Abraham's Eagles

By Theodore Goodman

In postcolonial America, a treasure is lost; two centuries later, a mysterious gold coin is unearthed.

Abraham is alone in 1795 London after the death of his mother. He is bright, talented, full of ambition, and craves to belong and to be appreciated. But his uncanny ability to make wrong decisions forces him into a whirlwind spiral down a slippery path. Forced to flee his homeland, he ventures across the sea to the new world for a fresh beginning, but his inability to control his overpowering ambition finds him right back on a new, more treacherous odyssey.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After a perplexing discovery in modern-day Maryland, Ian, his family, and good friends find themselves relentlessly pursued by sadistic operatives. Forced into hiding, the tight-knit band fall into uncharted territory, far outside their element. Will the pressures disintegrate friendships or cement them into unbreakable bonds? Will they find and figure out the mysterious clues? Can they solve a bewildering cypher created centuries ago? Should they involve the authorities to stop the madness, or are the authorities the perpetrators of the madness? They won’t know until they turn the table and become the madness themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jan 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662946974

Book preview

Prologue

September 3rd, 1777

Gray’s Hill, Delaware

His once-proud, magnificent red uniform was muddy and heavy with rain after three long days of incessant downpours. His saturated boots painfully tore skin from his bloody, blistered feet. Still, he marched.

He enlisted in the King’s army as an infantry soldier in the spring. Not out of patriotic duty or a higher calling, but of desperation. A farm laborer with a wife and young son had little recourse. The pension and land grant from a lengthy service could pave a path unheard of if one simply stayed put in England. The risk was low. Rebels in the American colonies posed no threat to the mightiest fighting force the world had ever seen. How proud he was to be a part of this immense army; how proud he was to show his wife and son his bright red uniform and his polished boots and buckles. A simple farmhand yesterday, a fine soldier today.

He marched alongside General Cornwallis, alongside the fearless German Hessians in their blue jackets shouldering muskets, and alongside their Jäger compatriots in their green jackets carrying their new rifles. Why should he fear the ragtag rebels?

Still, he marched. Step after painful step. But this march was different. This was a march to war.

They departed Gray’s Hill at first light, heading to a place called Iron Hill. A place where General Washington himself was rumored to be camped. This would be a decisive victory; of this, he was certain.

The Hessians marched far in front. His own countrymen marched steadily in the rear, and the gallant officers on their beautiful stallions rode alongside. The security of his shouldered musket bolstered his confidence, for he was a fine shot. That alone earned him an honored seat in the advance guard of Howes light infantry.

Spirits were high. They were off to finish General Washington. From any distance, his infantry contingent and the Hessians leading the column appeared majestic and unstoppable. Who dares confront them?

With no warning, musket fire erupted in the distance ahead. Smoke from the powder floated out of the forest on either side of the road. The rebels, from hidden positions, had ambushed the mounted Hessian dragoons and their soldiers. Many had fallen; he heard their piercing screams. Those who had not fallen ran and searched for cover in the ensuing chaos as Hessian commanders shouted orders in incomprehensible German.

They quickly regrouped and returned fire into the woods, where muzzle flashes were first spotted but only fading smoke remained. The Jägers ran to cover their countrymen, but the ambush was over. No rebels were seen. The forest was silent. This was not proper, not how battles should be fought, not how he was trained. These rebels were devils indeed.

General Cornwallis instilled confidence. His infantry maintained order; they did not break ranks. His troops held their position and watched as the wounded and the dead were quickly carried to the rear. Blood poured from stretchers, faces were missing, limbs hung by threads of skin. His unblinking eyes fed those sights deep into his consciousness. His gut rumbled. He felt faint. Why was he here? Why did he leave his family for this madness? Will he ever see them again?

The bark to advance stifled his distress. He continued to march, but with much wider eyes. Everyone focused beyond the trees, searching for the slightest movement. The column had slowed, fearing another ambush, knowing the rebels were watching.

