Lexington: Anatomy of a novel

 

Chapter 38

Geneva, Switzerland

May Quarantine

 

I DO NOT necessarily write chapters in order. Nor do I always write complete chapters. Often, I highlight in yellow parts to return to while I wait for verification of a historic fact or for more information. Sometimes it means a complete rewrite. More often, however, it is a matter of adding a few sentences, switching or cutting paragraphs.

Life happens during my writing. An example? We headed back to Geneva and ended up smack dab in quarantine because we came from the Occitanie part of France. The Swiss authorities have said people who are vaccinated do not have to quarantine.

The problem?

The quarantine regulation change doesn’t start until next month.

A good thing about quarantine is that it is easier to be disciplined in my writing schedule. Interruptions are more often household chores and sitting with the dog in the garden than anything social.

When I first started my research on the missing cannons, I pictured huge cannons like those on the deck of the U.S.S. Constitution or even those I’d seen at Edinburgh Castle.

The story that the patriots had stolen cannons from the base on Boston Common during a drill then hidden them in a firewood box at a writing school near the base didn’t make much sense until I discovered these cannons were much smaller than I thought. More research taught me that cannons came in sizes based on the size of the cannon balls so there were one-, two-, and three-pounders.

One of my problems as a writer when I do research is that I go off on tangents. It happened as I researched the cannons.

What was a writing school?

Certainly nothing to do with fiction like today where one can get a degree in creative writing like I did at Glamorgan University in Wales. In pre-revolution times, it was where young boys went to learn to read and write and do math to enable them to work in businesses. These were the youngsters not studying Latin and Greek at Boston Latin School. Those students went on to Harvard to become doctors, ministers and lawyers.

In the search for the cannons, soldiers entered the school. A teacher was said to have his feet resting on the firewood box where the cannons were hidden. He looked up as if surprised to see the soldiers coming in, who left quickly rather than disturb the class — or at least that is how the story was told.

The search for those cannons will be a major theme.

Chapter 39

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

  

JAMES HOLLOWAY HAD spent five days wandering around Boston in civilian clothes searching for information to give the General. He had eaten at different taverns and tried chatting with locals. He wasn’t sure how to delve into topics that might produce something useful. He couldn’t say, “So where did you hide the gunpowder and cannons?”

He mentioned at one tavern, while sitting a table with four locals, that the rebels were really clever to move the cannons out from under the soldiers’ noses.

The youngest among them, probably a boy no more than in his early teens, if that, said, “And then hid them under their noses, and when the soldiers searched the school . . .”

“Shush,” one of the older men said. “Walls have ears.”

James thought he knew the school the boy was referring to. It was located next to the military camp before the soldiers moved from the tents into the barracks. He also knew that when a search party went into the school, they had not wanted to disturb the class. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. Thomas, who had been one of the search party, had told that to James afterward.

James knew that the school was located close to where the soldiers had been practicing marching and drumming which made lots of noise.

Even if the kid had been shushed, James tried asking, “But two cannons in a classroom would be noticed.”

“Not if they were in a big trunk,” the boy said. “With the teacher sitting on it.”

The man, who reprimanded the boy, hit him on the head. “Shut your mouth.”

At least he had some information to give to the General, who was getting impatient at the lack of progress James was making.

He reported the conversation to the General that night when he arrived after the Gages were finishing dinner.

Dishes were still on the table waiting to be collected when the servant ushered James into the dining room.

“Would you like something, James? We still have a little beef and carrots,” Mrs. Gage said. “It will be cold, though.”

James looked at the General’s face for a sign that it would be all right and when the General gave a barely noticeable nod, he said, “That’s kind. I missed dinner at the barracks.”

“I suspect this will be much better cold than what you’re given there,” she said.

She was right. The Gage’s cook believed in spices and the beef was tender and delicious. His impulse was to shovel the food in his mouth, even though he had had eaten lunch that day, but instead he copied the manners that he had observed when he ate with General Gage and his family.

“What have you found out?” the General asked.

“Not where the cannons are, but how they were hidden immediately after they were stolen.” He went into detail of the timing and school.

“I suppose that’s of some use, but not much. They aren’t still there, are they?”

