Chapter 26
Boston, Massachusetts
September 1774
THE STICKY DAYS of August gave way to the cooler mornings and evenings of September. Although days were still warm, the humidity had disappeared.
James Holloway had found that during July and August his uniform and bearskin hat were almost unbearable. He’d developed a rash across his forehead that matched the hat’s rim. He much preferred the tricorn. He had learned in marching practice, it had to be slanted to one side to keep this Brown Bess from knocking it off.
Each morning when the wake-up bugle sounded, James jumped off his cot and stuck his head out the flap to check the weather. He noticed some of the trees on the Common were edged in red and yellow, but they were still attached to the tree.
He was in no hurry for winter. At the Green Dragon, where many of the regiments hung out evenings, those who had spent the previous winter told of snow up to their thighs and brutal winds off the harbor.
Thomas Miller, Moses Fletcher and James had been assigned to the crew renovating a big building that would make up the winter quarters of the 43rd. It was located across a rough road between their camp and different types of buildings: houses, offices, shops, warehouses. Their future barracks had been a warehouse. The inside had been gutted by fire five years before, leaving a brick shell, but the walls were strong. The Military Governor Thomas Gage had turned it over to the 43rd, 52nd and 59th regiments.
Other buildings had been appropriated for other regiments. The new laws had said soldiers could be quartered in private homes. No one liked that idea, neither the locals who feared the soldiers nor the soldiers who feared the locals.
Some troops felt that if soldiers were in private homes, they could serve as spies, which was what concerned locals. Some soldiers worried they would be killed in their beds and their bodies dumped in the harbor. Others felt it might be nice to be part of a family again. The talk to quarter soldiers in private homes remained just talk, no action.
James wished he could integrate more with locals. He didn’t understand why they thought they were different than the Englishmen and women with whom he’d grown up and who had been his customers. His brother had always told James he spent too much time talking: in reality, he had done more listening. He wondered if he could convince his superiors that he might be put to better use as a spy.
Instead, he was put to work on the warehouse renovation crew.
He wasn’t unhappy with the assignment. He liked the measuring, sawing, fitting and nailing of the planks. He found, once shown how to do something, he perfected it quickly. Seeing the renovation come together gave him pleasure.
About an hour into the workday of the second Monday in September, James carried wood planks to the second story floor. A man in civilian clothes approached him. The quality of his clothes indicated a certain status, or so James thought. The man wasn’t wearing a wig. His graying hair was tied back at the neck with a leather string.
“Soldier, can you give me a tour?”
A tour? James wasn’t sure what to do. What if the man was a Sons of Liberty scouting out where they could damage the soldiers?
John Tilley, the corporal in charge of the project, was away arranging for the delivery of more wood and nails. Because the project was ahead of schedule, the higher ups left the soldiers alone to get on with it. Tilley had been a carpenter in civilian life. He had a talent in teaching others. “If you ever leave the army, you’ll be able to earn your living as a builder,” he told James. “You’ve learned faster than anyone I’ve ever taught.
“If you ever leave the army.” Interesting phase. James didn’t hate his current life. In fact, it was pretty good. Instead of things being identical everyday as they had been in Ely, there was certain variations. Sure, there were the marching drills and loading Brown Bess practice. Since he’d arrived, he had not had the chance to fire a precious bullet. There was talk that they might actually shoot a round or two late in September.
His life was fine for now, but what about the future?
“I’m Thomas Gage,” the man said, “and you?”
Thomas Gage, that was the Governor’s name and a General. He had seen the man from a distance, but where was his uniform? “James Holloway. Private James Holloway.” In case it was General Gage, he put down the planks and saluted.
“We’re not in uniform. A salute isn’t necessary. I wasn’t about to wear my uniform on a building site where it would get filthy.” He brushed imaginary sawdust from his sleeves. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”
“No, Sir. This way.”
James started the tour on the ground floor, which was the most complete. All the time Gage peppered him with questions about the construction project. It made James uncomfortable.