Musket fire again! Louder! His brigade, much closer now, witnessed the pandemonium ahead. More rebels appeared in the distance, flying colors, colors strange to him: red and white with blue in the corner. Again, flashes and smoke filled the tree line. Through screams from the injured and dying, firing muskets, and commanders shouting orders, he waited for his own order to engage.

The gunfire again quickly diminished, but the rebels no longer remained hidden. They were clearly visible ahead. Why did the firing stop? The terrifying realization hit him hard. They are out of powder!

The dreaded order was given. Fix bayonets! He forced back the bile. His flintlock charged and rammed; he would have but one shot with no time to reload. Then, bloody, barbaric hand-to-hand fighting. He remembered his training. They were repeatedly told the colonial rebels could not withstand a British bayonet charge. The colonists were just farmers: inexperienced and undisciplined.

He did not hear the order to charge but saw the soldiers around him moving forward and quickly spreading out. Some fired their single shot; others waited for a closer opportunity. Instincts took over, and he joined the assault. Walking tentatively at first, then faster, the pain left his feet. Adrenaline forced away all fear. He ran, musket outstretched, bayonet gleaming. He was close; the secessionists crossed the small bridge and waited. The Hessians and his infantry comrades charged to the bridge, bringing the battle straight to the rebels.

Remembering his musket was primed, he knelt and fired into the devils, not knowing if his single shot had hit a mark. The sporadic gunfire, the howling of his charging compatriots, the shrieks and cries of the wounded and dying could not stop him now.

He leapt to his feet and followed his shiny, outstretched blade, sprinting to the bridge. The bloody battle was just yards away. The horrific sights, sounds, and stench surrounding him evaporated. He singularly focused on one soldier, holding a musket, no blade, as if he could singlehandedly repel the entire onslaught. He charged with his bayonet stretched far in front as they locked eyes. Killing a man here in battle was justifiable. It was his honorable duty for King and Country.

He saw the eyes of his prey suddenly veer.

His legs stopped moving; they refused to answer his call. Why? He didn’t understand! All went silent as he fell into the mud. Then came the pain. Searing pain in his side. He coughed. Blood spewed. He looked down at his beautiful red jacket and at a wound that would never heal.

On his back, looking past the white clouds, past the blue sky, into the heavens beyond, he felt warmth and peace. He closed his eyes and saw them smiling with open arms: his wife so beautiful, his son so proud.

Abraham’s Eagles

Volume I

1795

One

April 1795

Newgate Street, London

The sunrise red in the east forced the blackest violet of the west over the horizon. The bright rainbow of the morning sky was extraordinary, despite the perpetual haze of London. Abraham Wight began his daily trek through the crowded streets, leaving Butcher Lane and turning onto Newgate, where, silhouetted against that colorful sky, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral was a welcome and reassuring sight.

There was a time when he and his mother visited the church often. It seemed like a lifetime ago when she was full of life and toiled from sun-up to sun-down to give him every possible advantage. He remembered her relentless lessons. They huddled under a warm blanket for hours every evening, reading and writing on every scrap of paper they could scavenge, and performing endless arithmetic repetition. Those many years ago he could not understand why, but today, he was ever so grateful. He often asked her to tell stories about his father; Abe could never hear enough. Her love for him never diminished. Over and over, she told tales of his going off to war so far from home and all his heroic deeds. With few opportunities available to men of his station to provide a future for his family, Abraham’s father enlisted. The army offered the opportunity to receive a pension, and even more enticingly, he could choose to remain in the colonies and receive a land grant of fifty acres. They could have a new life, a real future, far from the filthy streets he now walked every day.

How different life could have been. He missed her so.

As his eyes welled up and that first inevitable tear rolled down his cheek, a voice knocked him back to reality.

Abe… Abe… Abraham Wright, are you daydreaming again? You really should be paying better attention. You never know who you might knock over.

It was Mrs. Boilston. She lived two doors down from him and was also widowed by the colonists. She was sweeping the streets, keeping them clean of all manner of waste from animals and man. She always had a smile, ever since he could remember.