“I went to the school. As I suspected, they could have been stored in a container next to the teacher’s desk.”

“A container?”

“A giant box. For firewood. The cannons aren’t that big. The headmaster acted as if he didn’t know a thing. He did say that he came in one day, and he can’t remember when, to find the school unlocked, but he said he probably had forgotten to lock up. With all the soldiers around, he never worried about safety or theft. He opened the boxes for me. One contained slates, chalk, a few books and some cushions. The other had wood for the fire.”

“Damn it.” General Gage almost growled the word.

“Dessert?” Mrs. Gage pointed to an apple tart.

Again, James looked at the General for approval. The General waved his hand. Mrs. Gage cut a good size piece.

Even if sugar was in short supply, the apples were sweet so only a small amount had been added. Or maybe it was honey. James did not remember eating anything that good since his wife cooked apple treats in the autumn.

*****

Back in the barracks, Thomas and Corporal Tilley were talking about the capture of the deserter. “We found him in the woods just the other side of Worcester. He’d made a lean-to and he’d dug a fire pit. He’d begun clearing trees. On the way back he told us he planned to have a farm,” Corporal Tilley said.

“Maybe he thought he’d be safe, because there’s so many rebels in Worcester, especially since the editor, I’ve forgotten his name, moved his paper Massachusetts Spy from Boston to Worcester,” Thomas said. James knew all about Massachusetts Spy, which he read when he could find a copy.

He knew better than to say that the General thought the ammunition might have been hidden in Worcester. The General hadn’t decided whether to go on a search and seize mission or to wait for more information. Every morning when James received his morning orders, the General would caution James never to speak of anything he heard from him or his officers.

“Yes Sir. I know that.” James always replied the same way.

“If you do, you could be court martialed.”

“I know that, Sir.” He wondered why Gage seemed to trust him sometimes and other times not at all. He supposed the General had much to worry about. London was putting more and more pressure on him with each letter, as the rebels grew more and more daring. The latest brought over on the Nautilus basically said, do whatever you have to do to stop the rebellion — not in those words — but close enough.

*****

“They found the deserter,” General Gage told James when he reported for duty in full uniform. He already knew because of earlier conversations, but he didn’t say so.

He couldn’t be out on the street every day. A day off might look reasonable here and there but not every day. Even out of uniform he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t part of the British forces. To blend in with the locals, he showed sympathy to them with a bit of distain for some of the practices of the occupiers. He said things like, “They shouldn’t block the harbor,” or “I don’t understand why you need stamps on all those documents, anyway.”

Sometimes a local would agree. Most changed the subject.

Boston was still a small city. The General had told him that it had a population of about 15,000 people, give or take. Someone, he couldn’t remember who, said London had about 250,000 people. Comparing the two, it made London seem like a bully.

He wondered how many people lived in Ely. If he were to guess he’d have said 3,000.

James found the numbers interesting. When he mentioned it to Gage, the General said that there were about 2.5 million people in the colonies compared to eight million in England.

“Who counted them?” James had asked.

“I think it’s an estimate,” the General said. “You certainly are the most curious orderly I’ve ever had.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Don’t be. Curiosity can be very useful.”

If James had been interested in making the army his lifelong career, he might have used his position with the General to speed up a promotion. Moving through the ranks was slow at best. The army, he had finally decided for certainty, was a temporary experience, something he wouldn’t share with Gage.

“I haven’t much for you today, why don’t you go wandering again,” the General said.

*****

After changing into civilian clothes, James decided to walk between the Common and the harbor. He thought of it as his beat because he saw the same people over and over: storekeepers, housewives doing their errands, people delivering meat and vegetables from the countryside, children playing, etc.

Out of uniform, some locals began to greet him, although most didn’t. As a civilian he might not stand out with his ordinary looks. Women didn’t swoon when they saw him. Brown hair, brown eyed, middling height and weight, no scars, no limps. Ordinary was good for spying. In uniform he looked like any other soldier.

When he did see someone he knew, he was never sure how to get them to talk to him. A “good day” or a comment on the weather often ended there.

Having nothing happen, he headed for Hanover Street, then ventured down Orange Street. No one looked familiar. He headed for Bunker Hill. Still no contact as people passed him on the way to someplace. This was a wasted day.