He wasn’t sure how much his superiors wanted the general to know. Unlike many soldiers, James read well. He had been following news in the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. It was considered, he was told, a leading Sons of Liberty rag. His interest in the newspaper had been piqued by the wood carving print of an Indian on the upper left-hand corner of each edition.
From the newspaper, he’d learned that Gage had only assumed the governorship in May. His appointment was in response to what was now the infamous Tea Party. As a loyal British soldier, he shouldn’t admire the act, but something about the audacity combined with the imagination of dressing as Indians appealed to him. He would not, could not admit it to anyone, including Thomas.
James knew from reading that the December Tea Party had backfired on the locals. The British issued four acts that had increased, not decreased the unrest — a bad cycle.
Gage been assigned Governor. Many privileges had been taken away from the locals. It was bad enough that they had closed the port of Boston, but the Massachusetts charter had been revoked, leaving the colony under the control of the Crown and its representatives.
If he was at the Green Dragon for a beer and in civilian clothes, he was more apt to hear the rumblings of the locals or at least that was true early on. Now as soon as the locals recognized him and any other soldiers, the mumblings stopped.
“And you, Private? You’re from …”
“Ely, Sir.”
“What did you do there?”
“I was a baker.”
“And being a baker qualifies you to be a carpenter?”
“Not really, Sir. Corporal Tilley is an excellent teacher. I learn quickly.”
“Show me some of work you did.”
James took the general over to the cupboards he’d built. They were plain and made of pine, but everything was perfectly aligned.
“What else, Private?”
James showed him the stairs, again perfectly aligned and almost identical in height and width. There was a curve as they went to the second floor. The banisters and railings were also smooth.
“Did you do the finishing?”
“No, Sir. Only the measuring, cutting and installing.”
“Hmm.” Gage rubbed his cheek with his left hand. James noticed he had a bandage on his hand, but he didn’t ask how the General might have been hurt. Privates don’t question generals, no matter how tempting.
“I gather you can read, write, and know simple arithmetic?”
“Yes, Sir. My Mum insisted we go to school. She said we couldn’t be good bakers without these basics.”
“Your mum was right.” They heard footsteps approaching in the outer room.
“What’s going on? Who’s this man?” Corporal John Tilley joined them on the stairs.
He had a cloth bag containing nails of miscellaneous sizes slung over one shoulder. This he dropped onto a stack of lumber to his right. “Well, speak up, Private Holloway.”
“Don’t blame him. I demanded he give me a tour. General Thomas Gage. And you are Corporal …?”
*****
James walked back from the evening meal. He had finally grown accustomed to the spruce beer served with meals. The food was repetitive: pork, pork fat, dried peas, oatmeal, cheese. Sometimes vegetables were added although he was told those would disappear when the weather grew colder. He didn’t want to spend his money for food at the inns scattered around the city. Saving was important although he wasn’t sure what he was saying for exactly. After his three years were up, was all he knew. After, when he was once again a civilian. He hoped when an opportunity appeared, he would recognize it. In the meantime, it was fun to imagine different things that might happen in the future.
For the first time since he arrived, he could see his breath.
Thomas headed for the Green Dragon alone. James didn’t want to waste money and the night nursing a real beer even if it were better than the spruce beer.
The reaction of locals bothered him. They kept saying how the Crown was destroying them, but not if they thought soldiers were among them. By now he had been identified as a soldier. He hated how quiet fell when he walked in. He wanted to say he didn’t want to hurt them. Couldn’t they just calm down and follow the laws?
His alternative was going to bed early. A good night’s sleep would be welcome. His muscles had become used to the type of movements he needed to do in the renovation—or they had almost become accustomed.
Corporal Tilley was sitting on James’ cot. “What the hell did you say to the General?”
James recounted as much of the conversation as he remembered. Had he given away any secrets that the lower echelons would want hidden from the top brass?