Abraham greeted her formally with both a grand bow and a grand grin. Good morning, Mrs. Boilston. What a beautiful day!

She stood with hands on hips, shook her head with her eyes closed, then stepped over and kissed him on the cheek. Looks like you’re headed off to see Mr. James. He was always so good to your mum. And what’s that you are lugging behind you? She stepped around him to get a better glance.

Abe turned to counter her and put a finger to his lips. It was his turn to close his eyes and shake his head. It’s my future! he said with a devilish smile.

He kissed her on the cheek and scampered down Newgate Street. Twenty blocks, thirty minutes on a good day.

He saw the crowd in the distance. His heart sank, for he knew what that meant. The beautiful morning was no more. He’d seen too many crowds there, too many times. It was Newgate Prison. More executions, more hangings. The insatiable, bloodthirsty spectators always appeared. They jeered the condemned, cheered when the trap doors opened and the ropes snapped, then dispersed as quickly as they formed.

As he approached, the same questions from people in the crowd repeated over and over. Who were they? What did they do? Abe never had to ask; others always did. Today there were three ropes, three nooses, for three hangings. Three souls would be freed, three fathers would orphan sons, three families would not know where to turn.

To Abraham, it was an unconscionable solution to deal with people struggling to keep themselves and their families alive. Life was hard, very hard these days. Food was scarce; a loaf of bread was a full day’s wage, even when it could be found. There were riots… riots over food! Riots over bread! The government gave most of the grain to the army for yet another war with France. Everyone else had to fend for themselves, and some found themselves in Newgate, standing on the gallows, because of it.

The names and offenses soon made their way around the crowd. Edward Barns, 25 years old, being executed for stealing from a shop. Robert Simpson, 24 years old and Robert Roberts, 26 years old, both being executed for housebreaking. Paying with your life just to eat, just to stay dry, was the sad reality of life in London in 1795.

Abraham fought the urge to join the masses and watch, but the devil on his left shoulder was stronger than the angel on his right today. He squeezed through to see the men already standing with hoods over their heads and nooses around their necks. With no warning, the trap doors opened, and three souls were set free.

The people cheered, and Abe could never understand why. Those three poor men were the people, the masses, condemned for trying to live, condemned by the authorities with no heart and no soul.

Abe slowly walked off, closing his eyes, shaking his head. This time, in sadness.

Picking up his pace, Abraham forced himself to ponder the day ahead. Charles James was one of the top engravers in London, and Abe had been fortunate to have spent the last ten years, since his early teens, apprenticing under him. People traveled vast distances for his services. All manner of things were engraved in the little shop, from small personal items to printing plates to coin dies. The coin dies now monopolized his business.

The British government halted production of small copper coinage more than ten years ago. The severe shortage that resulted created an explosive market for custom half-pennies, larger pennies, and smaller farthings. Mills, factories, and mines in rural areas started paying their workers in these specially minted tokens that could be redeemed locally for goods and services. Counties and towns, all types of industry, and even individuals noticed this and soon capitalized on the trend. Engravings grew more detailed, more beautiful, and much more creative. Everyone tried to outdo each other. Now commonly used for currency, these tokens traveled far and wide.

Abe’s mother had secured his position with Mr. James years ago. He started as a simple laborer, cleaning and organizing the shop and doing whatever was asked. He became a presser at a young age, pressing the coins one at a time with an old screw press. He became quite skilled with the machine and quite quick as well. He seemed to know just how much pressure was required to apply to achieve an optimum image and was always amazed others could not figure this out. Recently, on top of his endless pressing duties, he was entrusted to deliver products to customers.

After years of simple engravings, he was now learning the finer aspects of creating more complex dies. He engraved denticles on most of the new dies and some of the lettering. Mr. James, to maintain standards, usually engraved the more creative and detailed portions. Abe watched as often as he could, or as often as Mr. James would tolerate. He was a sponge and soaked up everything he saw.

