Chapter 18
Argelès-Sur-Mer, France
March
I’VE MADE A decision on years that I
will cover. James will have joined the Army in 1773 and will sail for the new
world in June 1774 after the Boston Tea Party and as rebel activity is heating
up. This gives him time to be well-trained and I can show accurate training
methods.
I’ve
plenty of time to work because of the pandemic.
We do
chat with neighbors who “borrow” our dog for walks, which is one of the allowed
activities.
At the
same time, we have wifi problems. Our village is waiting for fiber. We can only
have one internet connection at a time. When my husband needs it for his
writing and research, I need to shut everything down and vice versa.
I use
my downtime to read the books I’ve received and downloaded information when it
is my turn online.
James’
character is developing as I type. He will certainly not become a dedicated
soldier between the time he joined and the time he goes to Boston. For the plot
he needs to question just about everything he comes across, not a good trait
for someone in the army where unquestioned obedience is required.
Once in
Boston, he will have more doubts.
At no
time will James wish he were back in Ely. Instead, he will think of what he
will do after his three-year contract is up.
I need
to find ways to involve him in the events of the time, and more importantly, I
need to make sure I write about the significant ones that lead up to the April
18th battle. I keep reading and researching, R&R, not rest and
recreation.
Although James’s contract was a term one, letting him out
of it after three years, many soldiers did not have limited contracts, they
only left the army for medical reasons or when they aged out. I only came
across this information—which I must add to the story — somewhere. Not sure
yet.
Accuracy versus
keeping tension in the story can be a problem. So far.
I need
a scene? chapter? where they learn they’ll sail for Boston, but I’m not sure
when to put that in the novel. I’m delaying writing it. I am trying to find the
name of the ship the 43rd Regiment of Foot sailed on but no luck, despite
contacting several historians. I have found a lot of information on the type of
ship that they would have been on, the time it took for the voyage.
The research on the type of ship has
gone well, thanks to YouTube documentaries. If I can’t find the name of the
ship I have two choices.
·
Make
up a name
·
Not
mention the name and write around it.
A problem I have with YouTube is that when
I play one video, there are several others on the side screen that would be
interesting. Many have to do with my research, but others have no relationship.
Sometimes, I lack the willpower to not watch them.
I’ve
had more luck dealing with educational issues. James is an educated misfit
wherever he goes. But he’s a personable misfit, intelligent and curious. If he had
run the family bakery, he might never have joined up: I would have had to find
a new character.
He was
educated in Ely schools where he was an excellent student. In America and
England of the time there were schools, including for the poor. Schools in
Massachusetts were often called Blue Coat schools because the students wore
blue coats to class.
I also
learned about the Boston educational system of its time. In 1635 Boston Latin
was founded to educate men, but I knew that because my daughter graduated from
BLS in 1967. Harvard was founded for the graduates to study for the ministry,
law, etc. Many of America’s founding fathers attended BLS.
For
those that were not interested or didn’t have the ability for a classical
education, there were writing schools, one of which would become important both
to General Gage and thus to the plot. These schools were to teach those that
would become clerks, store owners, assistants to lawyers, etc.
Overall,
the early Bostonians were educated.
I need
to decide what to call the different factions: loyalists, patriots, rebels,
Tories, Whigs, colonists. Does the term patriot means patriotic to the King or
patriotic to the colonists who are unhappy with the King?
As I
come across and delve into different topics, I get ideas on how I want them to
work in the story, but it might be much later in the story. I need to make
notes and I put notes at the bottom of the manuscript and mark it in red. If I
learn something that should be added to what I’ve already written, then I go
back and add it, making sure I have it in the acknowledgements.
Unlike
writing pure fiction, I can’t manipulate events that really happened, although
sometimes I wish I could.
Chapter 19
Winchester, England
April 1774
JAMES HOLLOWAY WAS amazed when
Anderson released them earlier than usual. By looking at the sun, he gathered
he had at least an hour before it was time to eat.
He
found it hard to believe that he’d been a soldier for almost a year. A small
company of men passed by James and stood in front of the main center. A larger
company followed. It had men in rows of four. The front row would pretend to
shoot the Brown Bess. Then they would disappear to the back to fake reload as
the next row did the same and went to the back. James had spent hours and hours
in the same drill.
If
he were ever in a battle, he suspected the second row would be stepping over
the bodies of the first, a rather unpleasant thought even more so if he were
the one being stepped over. When he joined, he hadn’t thought about getting
shot. He’d better make sure that he was a good shot so he could kill before
being killed. The thought unnerved him.
