eyes at the youngest thief. "Hungry."

Brow raised at the rare display of generosity, Bradford nudged Marc. "Anything in that vest for the bridal purse?" He suggested, more to his empty glass than his closest friend.    

Cheers and curses alike erupted from a distant table as the sweet sound of a pile of coins collected from a card game filled the tavern. Flipping a coin from his vest, Marc looked up at the groom. "Poker is your game, is it not? From the looks of those men leaving the table on the right, you could end up with a stack of your own. Go. I do not mind being alone. After all, it is harder to skip on the tab with Bennie around," he laughed, not at all joking.

Bradford felt the room begin to spin around him as he swaggered to the table of potential poker partners. Approaching a tall man with his long blond hair pulled back with silk ribbon, Bradford looked like a child wishing to play a game with older boys. They were all too happy to invite the scrawny young man to sit and place his bets. "Anders," the man nodded, offering his hand.

"Pendleton," was all Bradford responded as he took his seat.

Bradford began a winning streak, a stretch longer than he had ever played. His pile of chips grew as steadily as the patience of the larger man dwindled. As the night wore on, however, his luck began to turn. He lost hand after hand, and his pile of chips reduced to almost nothing. Desperate to turn things around, Bradford resorted to the only skill he had. Making wild claims about the cards he was holding, bluffing his way through each hand. The other players were skeptical, but they didn't want to accuse him outright of cheating; there was no need for a brawl, not with the likes of the Pendleton boy. They decided to keep quiet and let the game play out. To their surprise, the liar's luck did seem to turn around. He won hand after hand, building his pile of chips back up to an impressive collection.

Anders, beaten, broke, and angry, began to place a new bet with his last coin. "I should have known better than to trifle with a damn colonial."

"I appreciate your kind invitation, but I must decline a last round," Bradford feigned a yawn and pulled his chips from the table. The atmosphere at the table had grown unpleasant with sweat, smoke, beer breath, vomit, and dirty money wafting from the poker table. Leaving a coin to his opponent, Bradford winked. "But there are some girls upstairs who might be willing to tutor you on your manners towards us colonists."

Grabbing Bradford by his collar, Commander Anders spat out his demands. "I demand satisfaction, you little shit. Sunday. Dawn."

"Kill me, then," Bradford challenged. "As of tomorrow, I'll have all I need to die happy."