Abraham was nervously excited; today would be different. He swung his bag around from his back and embraced it. He was so proud of his accomplishment; Mr. James will be exceedingly impressed. It worked wonderfully and would be a great addition to the shop. His smile stretched from ear to ear.

He flipped it back as he approached his favorite stall at Chancery Lane. This marked the halfway point in his journey to work. He often stopped here for a quick drink of saloop, a mixture of warm milk and sugar flavored with sassafras leaves. Sometimes he’d have bread with marmalade, but likely not today with the high prices and shortages.

Here was where he first met Mr. Spence. The odd little man operated this same stall for almost a year before he abruptly disappeared. They had often conversed, but never really had a true conversation. Abe just listened to Spence opine on the latest atrocities committed by the government upon the citizenry. Spence had his own ideas on the rights of man. He particularly ranted on the evils of landlords and spoke of social guarantees for infants, children, and those unable to work. Abe later heard Spence was arrested and imprisoned for expressing these views to the wrong people. That was three years ago. He was back in business now after surviving seven months in Newgate. He smiled at the thought of Spence and how he would never learn.

Two

April 1795

No. 6 Marlett Court, Bow Street, London

Abraham finally arrived. It was always a warm feeling walking through that door. This was Abraham’s home now, much more of a home than the small flat where he slept alone. Here were his people, a small friendly family with rewarding work, accomplishments, learning, and a future. He often dreamt of a time when he ran his own shop, where customers came to him and marveled at his creations. The bag on his back might be that very first step.

Good morning Mr. James.

Charles James slowly looked up at the clock on his shelf, then looked at Abraham. Good morning to you as well, Abe. Another eventful journey today, or did that bag behind you slow you down? James appreciated punctuality, and he looked less than pleased at the time of his arrival. Abe knew he must stay late today, into the dark hours, to compensate for the few minutes he was tardy. It would be best to wait before unveiling his creation.

Get started pressing the new coin. We need one hundred this morning. I finished the die last night and it’s already in the press. Use regular planchets; we won’t use any of his lettered ones until he approves. Mr. Spence will be arriving this morning, so hop to it.

Yes sir, replied Abe. Mr. James was all business this morning.

It would be an interesting day. He had just thought about Spence on his way to work, and now he’ll arrive shortly. Abe counted out one hundred blanks, or planchets. He moved them to the press and carefully centered one on the bottom die. The bottom die was the Spence portrait from last year with the statement SPENCE 7 MONTHS IMPRISONED FOR HIGH TREASON. This die was used quite often, more than any other for Spence’s tokens. It had the 4 in the date backwards! Abe had been incredibly embarrassed. It had been one of the first opportunities he was given to engrave lettering, and he got the four backwards! But Spence loved it. Maybe it’s the reason he used it so much.

Abraham had not seen the new die, only sketches. He turned the screw until the upper die kissed the planchet. He then turned the press five and a quarter turns at a slow, constant rate, then reversed and counted ten turns back up.

He removed the newly pressed coin and took it to the window to examine it in the best light. It was beautiful, pressed perfectly. New dies made the best pressings, and this one did not disappoint.

There was a large lion running to the left with his tail between his legs. Behind him was a crowing cock standing on a hill. LET TYRANTS TREMBLE AT THE CROW OF LIBERTY was written around the perimeter. The year 1795 was prominently placed below the lion, and there was no backwards five.

Abraham had grown to interpret the meanings behind Spence’s engravings quite well, and this one seemed obvious. The lion was Great Britain. The cock was France. Those tyrants destroying the lives of the people of our country should beware. The revolution, which just swept over France not six years ago, could occur here as well. It appeared Spence might be calling for a revolution!

He is playing with fire, Abe said to himself as he carried the first pressing to Mr. James for approval.

James carefully examined it under a magnifying lens and handed it back. Ninety-nine more just like that, Mr. Abraham. James managed to convey his great sense of pride in both the art and the craftsmanship, but his expression couldn’t hide the fact that he shared Abe’s concern: this one might cause trouble.

