A Doomed Dream

It was a rather horrible day. It was raining, but it wasn’t one of those nice rainy days, where the rain fell almost like a mist and made the plants and flowers happy. Where the clouds would eventually part to let the warm sun create a rainbow that reflected on the wet leaves and grass. No. It was a horrible rainy day, where the raindrops were large and heavy and battered the flowers, and hammered upon the old wooden rooftops to the point where one couldn’t even hear the rumbling thunder that was equally as loud. The water quickly overflowed every building’s gutters and ran into the street, turning the roads to mud. Men with fancy clothes and women in nice dresses quickly scurried into the nearest establishments to escape the mess, while others trudged on, grim-faced and tired, either to the markets to make a living or to the church. The church was the best place to go at a time like this, as it was clearly the most sturdy structure in town. Stone buildings were best suited for this type of weather. No matter the care and effort put into building those wooden roofs, the rain always seemed to find a way in. 

It was on this horrible day that I was walking home from a meeting. The meeting, unlike the day, was rather pleasant. It did, however, take place in the very outskirts of town, far from my own dwelling. I took a carriage there but decided to be frugal on the way back. Now here I was, plodding through the mud in the rain, trying to get home. Occasionally someone on the road would be in a hurry and carelessly splash up water with the wheels of their cart and I would get even wetter than I already was. This was no big deal, but I did see the occasional soldier patrolling the streets. Then I was grateful for a passing cart, as I would use them as cover to avoid being seen. My meeting included the discussion of matters one might call… unauthorized.

As I turned a corner I looked up and could see the peak of the church, nearly piercing the sky as if to try and push away the dark clouds. This meant I was close. It also meant that I was nearing streets that would be paved, and I breathed a sigh of relief for my poor wet feet. It would not, however, mean escape from the foul stench of these streets. Only a nice cup of tea next to a few lit candles in my armchair back home could make me forgot that smell. 

But it was not the poor weather nor the smell that was at the forefront of my mind. The contents of the meeting filled my thoughts with a mix of excitement and worry. I and a group of my colleagues had been meeting for months now, and today it seemed like our plan was finally reaching fruition. I quickened my pace and soon I was home.

For a moment I stood and shivered in the doorway, taking in the sight of my modest but comfortable little apartment. As I pulled off my wet coat and muddy boots, I took a match from my pocket and lit the stove. It took a few tries, as the match was a bit damp. I placed the kettle on the stove to boil and began searching for my trusty journal.

Now, where did I put that thing? I thought to myself. It’s not something I wanted to be misplaced, or worse, read by anyone other than me or my colleagues. My angst was assuaged as I spotted it on the mantel just above my chair. I grabbed it, along with a quill and a small bottle of ink, and sat down. I had much to plan, and not much time at all. However, I knew I couldn’t rush myself. Everyone at the meeting understood that this was something that had no room for error. We had come this far, and we would not let our excitement be our downfall. I sat and pondered a bit before beginning. 

I don’t know how much time had passed, as I was quite engrossed in my work, but I eventually decided to take a break, when suddenly:

Fweeeeeeeeeeeee 

Ah, I thought, the kettle must be ready. I was never so wrong, for as I looked upon the stove I realized the fire had gone out. 

Again, Fweeeeeeeeeeeee. It was coming from… outside? 

I rushed to the window. My apartment was on the fourth floor, six or seven meters above the street. I looked down, and to my astonished horror, I saw them. My colleagues - my friends - in binds, obviously beaten. Four redcoats held them captive, their pistols cocked and pointed at their heads. A fifth soldier whistled again before he saw me. 

“Richard Albury!” He called. “You are hereby under arrest for conspiring to kill His Majesty the King of England!” 

My heart dropped into my stomach. 

“You are also found guilty of conspiring to commandeer the Royal Navy Ship 'Albion' and…”

I didn’t hear the rest. My heart was pounding in my ears. How could this have happened? How did they know? I looked down at my friends. John, Thomas, Josiah, all loyal to the cause and loyal to each other. Most of all, loyal to me. I could see the sorrow and defeat in their eyes. They must have been caught leaving the meeting. By the looks of the situation, it was clear that they had spoken. 

 “Come down now, and join your fellow criminals.” The soldier shouted. “And you shall meet your fate at the gallows.” 

My mind was racing. What was I to do? There was a rear exit in the building, but could I really just abandon my brothers? After the months of effort and planning? I felt a pang of guilt, for I was the one who recruited the three. I had the idea to commandeer the ship to England. To reach the royal palace and kill the tyrant king. I realized now, in what could be my last moments, that it was a fool's dream. I lead these men - whose only sin was the blind patriotism in their hearts - to their deaths.

I stepped up on the ledge of the window and stood tall. The rain had passed, and the sun was just beginning to appear through the clouds. I turned towards the warmth and noticed a rainbow, softly glowing across the town, ending in the harbor. Truly, beauty did follow the storm. 

This thought stayed in my head as I stepped off the ledge to join my brothers in their dismal fate. The dream would have to be carried on by another. 

The End