Four
times over the year they had shot real cartridges. What had surprised James was
how hot his Brown Bess became. The soldiers joked they were in more danger from
burns than bullets.
Twice
they practiced in small groups of four spread out over the alleged battlefield.
Another regiment pretended to be the enemy. Then they switched roles.
When
they weren’t in drills, they kept the base spotless, fixed things that needed
to be fixed, painted and cleaned … always there was cleaning.
Rumors
abounded that his regiment would be sent in its entirety to Boston, but there
were always rumors just about everything: meat alleged to be rotten, a serjeant
found drunk, but instead of punishment, there was a cover-up.
James
only half believed the rumors he’d heard about the 43rd being
shipped out.
He’d
never seen the ocean. In Ely there was an old man who had been a sailor. He
talked of storms with waves as high as the cathedral and his ship being thrown
around. He spoke of whales, fish almost as big as the ship itself. James had
loved listening to his stories—but living them, that was different.
He
didn’t know much about the colonies. There were stories about how the colonists
were fighting against paying taxes. Hell, everyone paid taxes.
One
of the new stories was about how colonists dressed as Indians and threw an
entire shipment of tea into Boston Harbor rather than pay tax. Bloody waste of
good tea if anyone asked him, but of course, no one did.
Not
for the first time did he hope he wouldn’t see battle.
In
his mind he heard William chiding, “So why in bloody name did you join up?”
He
shuddered. He hadn’t liked killing rabbits, but he liked eating them even if it
combined a smidgen of guilt and a lot of enjoyment at the same time.
God,
life could be confusing.
Some
days he wondered what the hell had he been thinking? Getting away. Changing his
life. Never making another loaf of bread. How naïve. How stupid.
He
supposed he could run away. But where could he go?
If
he went home, a soldier might come through, a villager might mention him to
that soldier who would report it to his superiors. He’d be returned and
punished. The army did not take desertion lightly.
On
other days he enjoyed the routine. He liked it especially when he learned
something new. There was a manual that the soldiers followed. The lessons were
read to the men by a corporal. It was detailed, even to the placement of their
fingers on the gun in different positions. He wondered who had written it. One
man? A group? Officers?
At
one point he’d asked the corporal who’d answered, “How the hell should I know?”
and walked off shaking his head.
It’s
only for three years, with one gone already, he told himself when doubts seeped
into his brain. The recruiter had given him a choice back in Ely: three, five
years or indefinite. Despite the recruiter encouraging him for the indefinite
contract, James had asked if he chose the three years, could he extend at the
end. The answer was of course.
Thus,
he had chosen the shortest term.
He
thought as he walked, I changed my life
and that’s a good thing.
What
caught his eye was one of the new company drummers, a boy no more than fifteen.
He sat on a bench outside the barracks, polishing his drum, although it already
shone. The drum was green and red with paintings of soldiers in the 43rd
regiment uniform.
He
set down next to where the boy was working. “Hello Danny. Your drum is looking
really shiny.” James knew the beat told the soldiers to march faster, slower,
turn left, turn right, stop. Some commanders used hand signals, others rode or
marched back to give the drummer orders. Some sent a messenger.
When
he discovered something new, such as the reason and importance of the drumbeat,
it created a moment of happiness that he had joined up. In Ely, learning
something new was usually some kind of gossip, who was sleeping with whom, who
got drunk and fell in the river, etc.
“Where
you from, Danny?”
“Right
here in Winchester. My family blows glass, but I didn’t want to do that.
Anyway, my four brothers are carrying on the family trade. Since I’m the baby,
I had choices they didn’t.”
James
was surprised at how much personal information Danny shared. He liked getting
to know someone new.
The
bugle for dinner sounded. “Coming to eat, Danny?”
“Nah,
I’m heading home. My Mum’s cooking beats what you’ll eat.”
*****
A week later on Saturday, the
recruits were issued a six-hour pass to go into Winchester with orders to be
back by midnight. “Don’t cause trouble. You get in trouble with the locals,
it’s nothing like the trouble you’ll be in with me,” Anderson said. He said
that every time.
James
found Winchester a bit like Ely. He’d been told Winchester had about 4,000
citizens but what surprised him was that many of the streets were paved.
A
river, the Itchen, not much wider than the Ouse in Ely, ran down one section.