Abe knew his mentor was proud of the quality of his pressing. Calling him Mr. Abraham was the clearest, understated sign of appreciation he could be given. Maybe things will go well later today.

He finished pressing the remainder of the coins and placed them on the shelf for finished products. The shelf was full of tokens. Most were half-pennies, some were full-pennies, and a few were smaller farthings. James’ reputation had grown extraordinarily over the last few years, and the shop struggled to keep pace with both the orders for new engravings and the quantity of pressings. Business was good.

Glancing over to see James engrossed in his endless paperwork, Abraham sat at his bench, preparing to continue the never-ending task of engraving denticles around new dies. This had become routine for him and was no longer challenging. Time crept, and the annoying thoughts of routine surfaced again. The thoughts grew strong when pressing tasks ran on for hours, even days. The same tasks over and over; the monotony often grew maddening.

After finishing one die, Abe stopped and saw that Mr. James was still immersed in paperwork. He retrieved his bag, quietly removed his machine, and placed it on his bench. He was so proud; he wanted to show it to everyone. It had consumed his dreams, consumed every second of his spare time for months, and it was finished at last. What would Mr. James say? Would he use it? Maybe a promotion? How could he work with the overwhelming anticipation?

Abraham prepared it last night and ran a sample test. He customized it for Mr. James: C JAMES DIESINKER MARLETT COURT LONDON. It had just fit. He thought the term diesinker was much more impressive than simply engraver.

James’ voice snapped him back to reality. Mr. Abraham! Have you completed Spence’s order?

Yes sir. They are wrapped and on the shelf.

Thank-you. Won’t you please prepare some tea?

This was his moment; he felt an uneasiness in his stomach as he placed a kettle of water on the stove to warm. Quickly, he made his way back to his bench, gathered his masterpiece, and carried it to Mr. James’ worktable.

James looked up from his paperwork. What have we here?

I modified that old Castaing machine we never use. Abe stated proudly. We now no longer need to custom engrave dies for every customer who asks for edge messaging. We no longer need to contract the edge engraving to the planchet fabricator, cutting into our profits. We can do everything ourselves.

Abraham was sure Mr. James would embrace this idea, but he saw no smile.

Look! Abraham retrieved the token he pressed the previous evening. Look at the edge on this.

Mr. James seemed impressed and even showed the beginning signs of approval. He found his magnifier and carefully examined the edge. His face metamorphosed through a wide array of expressions before settling into a pensive grin. He leaned far back. His eyes looked up, as if he were examining his giant, bushy eyebrows, and he took a deep breath.

Abe felt a twinge of panic. Look what I did. I made individual letters, individual numbers, spaces. Many copies. They can be arranged to write just about anything. We can personalize the edges to any customer’s request. Many copies of a string of letters, or an individual string just for one coin. We can increase offerings to our customers. See how they fit; the clamping mechanism…

James slowly raised his hand, cutting Abe off. He leaned forward in his chair and looked Abe directly in the eyes. I appreciate your effort. The design and craftsmanship are exceptional. It obviously functions very well, but…

His mentor paused, and Abe felt his entire body tense. A wave of heat swept over him, and he could feel the sweat bubbling out.

James leaned back in his chair again. I think it may not be right for us. Not right now. Not currently. We are not keeping up with all the new orders as it is. We cannot afford the time to adjust your machine for just a single coin.

He could no longer look Mr. James in the eyes. His head instinctively bowed, and he stared at the floor. He couldn’t process the words, and a terrible, lonely feeling of rejection permeated him.

The shop door burst open, breaking the tension like a sledgehammer.

What a wonderful day! Thomas Spence strode in as if the shop were his own.

Good morning, Charles. He always called Mr. James by his given name, for Spence was quite his senior in years. He was a slight man, both in build and stature, with disheveled hair and clothes. His nose appeared to have been broken one too many times, but he always commanded any room he entered.

Spence beamed with genuine pleasure. Abraham Wright, what a pleasant surprise! How handsome you are getting, and you still have your mother’s eyes.