Although Tilley was a slightly higher rank, they had spent so many days working on the warehouse renovation that they were more relaxed than they might otherwise be if they were on more military-type assignments. He felt he could ask, “Why?”
“Because Gage has requested you report to him in the morning.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“He wants to make you his orderly.”
Chapter 27
Boston, Massachusetts
August
“LET ME DRIVE,” Daphne Andrews said. What she didn’t say was that Florence DuBois’s driving terrified her. “You direct me.”
“Why not? That way I can look around.”
Daphne didn’t say that she’d seen Florence look everywhere but the road on their other trips while driving. When Florence had hopped out of the driver’s side and handed her the keys, she felt relief.
They had chosen a beautiful July day to drive from Boston to Lexington. A few puffy white clouds played peek-a-boo in the blue-blue sky. The humidity of the last three days seemed to be taking a holiday from causing people to sweat excessively. It was replaced by a gentle breeze that caressed the women’s faces as they changed places in front of Daphne’s Comm Ave. building.
“Clim, AC?” Florence asked.
“Do we need it?” Daphne fastened her seat belt and started the engine. It was an automatic. In Scotland she only drove standards, but it was easier going from standard to automatic than the other way around.
Florence shook her head as she fastened her seat belt on the passenger side. They pulled into traffic.
The two women has been in almost constant contact to discuss their project after their visit to Louisa May Alcott’s house. They had rushed through the rooms, barely thinking of Beth, Meg, Jo and Amy. By the time they had returned to the car, they were bursting with ideas including how their project could be educational and fun or even fun and educational.
So far they had agreed to make it for eleven- to fourteen-year-olds, boys and girls, but were working through ideas on how to make it appealing to that age group. They had settled on the subject: the first battle of the American Revolution. Later they would worry about finding a publisher.
Daphne was amazed at the speed with which everything was coming together, or at least the direction they needed to take to proceed. One of the first steps was to go to Minute Man National Park in Lexington. They had an appointment with an historian to find more information on how young boys and girls in the 1700s lived.
Daphne’s job would be to transform those lives in 1774–1775 into the words for a comic book. Although she’d already started research, the women wanted to verify what would become the comic’s details. “Accuracy, accuracy, accuracy,” had become their motto.
Florence would create the drawings. Both women wanted the colonial kids to witness the events before, during and after the April 18, 1775 Battle of Lexington.
Their project had been delayed by the American Fourth of July and the July 14 French Fête Nationale called Bastille Day locally. Both women had been caught up in official celebrations. Daphne still thought it was dumb for the British consulate to be involved in the July Fourth holiday marking England’s loss until Florence said, “Look at it this way, you got rid of thirteen pesky colonies.”
“The festivities at the French Cultural Center were fantastic,” Daphne said. No wonder Florence had been busy working on the committee that produced a street party that included food, music, dancing. She didn’t say that Gareth had been furious when he had found out she’d gone.
“I wasn’t there officially,” she’d said. “With about 2,000 people milling around, I doubt if anyone would notice that the wife of the English Consul General was there.”
“You can never be unofficial,” he had said. He’d suggested she sleep in the spare room. At least she hadn’t had to listen to him snore.
Although the women hadn’t met face-to-face during July, e-mails and messages had flown back and forth when either had a chance to share ideas about what the comic book would cover. They had tossed so many thoughts around, that had they executed them all they would have created a library. They were reaching a point where it was time to consolidate and organize their ideas.
They drove to Lexington via the Mass Pike and Route 128 then on the back roads to enjoy the countryside. Perhaps not the most efficient route, but the prettiest with the colonial-style homes and fields of loosestrife just beginning to bloom, creating a purple sea.
Although still in the early stages of their project, they found themselves thinking in the same vein on most things.
Florence pointed to the left. “Stop.”
Daphne pulled into a farm stand with a corn field behind.
“There’s nothing like fresh picked corn. The best is when you have the water boiling as you pick it. Trust me, a French woman, to appreciate anything to do with food.”
Back on the road with corn for dinner in the back seat, Florence said, “Working with you is fun.”
