Join or Die

“Mister Hoban, I couldn’t find a thing wrong with it.”

Mr. Hoban pursed his lips. Daniel shifted only slightly. “The arch here is off center.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel agreed of course, “but that’s a stone arch, sir. There’s nothing Peter or I can do about it.”

“Yes,” Mr. Hoban still stared at the marble. “Your work is fine as usual. Who did this?”

“I don’t know, but I can check, sir.”

“Don’t bother. It will burn soon anyway.” Mr. Hoban looked sourly upon the glossy floors. He rolled his shoulders back. “More work for us then, yes? We should be thanking the British for the war and another large commission.”

“James!” Herbert Mason called down the hall, his voice echoing upon the stone. Steps thudding, his tucked-in shirt and belly fat rolled with his slow advance.

Mr. Hoban smoothed his features. He dismissed Daniel with a wave. “Get some supper from the kitchens. Report before lying down.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel nodded once, turning sharply and leaving.

Mr. Mason frowned after him, digging out a handkerchief and dabbing at his face. Mr. Mason had told Mr. Hoban – at length – what a poor constitution his family had during humid weather. It was the European in him, Mr. Mason claimed loudly several times. He was made for civilized work and civilized work alone. As Daniel turned the corner, Mr. Mason finally looked to Mr. Hoban, still frowning even as he tried to quiet his huffs. “Don’t you worry about him stealing?”

“No,” Mr. Hoban clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve found that skilled slave laborers rarely resort to such base acts.”

Mr. Mason sniffed loudly, shaking out his handkerchief. He held it at its corners and carefully began folding it. “Perhaps” sniff  “it may be a sign of their better nature” sniff  “or more likely just the effects of civilization upon them.”

Mr. Hoban hummed. “Say,” he said loudly enough, tapping his heel as he gestured towards the arch, “do you happen to know who was in charge of the masonry in this hall?”

Mr. Hoban paused, handkerchief nearly stowed away but still half hanging out of his pocket. “Your slaves, perhaps?”

A tight smile came across Mr. Hoban’s face. “My slaves are carpenters, Mr. Mason. I assure you, they were not allowed within a foot of the masonry equipment.”

“Of course, of course, my apologies.” The echoes of his laughter assaulted the walls as his voice had done, continuing well past its time. “Negligence is certainly not one of your qualities! Perhaps, though, this time you could make these walls fireproof.”

“Perhaps next time the army could stop the enemy from reaching the White House. Mr. Mason, I had left the complete records of workers and assignments upon my desk not less than three hours ago, yet when I had returned, they were gone.”

“Well,” Mr. Mason’s face had stilled into an equally tight smile, “it certainly would not be your slaves who had taken it, no? Because you say they cannot steal.”

“They do not, I say.”

“Then perhaps they are another’s slaves.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Hoban agreed, pressing his lips together.

“Listen, my dear sir,” Mr. Mason patted his chest pocket as if assuring himself his handkerchief had not half-mindedly wandered off, “let us not contend about such small matters, yes? We are at a good time, a good time to be alive, I say. We have won the war. We are together, yes? As Mr. Franklin so kindly reminded us, ‘united we stand, divided we fall.’”

“If I recall, that was Mr. Dickinson. Mr. Franklin’s work stated, ‘join or die.’”

Mr. Mason waved his hand. “The idea is the same, no doubt. We must stand together against all assaults. The British, yes, but also those within. Would you not agree?”

“I would prefer myself and my works to withstand any additional attacks, yes.”

“Yes,” Mr. Mason clapped his hands, smile loosening slightly. “Exactly, Mr. Hoban, exactly. Yes, now . . . I do believe it to be around suppertime. Join me?”

*

 Impermanence vibrated in the air. Henry could’ve snorted at that thought if it weren’t so true. Cries crawled up the walls but were muted, unable to find the cracks. Shouts and pounding and the occasional blowhorn, but it was all on the other side. The air inside stood ready for the breach.

Sharp clacks broke it. Henry’s focus flicked to him. Michael, Mike when he was off-duty, kept his face set as he approached, his black uniform as pressed and straight as always. Intimidating, yes, but Henry had also seen him take triple shots and the aftereffects, and while the seasoned man always held up well, there was a limit to how well someone could be after that.

Michael paused, eyes hard and staring right below Henry’s chin. Henry forced himself not to swallow.

“Cover this hall.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henry wanted to ask about a contingency plan. He wanted to ask about reinforcements. He wanted the National Guard.

He wanted to know if some of the National Guard were pounding on the door themselves.

Michael resumed his stride. Generally, their standard black shoes thudded, or if Henry, the buffoon that he was, tried to be quiet, they lightly thumped. The arches and acoustics and other architectural crap of the hall caused the sharp clacking of Michael’s shoes to resound. Again. Again.

“Sir?” Henry could’ve kicked himself. The clacking stopped. The distanced yelling filled the quiet. “Yes, sir,” Henry repeated forcefully, as if it were possible that Michael hadn’t heard him the first time.

Michael kept his eyes on Henry, face still set without expression. After a moment, Michael asked, “What are you willing to die for?”

Henry forced himself not to shift on his feet. “My country. Sir.” He imagined himself a minuteman. Surely, they wouldn’t have balked at this.

Michael cast a look around the hall, curving his head as if following the arches. “And this, is this your country?”

“The White House?” Henry immediately grimaced at his own higher pitch. Quickly, he continued, “Yes, sir.” Michael stared at him. “Uh . . . no, sir.”

“This is a building,” Michael said flatly. Jerking his head in the direction of the pounding, the yells, the blowhorn, “Those are people. Which is your country?”

“The people, sir.”

Michael inclined his head in the opposite direction. “And the people already in here?”

Henry took a breath. “Them, too, sir.”

“And you, Henry?”

It took Henry a moment, too long of a moment he knew, but it was still just a moment. “Me, too?”

Michael raised his brow, and Henry was vividly reminded of loud music and hard stools and the pleasant burning of alcohol on his tongue. “You a communist?”

Henry laughed. Once, but it was still a laugh. He grinned, “No, sir.”

“There you have it,” Michael nodded, a wry smile upon his own face.

They really didn’t have time for more talking. Henry knew that. He still couldn’t help himself, Michael nearly smiling and the tension fading though not disappearing from Henry’s own body. “We’re all chopped up though. Aren’t we? Like the snake and the colonies.” He made a disgusted face at himself. When they fired him, he’d write the book How to be an Idiot for Idiots. Sure enough, his mouth opened again, “You know, ‘divided we fall.’”

“It was ‘join or die.’” Michael turned around. “But it comes down to the same anyway.”

Henry swallowed and bowed his head. The clacking resumed. It joined the distant shouts until it was all just noise.