Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel

 

Chapter 53

Boston, Massachusetts

January 1775

 

 

THE BARRACKS WERE strangely quiet when James walked into the room that he shared with many of his regiment. It was the first time he’d been there since becoming ill. He dropped his knapsack on his cot. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched since he’d made it the morning he had left.

Where was everyone? He hadn’t seen any marching troops outside, but almost eighteen inches of snow had fallen on the parade ground in the last forty-eight hours. Maybe there were lectures and classes going on elsewhere in the building.

He wasn’t sure what he should do or to whom he should report. After Dr. Church had left last night, the General had told him to go back to his barracks the next morning. It was time for James to catch up with his regular duties.

He was to report back to the General after the weekend when the General and several top commanders would meet to make plans on how to find missing weapons. They still weren’t sure to where they had been whisked: Charlestown, Arlington, Concord, and Salem were among the possibilities. “As much as I appreciate all that you do, James, a time may come that I will need every soldier on the battlefield. If there’s a God in heaven, I hope it never comes to that, but we must be ready.”

James found it hard to imagine Englishmen fighting Englishmen. He’d seen how the locals, if not born in England, first-, second-, third- or fourth-generation Englishmen, taunted the soldiers, but that was minor compared to all-out war. He had heard about the damage a civil war could cause, although many of his fellow soldiers hadn’t. What bothered him was how any war could be called civil.

He hadn’t expected to fight when he joined. Maybe that was naïve, but many other soldiers said the same thing. They joined to change their lives, as he had. He joined to forget the loss of his wife, to get away from his brother’s domination and to be his own person.

Being given a state-of-the-art Brown Bess in comparison to the old weapon he used in Ely to shoot rabbits had been a thrill. It wasn’t that he was a gun lover, but he appreciated its slickness and efficiency.

The hours of practicing loading, the thoroughness of their training down to where they should put their fingers was fascinating. It was also a challenge to be the best he could be. Why, he wondered, did he not realize in his heart, was that he might be called on to kill people — lots of people — in the name of the King. Dumb, dumb, dumb, he chided himself.

James put his belongings in the footlocker at the end of his cot. As he turned the key, he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned. Corporal Tilley stood in the doorway.

“You’re back. How are you?” Tilley had lost weight and was pale as last night’s fallen snow. A dark beard made his skin look even whiter. He was not in uniform.

“Getting better. And you?”

“Still not back on duty, but I’m out of the infirmary. What a stink. Shit everywhere, vomit everywhere. The doctor himself got sick. They brought in women to act as nurses, but they couldn’t keep up with it all.”

“I’m sorry.” Had James been more religious he’d have thanked God that his accommodations and treatment were privileged. He might say so to God but never to Corporal Tilley.

“Where is everyone?”

“Five men are still in the infirmary. Six have died. The rest are getting lectures.”

“Who died?”

Tilley sat on James’ cot and suggested with a hand movement that James sit next to him. When he did, Tilley took a deep breath and rattled off five names.

James had liked most of the men. It was sad he’d never see them again. Never share a bit of polish for their boots. Never sit at the same table and complain about the porridge. Never cover for each other when one was late getting back to the barracks.

“You said six, but you only mentioned five names.”

Tilley’s eyes wandered around the room before looking straight into James’s. “I’m sorry, the sixth is, was, your friend Thomas Miller.”

*****

James sat on his cot and stared at his hands. Corporal Tilley had left him alone, saying he needn’t go to any morning lecture. “This afternoon, after lunch, will be soon enough.”

James wasn’t sure how to feel. Thomas couldn’t be dead. They had been friends since they were in diapers. They’d gone to school together, although Thomas had left two years before James to work with his father.

If he hadn’t let Isaac search for Thomas to bring him to the recruiter that day in Ely, his friend might still be alive. Thomas might be married and have a son of his own. Telling himself that made James feel worse. Nor did the knowledge that Thomas liked the Army better than he did and was more than happy with his decision to join.

Tears built up behind his eyes. He wouldn’t let them escape.

The army hadn’t killed his friend, it was the stupid sickness, James told himself. That could have happened anywhere. Illnesses devastated Ely some years. He could have tripped into the fire when preparing a horseshoe. A horse could have kicked and killed him.

None of these thoughts soothed James.

Loss: losing his parents had produced grief, but it was the normal flow of life. It was different with his wife and new baby. When he lost her, he felt as if someone had beaten him inside and out. That losing Thomas hurt, but less than his wife, didn’t help much.

