BILLY GREENSAVES THE DAY
Ben Guyatt
BILLY GREENSAVES THE DAY
Copyright © Ben Guyatt, 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Michael Carroll
Design: Erin Mallory
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Guyatt, Ben
Billy Green saves the day : a novel / by Ben Guyatt.
ISBN 978-1-55488-041-6
I. Title.
PS8613.U927 B45 2009 jC813’.6 C2009-900503-4
1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
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To my mother, Myrla, who introduced me to the wonder of history.
Contents
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Selected Reading and Websites
A light drizzle fell amid cherry blossoms swirling through the humid air. An opulent horse-drawn carriage emerged from the mist as hurried hooves echoed off the cobblestone path. The driver commanded the animal to stop, its heavy breath obscuring its black head.
A sentry holding a lamp stepped forward briskly and offered his trembling hand. “They’re waiting for you, sir,” he said nervously.
George Clinton, a distinguished man of seventythree, awkwardly descended with the aid of a cane and slapped the sentry’s hand away. “Well?” Clinton boomed as he wiped away the moisture from his balding head.
The sentry gawked at him dumbly for an instant, then stepped back and snapped a perfect salute. “Sorry … sorry, sir.”
Clinton half-heartedly returned the gesture and limped toward the White House doors. Then he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. “Sorry, son.” He peered skyward, his eyes flickering against a now-steady rain. “Age, politics, and the sniff of war tend to quicken one’s Irish temper.” Sighing, he heaved himself up the steps.
The doors swung open to reveal the vivacious, buxom Dolley Madison carrying a sabre. She threw her arms open wide. “Good evening, George. How is the rheumatism?”
Clinton raised a curious eyebrow at the feathered turban she was wearing and hardly stooped to kiss her tender hand. “I daresay my physical pain will be less than my emotional distress after this meeting, Mrs. Madison.”
“The wife of the president must always look good,” she said proudly, slightly adjusting the turban. “Do you like it? It’s the favourite one of my collection. I had it sent all the way from Paris.”
“I suppose Napoleon gave you the sword,” he said sarcastically, gingerly removing his coat. He handed it to her without looking as she scrambled to set the weapon aside and took the garment.
“If the British are intent upon our demise, I’ll be ready for them,” she said firmly. “The Boston Massacre, the Tea Party, the Declaration of Independence … Valley Forge …” She placed a hand over her heart. “This Quaker girl has seen history in the making.”
Clinton rolled his eyes as she grabbed a candelabrum and escorted him to a closed door, their silhouettes dancing eerily against the wall as their shoes creaked heavily against the wooden floor.
Dolley motioned him inside with a toothy smile. “Go on in, George. Everybody’s here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Madison,” he said, gripping the knob with a gnarled hand.
“Please, George, call me Dolley,” she said merrily just as her sword slid away from the wall and clattered noisily to the floor.
“I would prefer not to,” Clinton said, shaking his head.
Inside the decorative room Clinton studied the diminutive, sickly-looking James Madison. The president was sitting at his desk, poring over some papers.
Barely raising his eyes, Madison said a bit curtly, “On time as usual I see, George. The door ... please.”
Clinton pushed the door closed with an expert flick of his cane before nodding his greeting to the six Cabinet members seated before Madison. Thomas Jefferson, the former president, stood at the window with his back to the room, entranced by the steady rhythm of the rain, his tall, awkward silhouette majestic and somewhat ghostly.
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