Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 42-43

 

Chapter 42

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

 

 

THE ENTIRE REGIMENT, along with the 38^th and 52^nd regiments, were ordered to watch one hundred lashes be given to the deserter.

It was bitterly cold. A few snowflakes danced in the gusts of wind. James left the barracks. He stood in line with others. Thomas had saved a place for him in the first row at the end. Corporal Tilley stood next to Thomas. All wore full military dress as directed.

General Gage arrived last. He stood at the end of the first row next to James.

James wondered if the General was going to do the lashing himself. He had said he wanted to be present to reinforce how serious desertion was.

Two privates dragged the deserter from the building entrance of the small house used as a jail.

The deserter was not a big man, maybe five foot six or seven. He was slim but muscular. In civilian life he had been a farmer. He wore pants, not regimental pants, but pants farmers would wear tilling their fields. His legs and feet were naked as well as the area between his neck and belt.

From his vantage point of about 50 feet, James thought the man looked terrified as would anyone about to be whipped one hundred times.

“There’ll be a drum beat for every lash,” Thomas, who stood to the right of James, whispered. “I don’t know if they always do that.”

It was his first time to witness a lashing. James didn’t want to watch, but everyone had been ordered to keep their eyes open. “Hearing the whip and screams will set an example,” the General had said last night at dinner. “Discourages more desertions.”

The regiment doctor stood to the left of the deserter, close enough to observe, far enough not to get hit with the whip. He could call a halt if he thought the deserter was near collapse. James wondered if that was because they worried about the man’s well-being or if they wanted to guarantee he experienced every lash with full pain.

Danny marched behind four men. Each carried a whip. Each would be responsible for 25 blows. The boy beat out a slow rhythm. It reminded James of church funeral bells. The boy wore his smaller drum strapped over his shoulder and around his waist leaving his hands free for the batons. This drum, unlike the one he used for marching practice, had no artwork. It was painted a light green, the same green as leaves when they first burst out in spring. Today’s weather was as opposite to spring as possible.

Danny’s eyes met James’ or so James imagined. He wondered what Danny must be thinking. Sometimes, but not often, the two of them would sit together at meals, but they never really talked about anything of importance: weather, regiment gossip, a ball game that the soldiers played with a bat or a popular card game were their usual topics. Sometimes they mentioned life back home, Danny more than James.

Neither James nor Danny would play anything where they could lose money. James didn’t know why Danny was saving his money, but as for him, he wanted to be able to buy something at the end of his contract with the regiment. His plans changed regularly. He had ruled out a farm, but more and more thought about starting a bakery in one of the nearby villages. His bread was better than any he’d eaten in Boston, although he thought it could be the quality of the flour that made the taste vary.

He had to laugh at himself, realizing that he was thinking of recreating the life he had in Ely, with one major exception. He would be in charge not his brother. He imagined himself with a wife, someone like Mollie Clark or Sally Brewster. In reality their fathers would be a real impediment in courting them. Courting either would also be a good way to serve the General as a spy, because there was no doubt that their fathers were influential members of the Sons of Liberty.

At breakfast mess two days ago, Danny said he had a letter from his mother. “She wants me to say hello to you and remind you of your promise. What promise?”

“To keep your sorry skin out of trouble,” James had said. “Pass the salt.”

James brought his attention back to the scene in front of him. He didn’t want to be there. He hadn’t known the deserter all that well. They had shared night guard duty walking the streets once. The man was not chatty, but he did reveal he thought he had made a mistake signing up. He should be home on the family farm.

James didn’t want to see him hurt. He didn’t want to see anyone hurt, even if the person was guilty of desertion.

Danny’s beat slowed and stopped. The deserter stopped and faced the brick wall. One soldier grabbed one of the man’s hands. He tied it to a metal ring. A second soldier did the same with the deserter’s second hand forcing his stomach to touch the wall. The deserter had to turn his head and rest his cheek against the brick. His hands were above his head.

The General turned to speak to the officer directly behind him. “This should be a lesson to everyone.”

Maybe the lesson was not to get caught. What if the traitor hadn’t stopped where he had near Worcester but had travelled onto Springfield or gone north to New Hampshire? What if he had taken refuge with the Indians? If he’d gone into the wilderness, if he had gone further and faster, he would not be about to suffer the whip.

The four men stood evenly spaced behind the deserter. Each held a whip of leather strips about three feet long. They had been twisted into a handle that the beaters could grip. James wasn’t sure if the strips were made of rope or leather, as if it mattered. Each stroke would hurt like hell. Stupid expression, James thought. No one knows what hell is really like.

The wind velocity increased as the snow became heavier, although still not blizzard strength. It gave a veiled view to the whipping.

Chatter through the regiment said the deserter was lucky. Although whippings weren’t common, 100 was usually one of the lighter sentences. Up to 300 could be the norm. However, with the half a dozen strips coming from the handle, wouldn’t that mean 600 lashes instead of 100?

“Do you think they’ll go light on him?” Thomas whispered.

James shrugged. Did rope hurt more than leather? He didn’t want to think about the pain the man was about to undergo. Gage spoke to the doctor but what he said wasn’t heard. As the highest-ranking officer present the General was the one to give the order to start.

Danny did a drum roll at the General’s signal.

One of the four soldiers administering the punishment stood directly behind the deserter. The other three stood to one side.

Danny picked up his batons as the man raised his arm, the whip dangling. Danny hit the drum hard, the sound echoing at the exact moment the whip seared the flesh of the deserter. The man did not scream.