People died all the time — the young, the old because of illness, accidents, and more rarely murder. Grief followed. He didn’t want to get good at grief.

James knew he wasn’t at full strength. Even the walk from the Governor’s mansion to the barracks had left him with wobbly legs. He needed to get out of there but to where?

He put on an extra shirt under his uniform. Only a few steps outside reminded him that his woolen winter coat could not keep out the cold even with the collar pulled up. It came to the middle of his head. He wore the tricorne hat and not the bearskin: that would have been warmer. Either would leave  his ears vulnerable to the wind sweeping in from the harbor.

The sky was almost dark blue after the storm. Not even a cloud wisp was visible.

He shuffled through the snow to the Common where tents had once created a cloth city housing hundreds of troops in neat rows. Now it was a white flat field. Not a footprint of man, bird or beast was visible. He decided to use the street at the top of the Common.

Even on the sidewalk, the snow came to his knees, but it was soft and fluffy, not the wet kind that made good snowballs. No kids were on the street to lob rocks at his uniform.

Shop owners were shoveling the sidewalks in front of their shops. As he passed a few of them scowled at him. What did they expect? Him to shovel?

He wasn’t sure where he was going. It didn’t really matter, because his destination would not change anything. Thomas was dead.

 

Chapter 54

Boston and Brookline, Massachusetts

November

 

 

“THAT WAS STRANGE.” Gareth came out of his study into the living room. He was in his pajamas and dressing gown although it was only eight in the evening. A fire burned in the fireplace.

Daphne was curled up on the couch reading another Spenser mystery. She was in her fuzzy pajamas brought from Edinburgh where a chilly flat made them mandatory.

The couple could regulate the heat in the apartment, but Gareth believed it should be kept no more than 65° in rooms they were using and 60° in rooms they weren’t. They were not responsible for paying for either heat or electricity, but Gareth felt it was his responsibility to be financially prudent. The last two men in his position were infamous for running up huge bills and one of his mandates had been to cut costs.

The bay window had double-glazed glass. During the day the sun added a natural heat but at night they shut the thick drapes to keep it in. For the fun of it, Daphne had put her hand first on the side of the drapes facing the living room and then on the side facing the window. There was barely a difference.

“What was strange?”

“That was Yves DuBois on the phone.”

Daphne waited for him to continue. Asking too many questions usually set him off about her being too impatient. If she would just let him speak, she wouldn’t need to ask. She’d developed the habit of cocking her head to indicate she was listening and waiting.

“He invited us to dinner on Thursday. Said it was very informal and we weren’t to discuss politics, strictly two couples relaxing and getting to know each other.”

“And …”

“I said yes.”

*****

Thursday night Gareth and Daphne caught the Greenline’s D Riverside-bound car at Copley Square to Brookline Village. A few minutes’ walk led them to the French Consul General house. There was a small sign on a post outside the metal-spiked gate. A security guard sat in a small house just outside. He was reading a book and didn’t notice them.

Although Daphne was curious as to the title, she couldn’t see it through the foggy glass of the little house.

The Guard looked startled when he saw them before sliding the window open.

“We’re having dinner with Monsieur and Madame DuBois,” Gareth said.

“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?”

If he knows who we are than he shouldn’t have been surprised when we showed up, she thought. And he should recognize me. I’ve been here enough. “Yes.”

“I need some identification, please.” He wore a local security guard company’s blue uniform. His accent was local.

As soon as they produced their passports and handed them through the glass window, the soldier used his phone to call the house. He spoke so softly and so rapidly in French that Daphne did not catch what he was saying. She suspected finding bilingual security guards in Boston was difficult. Probably gave him job security.

The guard opened the gate and pointed them to the door. The house was a large three-story Victorian complete with turrets. Spotlights showed the color to be raspberry with black shutters.

The front door was open by the time they reached it.

Yves DuBois stood backlit by the hall light. He was dressed in ironed jeans and an Irish knit sweater. He wore a blue scarf around his neck. Florence was beside him. She wore a long denim skirt and a rose sweater that came down over her hips. Her scarf was a twirly pattern of rose, white and blue. Her silver earrings dangled a good two inches from her lobes.

Daphne was grateful that Gareth had listened about the dinner being informal and hadn’t worn a suit and tie but brown corduroy pants and a beige sweater. She’d worn tailored black slacks and a black and white checkered sweater.