To Abe’s knowledge, Spence had only met his mother once. But every time they ran into each other, Spence repeated the compliment.

He quickly marched over to Abe and extended his hand, then decided against that and embraced him. The hug was slightly awkward given Spence’s diminutive stature; Spence’s head rested on Abe’s chest.

Spence returned his attention to James. How are my new tokens progressing? May I see one? The curiosity is unbearable. Before James could respond, Spence glanced down at the unusual Castaing machine on the bench before the three men. His expression changed to inquisitiveness, and he bent over for a closer examination.

He ran his finger over both sets of characters. This is not normal. What are all these?

Abe’s spirit shot through the roof. Spence was asking about his invention. He looked at Mr. James, who returned his glance with a smile and a nod.

This, Mr. Spence, is my improved Castaing machine. It can be adjusted to customize any edge engraving one might desire; just rearrange the characters. No longer do we need to contract out for new dies time after time, or even for the engraving itself. We can even customize individual coins for individual customers. Abe caught himself talking too fast; he was excited to explain it to someone who may be interested, especially in front of Mr. James!

James handed Abe’s sample to Spence along with his magnifier. Spence scrutinized the coin, and his face mutated from one expression to another. But in contrast to Mr. James, Spence put down the magnifier, lifted the coin to his lips, and kissed the edge. He turned to Abe and smiled the smile he had hoped to see from his master.

Spence pointed to the machine and then to Abe. This may just be what I was looking for. We sir, will need to talk further.

Abraham could barely contain his excitement. Maybe, just maybe, his machine will be used and appreciated.

James acknowledged Spence’s interest with a slight smile, hoping his previous words to Abe might be forgiven. Mr. Wright, please walk your machine back to your bench and bring Mr. Spence his new coins.

Abe did as he was told, then sat back at his bench, pretending to be hard at work. But who could concentrate after such a morning? He saw the two in deep conversation. He strained to catch any words, wondering what consumed such a long and whispered exchange. He finally settled into his tasks, surrendering to the knowledge that they were too quiet to overhear.

Abe flinched at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He was jumpy and easily surprised when intently concentrating on a task. It was the hand of Mr. Spence.

I think your invention is brilliant. It could be quite useful to me. I have regular customers for whom I might get away with charging quite a premium for a personalized message. Charles has given his permission for you to bring this to my shop. If it becomes a profitable endeavor, we may be able to agree to terms. But he insists any time spent working for me must be your own. He will not tolerate using his.

This was incredulous. Unveiled just hours ago, it was now in demand. He looked over to Mr. James with a raised eyebrow and a questioning face. It was returned with another smile and a nod of his head.

Are you able to bring it by tonight? Spence asked. I often work late in the evenings and sleep right there on the floor.

I would be happy to. I will head up as soon as I am released. Is that what you were discussing so intently over there?

Spence chuckled. Not at all. I have another design I wish engraved, but your master has concerns. He retrieved a worn piece of paper and unfolded it. This is my most recent request. The drawing had two figures appearing to be quarreling, with some writing around it.

The press-gangs are out of control these days. Too many of our young men are disappearing, with few ever returning. It is not how British society should conduct itself. You, Mr. Wright, better take care to avoid them. We wouldn’t want you to disappear, would we?

Spence seemed quite pleased with his new design. "The figures are a press-gang member dragging away a British citizen. Written around it is BRITISH LIBERTY DISPLAYED. Mr. James expressed reservations about this, thinking I am overstepping and risking action from the authorities once again. How will society evolve if not for such action?"

Mr. Spence was just about to break into one of his lengthy orations but caught himself and frowned. Regardless, Mr. James only agreed to the engraving if his name was not included. Shall I see you this evening, Mr. Abraham Wright?

My Castaing machine and I would be most honored.

April 1795

The Hive of Liberty

No. 8 Little Turnstile, High-Holborn, London

The sun had set, and the sky was rapidly growing dark. Abraham had already passed more than a few flamekeepers lighting their lamps along the streets.