Houses were on both sides of the bank. A few held businesses on the ground
level, including a bakery, which was closed every time he walked by late in the
day.
As
it grew dark, a man walked down the street, sidestepping the horse manure. He
carried a torch on a pole to light the hanging oil lamps. James had not seen
these before he had joined up. Every new thing made him smile to himself.
His
fellow soldiers, including Thomas Miller, went to find beer, good or otherwise.
“I
want to just walk around,” James said. “I may catch up with you later.” In
reality, James was finding it difficult to be with people all day every day, even
though he loved talking to people. Sometimes he thought it was like filling a
bucket with water. When the bucket was full, it was full.
In
Ely, after he’d sold his bread, after he’d talked about anything and everything
with each of his customers, he relished the chance to sit down by the river by
himself and just think. Now, almost every minute of his day was occupied.
At
the base:
He
dressed with others.
He
cleaned the barracks with others.
He
ate with others.
He
marched with others.
He
practiced loading his gun with others.
He
went to bed when the others went to bed.
And
always, always there was Anderson or Carver barking at them to do it better and
faster. William and Anderson would get along well. Anderson considered each
failure of a recruit the recruit’s fault, but with more drill on his part it
would disappear. William had made it clear that every “failure” on James’s part
was a deep character flaw, which could never really be corrected.
Doing
nothing except what he wanted to do, even for an hour, was a gift. And doing nothing
was doing something.
The
spring air was gentle and dry with a light smell of horse manure drifting from where
the horses had deposited it as they pulled carts through the streets. In the
beginning of the week, they had two days of downpour. The puddles had dried.
Few
people were out. As he passed one house, a voice called out, “Hey James.”
He
looked to the window where the voice came from.
Danny
was hanging over the second floor windowsill and waving frantically. “What are
you doing here?”
“Just
looking around.”
“Come
in and meet my Mum and the rest of the family.”
Before
he could say he didn’t want to disturb anyone, the door opened. A woman
motioned him in. “I’m Danny’s mother. You’re another foundling.”
“That’s
what Mum calls anyone we bring home,” Danny said as he galloped down the stairs
to the front door.
Before
James could refuse, he was seated at a table; bread and a sausage were put
before him along with a mug of beer.
He
tried to sort out Danny’s brother and sisters from their spouses and offsprings.
Their names had come faster than Anderson’s orders. It was hard because they
all seemed to have the same round face, brown hair and brown eyes.
He
heard more laughter during the meal than his family would have exhibited in six
months day and night.
He
was fascinated that different people seemed to know whose turn it was to go
behind the house and return shortly thereafter. First, he thought they needed
to pee, but when Danny stood, he said, “My turn to add logs to the fire. I’ll
show you, James, if you want to come with me.”
Outside
James saw a hive-shaped kiln.
“This
is where my family makes their blown-glass products. Come.”
Danny
led James to the front of the house where a shop displayed their products. He talked
in a non-stop stream. “Our family is renowned for their glasses, dishes, vases.
We even have a commission from the King.” He took a breath. “My Mum is amazing.
When my father died a decade ago, she took over, saw that our glass was even
better. She always wants us to be the best we can be.”
Danny
went on. “That’s how I want to be about my drumming. I’m so lucky that my
family understood why I didn’t want to do what they were all doing and that it wasn’t
against them but for me.”
I wish my brother had felt like that, James thought.
Back
inside, James’ mother asked him about his life. Although he told them about his
family, he didn’t mention Bess. He wasn’t sure why.
When
every morsel of food had disappeared, James said, “I must get back to base.”
“You
don’t want Anderson mad at you,” Danny said. “What a temper that man has.”
Halfway
down the street, right before he had to cross a bridge, he heard footsteps. For
a second, he was worried that someone might rob him, but it was Danny’s mother.
She was a full head shorter than James with hair that escaped her cap. It
remained black. He wondered how a woman who produced that many children wasn’t
gray. Maybe the heat from the kiln?
For
a moment, instead of feeling homesick, he felt angry that his own family
couldn’t have been like this. Had his wife lived, could they have created a
family along with running the bakery? Not as long as William existed.
He
must stop comparing his old life with his new, he told himself. It was what it
was.
“James!
James, I have a favor to ask you?” Danny’s mother was out of breath.
“I
knew I’d have to pay for the meal.” The twinkle in his eyes matched hers.
“If
you go into war, try and keep Danny out of harm?”
“I
don’t think we have any plans for war.”
“Men
always find a reason to go to war.”
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