Well, the first step, proper clothing, has gone smoothly, Daphne thought. There’s nothing in what we’re wearing to make us look out of place and cause Gareth to be upset.

The French couple led them into a library with wall-to-ceiling bookcases. There was a wooden ladder matching the wood of the shelves attached on a runner to help people reach the top shelves.

“Banyuls,” Yves said, pouring a red liquid into four small glasses. “It is from the Côte de Vermeille. My aunt has a place there and we try and spend at least a couple of weeks there each summer if we can.”

He didn’t ask us what we wanted to drink, Daphne thought. Gareth’s frown left her wondering if he would mention it on the way home. When he took a sip and pronounced it “good” she relaxed a bit. It did taste a bit like Porto, and she knew Gareth liked Porto.

A variety of olives and small crackers were passed around.

“We said no politics,” Yves said. “I’m trying to develop relationships with other couples and escape the protocols for a short time. I don’t know about you, but I do get tired of all the rituals.”

This brought a smile to Gareth’s face. “It’s the price we pay for our positions.”

“So, let’s find out about each other as people, not posts,” Yves said. “Do you ski?”

“I’m afraid not. My family went to Chamonix when I was nine, and during my first lesson, I broke my leg so badly I was in traction for almost a month,” Gareth said.

“That would put me off skiing,” Florence said. “We’ve skied at Chamonix. We’ll be trying Vermont over Christmas.”

Before Daphne could mention that her husband played tennis and squash,” Gareth asked, “There wouldn’t be a chance you play squash?”

“Adore it. Great workout. Maybe we could arrange a date.”

The maid entered the room to say dinner was ready when they were.

Dinner was a simple bullion soup as a starter, and maigret de canard as a main course with carrots and peas. When the dinner plates were cleared away, the maid brought a cheese platter. Yves named each one then passed a breadbasket with a baguette cut into thin slices and served red wine. “I miss my boulangerie, but I found a French bakery close by.”

“I’ve been there. You’re right,” Daphne said. She and Florence had developed the habit of stopping there after their meetings. She willed Florence not to say that.

“It’s not quite the same. I suspect the flour is different,” Yves said. “Never mind, it is still good.”

Conversation covered tennis, especially the younger players that were coming up to replace Murray, Federer, Nadel and Djokovic.

Yves spoke of the Boston Symphony. Gareth preferred classical music, but Florence said she loved pop.

Mostly, Daphne was glad there were no verbal traps until they returned to the library where the maid brought the decaf after-dinner espressos in floral china demitasses carried on a silver tray.

“I’m so proud of what my wife is doing with the historical comic books. You must be too,” Yves said when they were sipping the brews.

This is it. Trouble, Daphne thought.

Gareth said nothing.

“Has your wife shown you the first panels?”

“No,” Gareth said.

“Florence, go get the first few pages.”

When she’d returned with the oversized drawings,” Yves pointed out the details of the houses, clothing, plants. “Your wife created such a wonderful story. It will be interlinked with a second comic, the story of Adam, Abigail’s twin. At first, I thought the idea of two comic books was … well, not practical, but when my wife showed me what these two talented women had done, I was convinced.” He placed his cup on a side table covered with decoupage and went behind where Florence sat to drop a kiss on top her head. She held her demitasse in one hand. With the other, she caressed Yves’ face.

Daphne was afraid to look at Gareth. Shut up, Yves. Shut up, Yves, a silent prayer.

“Now the idea to self-publish is probably better than trying to find a publisher. We need to get these books into school libraries around the country. I’ve already located some distributors for them.”

Florence hadn’t told him, then, about the publisher they were meeting Monday.

Yves went on about other comics the women could create. He had them running an educational publication empire.”

Gareth put down his demitasse. “This has been a wonderful evening and we thank you two for a great dinner.”

Florence smiled. “It is a joy to entertain you.”

The guard unlocked the gate for them when they left. Yves and Florence stayed by the front door waving. The light behind them turned them into silhouettes.

Gareth grabbed Daphne’s elbow and propelled her toward the Brookline Village T stop. He didn’t say a word as the T passed Fenway nor when they descended at Copley nor when they entered their flat. He went into his study and slammed the door.

The next day when Daphne woke, his side of the bed had not been slept in. She went looking for him only to discover the guest bedroom had been used and he’d left for work.