Chapter 22
Castle Island, Boston
July 1774
JAMES HOLLOWAY HAD grown used to sleeping in a hammock.
He’d stopped vomiting in rough seas. He preferred calm seas, but the ship had been stationary twice, if stationary were possible on water. Not a puff of wind moved the sail. If James liked the lack of movement, it postponed arriving in Boston, ending what he was thinking of as a nightmare.
On days he could not fall asleep due to the noise from people cleaning the ship, fixing whatever needed to be fixing, stomping around on the deck above the sleeping hammocks, he wondered if he would be in the colonies forever. The longer he was on the water the more he couldn’t imagine submitting to a second voyage, even one taking him back to England.
“Three years, three years, three years, that’s all I’ve committed to,” he chanted to himself as he kneaded the bread each day. “One year gone, one year gone, one year gone.” He massaged the memory of having been told that at the end of his three-year commitment, he could leave. Since joining, he’d heard rumors that some soldiers, who returned to civilian life, stayed in Boston. They might be given a piece of land to farm. He’d heard other rumors that land was cheap in New England and the further from the city, the cheaper the land. He didn’t know which rumors to believe — if any.
He preferred being a soldier to his life in Ely. He would use this period to decide what to do with the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be a farmer. It was enough that back home they had a small plot of land for vegetables, a few chickens, a cow. It met most of their needs.
Maybe he could open his own bakery in Boston. Save his pay to finance it. The thought amused him. He’d joined the regiment to escape the life of a baker, and he might end up as a baker to escape the regiment. Yet he could run the bakery the way he wanted.
Maybe Boston had more bakeries than were needed. Maybe one of the nearby villages would need a bakery. It wasn’t going to worry him until he’d could check the place out.
He worried about the locals over there. There was a lot of jabber about how some of the colonists wouldn’t obey English laws and fought every tax the King demanded. As his commanding officer said in one of their regular information lessons, how the hell did they expect the King to pay for their protection. The locals were also described as being people who would as soon cheat a soldier as breathe.
“All of them?” James had asked.
“Most,” the commander had said.
James fell asleep wondering if there would be enough flour to last until they reached land. When he woke, something felt strange. He realized the boat wasn’t moving. “Shit, becalmed again.”
But then he heard people running and hollering.
Climbing up on deck, he saw an island with a long gray stone building. They must be at their destination, Castle Island just off the Boston coast.
Chapter 23
Argelès-sur-mer, France-Geneva, Switzerland
May
WE DROVE FROM Argelès-sur-mer, France to Geneva, Switzerland yesterday, a normal six-to-eight-hour trip. It took ten hours, which meant it was too late to even turn on the computer to write when we arrived and finished settling in.
We did some sightseeing along the way. My husband knew I wanted to see the oldest house in France, La Maison de Jeanne, in Sévèrac-le-Château, so he made it possible. More than once, he has pandered happily to my love of all things historic.
He hates to be a passenger, so he drives the entire route. This lets me sleep, think or write in my head on these trips when we are not chatting or listening to music.
This trip it is as if Daphne is in the back seat along with my teddy bear-decorated suitcase and Sherlock, our dog. Daphne is trying to communicate with me. She wants to talk about Gareth, her husband, and chides me for not developing her part in the novel sooner.
She has a point. My research was paying off and I was writing almost non-stop about James’s training and transfer to Boston. I need to listen to her.
She decries her situation as an accompanying wife. No matter whether overseas postings are diplomatic or corporate, these women must find something to occupy them-selves. I’ve met so many of them in Geneva who had careers in their home countries and after the move to Switzerland they have no professional outlet but are at odds and ends.
They have two reactions. One group does nothing and is miserable. Another uses the time to develop a new way of living professionally, artistically, physically or emotionally. I want Daphne to fall into the latter group.
Daphne knows as a diplomatic wife she can’t work in the United States unless some company obtains a work visa for her. Even then, as a historian not in academia, jobs would be rare … more so because she lacks a PhD.
Gareth is sending her mixed messages. She shouldn’t work to be ready for whatever diplomatic function happens. Although he may be overworked and understaffed, he won’t let her fill in at the consulate until they can hire more people to fill the gap.
Now I need to create both a situation where Daphne can find something meaningful to do. Whatever I create needs to be related do James’s story, at least indirectly.
As we continue on the route to Geneva, both Daphne and I fall asleep. Tomorrow I will start to write.
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