Daphne agreed. “Have you given more thought to having kids review what we do?”
“Yes, but where do we get them from? My step kids don’t count. They are older, in school in Switzerland and have never spent much time in the U.S. Also, they are biased toward their non-wicked stepmom so they would probably say it was good even if it isn’t. Does the staff at your consulate have kids? Most of our people are French.”
“Some are Brits with a few locals. I’m not sure if they have kids and if they do, I’m not sure how Gareth would feel about me asking.”
“He’s still not sold on this project?”
What an understatement, Daphne thought. He had forbidden her continuing. More and more he tried to dictate her daily activities, including what she should wear when she left the house. That was not a side she’d seen in their short courtship. When they had a commuter relationship between London and Edinburgh, they spent much of their time in bed with forays out for meals, theater and cinema.
“I’m still hoping he’ll come around.” Daphne remembered her mother cautioning her to think carefully when Daphne had introduced him to her a week before their marriage. “Not that I don’t like him,” her mother had added. “How can I when I don’t know him. Nor do you.” Still her parents said they would support whatever she did. They always had. They would say their piece and then, as if there were a lock between their thoughts and tongue, cheer Daphne on no matter what decision she made.
“We could get five, maybe ten kids, eleven to thirteen years old, serve cake, ice cream,” Florence said.
“Great idea. Approach a school?” Then Daphne wouldn’t have to deal with Gareth.
They arrived at the Minute Man parking lot. There were only three other cars.
As they walked near the wooden North Bridge, Florence said, “Look,” and pointed to a small stone engraved with a poem.
Grave of British Soldiers
"They came three thousand miles, and died,
To keep the Past upon its throne:
Unheard, beyond the ocean tide
Their English mother made her moan."
April 19, 1775
“That must be where Gareth laid the wreath on Patriots Day,” Daphne said. “He didn’t want to do it, but he was told that the CG does it every year.”
The two women stood in the middle of the slightly curved North Bridge. The Concord River meandered below. The fields around them were so peaceful. Despite the heat and humidity earlier in the week, there had been enough rain to keep the grass green. Daphne shuddered, thinking of the contrast of the bloodshed that had started a war.
“What would the world be like if the colonies hadn’t rebelled? Hadn’t won the Revolution?” Florence asked.
“I suspect my country would be far more powerful. I read a book once, I forget the title, about America would be like if the South had won the Civil War. It was fascinating.”
They strolled a grassy knoll to the visitor’s center. A man in a ranger uniform stood behind a counter. “We’ve an appointment with Tom Atkins,” Daphne said.
“I’ll get him.”
Tom Atkins bounded into the room. He had the type of face that looked as if he were smiling even when he wasn’t. His blond hair was shaved close to his head, minimizing his receding hairline. For three hours, he provided them with information about people, events, stone walls, crops, education and clothing.
*****
Daphne and Florence found a bakery/café near Lexington center which qualified for a postcard of a New England village. Florence chose tea to go with her red velvet cupcake; Daphne ordered coffee to accompany her apple pie. They found a table near the back of the room. “I’m the one who should have the coffee as a French woman, and you as a Brit should be drinking tea.”
“Think of me as a Scot. You know what I’m thinking?”
“You would rather have a scone than that cupcake?”
“No, this is about our first comic.”
Florence leaned forward. “Go ahead.”
“We both like having twins, a boy and girl, maybe twelve years old, to cover pre and early teens. The comic book will deal with the day before the battle, the day of the battle, the day after the battle. Do you like the names Abigail and Adam? We can . . .”
“… use much of the information from Ranger Tom.” Florence took a paper napkin and pulled a pencil from her purse. She drew two faces. Voilà, meet Adam and Abigail.”
“We’ve wasted enough time. Now we really need to get to work.”
The two women high-fived.
Would Gareth notice the history books they’d collected from the park gift shop, she wondered. What would he say? Should she tell him what they planned? Marriage should not be like this.
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