He was tired. Being tired consumed his immediate thoughts. Tired of lugging his machine all over London. Tired from no sleep. Tired from the hills and valleys his mind traversed throughout the day. Tired from hunger. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day. Hunger. Now hunger consumed his thoughts. He briefly contemplated stopping at an ale house, but he had only a few blocks more to go and hoped Mr. Spence could spare a few bites.

Spence sat on his bench outside his shop, enjoying the balmy evening. The wooden sign hanging aside the doorway read The Hive of Liberty above his name, T. Spence.

Spence had been confined in Newgate prison the previous year. His alleged crime was selling copies of Paine’s Rights of Man in the street. Upon his release, friends and associates circulated a subscription that provided him with sufficient funds to open a small shop here at Little Turnstile. He made his living as a publisher, bookseller, token dealer, and manufacturer. It seemed the more outspoken and the more radical his political views grew, the more his clientele expanded.

He had long believed the land had been stolen from the people and should be returned. Years ago, he created his own six-point plan for a free and equal world:

1. The end of aristocracy and landlords.

2. All land should be publicly owned by ‘democratic parishes’, which should be largely self-governing.

3. Rent of land in parishes to be shared equally amongst parishioners.

4. Universal suffrage (including female suffrage) at both parish level and through a system of deputies elected by parishes to a national senate.

5. A ‘social guarantee’ to provide income for those unable to work.

6. The ‘rights of infants’ to be free of abuse and poverty.

His strongly held beliefs and activities promoting them led to continual surveillance and harassment. He was beaten more than once. Over the years, his bookshops, including The Hive of Liberty, had been attacked and plastered with warning notices by both the authorities and loyalist groups.

Seeing Abraham approaching in the dim light of the alley, Spence rose and ran to greet him.

Good evening, Abraham. A glorious day we are having.

Abe managed to give a slight smile and nod, then adjusted the bag that held his machine. Good evening to you.

Spence sensed the bag was wearing on Abe. Please allow me to assist you. Spence lifted the bag from his shoulder and placed it on his own, astonished at the weight.

You must be exhausted after that long walk. I hope you are hungry. I prepared my special soup just for you. Veal, onions, beans, potatoes with cream. It’s on the stove right now. We will have cheese and even bread!

A wave of relief overtook Abe, and he reminded himself not to eat too much. He was a guest and must behave as one. Thank-you, Mr. Spence; I’ve had a long day. I’ve had no time to eat.

The soup was remarkably tasty. As Abe sat and enjoyed his meal, Spence circled his small establishment, proudly showing off his inventory of tokens, his pamphlets, and his meager selection of books for sale. Walking to the back corner, he lifted a large cloth, revealing his newly acquired coin press. It was quite old and had seen better days, but he seemed exceedingly proud of it. He opened a large wooden box at the foot of the machine. Inside were a large number of halfpenny planchets. Most were copper, but Abe saw silver blanks as well. This was quite surprising, knowing some of Spence’s history and lifestyle. Abe took note but said nothing; he focused on the press.

I had no idea you were pressing your own tokens, Mr. Spence. How well does it work? I don’t recall if we have given you any of your dies. Does Mr. James know of this? I am unsure how he might react.

Abraham thought his master might actually be relieved that Spence was pressing his own, seeing the potential trouble with the authorities. He knew Mr. James had been concerned with the increasingly bold, anti-government sentiments Spence was advocating.

Spence interrupted his thoughts. I have not even tried using it. It was delivered only a few days ago. I was hoping you might assist and instruct me on the finer points of pressing. You have obviously mastered this. You are the finest in all London!

But first, let us address the mission we have tonight. I am excited to see your Castaing machine in action. Spence went on as he cleared a space on one of his workbenches. "Can we change the lettering to an advertisement of my little shop? Maybe THE HIVE OF LIBERTY LITTLE TURNSTILE LONDON?"

That should be a good test. The sides are well balanced, and I’m sure I have sufficient lettering. I spent many, many nights engraving duplicates of the letters and numbers and tried to replicate each letter as exactly as possible.

An hour had passed before the machine was set to the desired message. Now was the moment of truth. Abe could see the excitement in Mr. Spence’s eyes and the bouncing of his leg as he sat in anticipation, waiting for the final adjustments.

Spence reached down into the open box of planchets and chose a shiny copper blank. These planchets were perfectly sized circles. The surfaces were exceptionally polished; not a single blemish was visible. He handed it to Abraham as if it were a gift. Use this planchet; just look at the quality.

Abe positioned it in his machine. He turned the smaller crank until both sides of his dies were in firm contact with the planchet. He turned the larger crank. Both sides started to move, one side in one direction and the other side in the opposite. The coin turned half a rotation as the letters pressed into the edge. Abe turned the small crank again in the opposite direction, freeing the coin.

Spence retrieved the freshly edge-engraved planchet and inspected the results. He got up, found his magnifier, and moved to his lantern. He studied the coin, rotating it over and over. Looking up with his eyes open wide and eyebrows raised, an odd, evil-looking grin formed.

Unbelievable! This is wonderful. I have big plans for this machine. Can we do another?

Spence opened a drawer and took out one of the new tokens Abe had just pressed with the Lion and Cock. May I try it this time?

Abe stepped back and gestured with both hands toward the machine. Sure, give it a go.

Spence repeated the process like he’d done it hundreds of times. He inspected his own handywork under the light of the lantern and looked up with that same odd grin.

We are going to do quite well! Spence pronounced. I have many customers who would revel in having their names on my tokens. Personalized, one-of-a-kind coins. These are people of means. Many insist on having your best pressings of all my coins, some paying for multiples of each. They would pay a handsome premium if their names were around them.

These people share my philosophies. The more daring the design, the more they desire it. I just need to convince Mr. James to maintain our relationship. He seems to be increasingly uneasy with me.

Spence’s grin flattened and he paused. I’ve taken notice of your work. You are quite good. His head nodded ever so slightly. Would you entertain the notion of engraving for me? We could be partners of sorts. I have the ideas, and I have the customers. You could engrave, press, and now create custom edges. We could do well together, very well indeed.

Abraham had no response. What would Mr. James say? He had a good job, a good job for years to come. Mr. James had been extremely gracious, both to him and to his mother. On the other hand, Mr. Spence was quite eccentric, and he was always in trouble. Abe did not want to get in trouble.

Spence interrupted his thoughts. Can you come back tomorrow? We could work with your machine. We could get the press operating. I will gladly pay you. I will pay you well for your time and the use of your machine.

That woke Abe up. He certainly could use more silver in his pocket. Tomorrow was his day off, and he wasn’t looking forward to carrying his machine all the way back to his flat.

Abraham smiled and picked up a large portion of bread and a wedge of cheese. Sure. I will be here in the morning. But only if you have breakfast waiting.

You won’t be disappointed. Don’t arrive too early though; I’ll run out for fresh eggs. Get some sleep. It’s been a long day for you, and you still have to get home.

Sleep will certainly be welcome!

Abe walked out of The Hive of Liberty, his head swirling from the eventful day.

April 1795

The Hive of Liberty

No. 8 Little Turnstile, High-Holborn, London

Abraham journeyed back to Little Turnstile as agreed, but he remembered nothing of the journey. His mind raced in circles the entire trip; he still had no clue what to do. Spence certainly put him in an awkward position.

He couldn’t leave Mr. James, not after everything he had done for him. After all, he owned the Castaing machine, and any decision concerning it belonged to him. However, it was an interesting temptation to branch out on his own; that would be exciting. But he wouldn’t really be on his own; he would be explicitly tethered to Spence. Given Spence’s propensity to draw the ire of the authorities, this might not be wise. It looked as if the cons outweighed the pros, at least for the time being. Maybe he should see what the day brought; it was all too much right now.

The journey took him west,