Again, again, again, again.

The other soldiers were mute as if mannequins on display in some war museum.

James knew the traitor had friends in the ranks, but none of them would break formation to help. He found himself counting as the number of lashes mounted. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Then he realized that the serjeant in charge was counting aloud.

The man doing the whipping stepped back to allow a second soldier to take his place.

The drum beat continued. The serjeant’s counting continued until, “Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.”

Danny’s single drumbeat marked the whip cutting the deserter’s back.

The traitor’s mouth did not open. James assumed he wasn’t screaming. Or maybe the snow was blurring his vision. He wasn’t sure he could be as stoic. Yes, he was sure — sure that he wouldn’t be able. He had never planned to desert. Serving out his contract couldn’t come fast enough after witnessing this. Still, he would do his duty as he had sworn to do.

Red stripes crisscrossed the deserter’s back.

“Stop!” The doctor’s voice broke the rhythm of the whip and drum. He walked over to the man and examined his bloody back. He took the man’s pulse. James thought he heard him ask if the man preferred to continue now or tomorrow, although with the wind, that would have been impossible to make out what was being said. He didn’t see the deserter’s lips move. “Continue,” the doctor yelled. Everyone on the parade ground heard.

The third man took the place of the second man.

It started again: the crack of the whip whistling in the wind and the single drumbeat.

The fourth man took the place of the third after the seventy-fifth slash.

Then, “Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred,” James counted aloud along with the serjeant.

“Cut him down,” the doctor yelled.

The two soldiers, who had fastened the man to the wall, undid the shackles. The deserter fell to the snow-covered ground. One soldier took the man’s feet, the other under his arms and headed back to the jail leaving a patch of red snow.

 

Chapter 43

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

 

 

THE NIGHT BEFORE General Gage was to leave for Salem, he told James he wanted to convince Samuel Adams to become his spy. James was ordered to sit in the corner of the General’s office, say nothing but observe the two men during their meeting. Afterward, the General wanted a full written report. James was forbidden to take notes. The General was afraid that would intimidate Adams.

James had done this before. He wondered what people talking to the General thought about a soldier sitting in a chair mimicking a statue.

James had become proficient in melting into walls. His excellent memory meant he remembered the major points after a meeting. He knew from writing other reports that the sooner he wrote it, the more complete it would be. If he waited three or four days, there would be holes in it. He also knew if he reread the report five or six days later, some detail he could add might work its way back into his head. He hated asking the General if he could write an addendum. The General always said yes, but with a look of disappointment.

General Gage was slated to go to Salem in the morning. He told James to stay to write the report as well as make sure Mrs. Gage was safe. The General did not want her wandering around Boston alone where some rebel might attack her.

They heard a knock. The maid Beth showed Adams into the General’s study.

James thought Adams a bit chunky. Although he had heard the rebel was in his mid-thirties, his full head of hair was graying. Strands had escaped the leather tie holding his hair in place. He was well-dressed as his status as Clerk of the House of Representatives dictated. James knew he was also a delegate to the Continental Congress made up of delegates from other colonies. They had held their first meeting in Philadelphia during the fall.

At the Green Dragon, James had heard people mumbling that if there hadn’t been a blockade of Boston Harbor, the Congress would never have happened. And if there hadn’t been the Boston Tea Party, the harbor blockade wouldn’t have happened. James was always amazed how one event melded into another. It made him think of a runaway hoop rolling down a hill so fast it was next to impossible to catch it.

Allegedly, the Congress wanted to improve relationships with King George and his representatives but at the same time they wanted the King to understand their point of view The letter that they had sent to the King had had no response although it was still too early to expect much. Their letter had probably just reached the King, and he would not have had time to think of an answer.

The General had been outraged that the delegates tried to contact the King directly. He had not been able to discover everything that went on in that meeting, and if it was one thing the General hated was having partial information. James understood this, because to make a good decision, one needed all the facts or at least most of them. Thus, James had been asked to find out all he could about Adams. It wasn’t hard: so much was known. He was born into a Puritan family, attended Boston Latin before Harvard and seemed much more suited to politics than business.

What James didn’t say in his earlier report on Adams was that the man was stubborn. Everyone he spoke to mentioned his stubbornness.

Because the General was one of the most stubborn man he ever met, he figured this meeting might be a battle of equals in personality despite a difference in rank. He also knew that Adams did not care about rank. He cared only about results, or so people reported.

“Thank you for coming,” the General said. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

Adams shucked his coat and put it over the arm of one of the upholstered chairs. He seated himself upright in one chair when the General suggested another. A coffee table was between the two men.

They made small talk about their wives and children. Adams had two surviving children from his first marriage, none from his second. “I hope your family is settling in well, General?”

“My wife is from New Jersey. She is as comfortable here as she was in London.”

Adams leaned back. “Why did you ask me here, General?”

He gets straight to the point, James thought.

“I don’t suppose you know where the missing cannons are?”

“Missing cannons?”

“Stolen. We’ve also lost gun powder and . . .”

Adams crossed his legs. “I would say then, your security needs to be increased, General. I would also suggest that it is not in the best interest of the citizens of Boston and nearby towns to be under threat from the soldiers.”

James watched the General’s grimace, the one he made when trying to control his temper. “If we knew how to remove troublemakers, we could serve all the population better.”

“And how do you define troublemaker?”

“Perhaps people who dress as Indians to throw tea in the harbor rather than pay tax.”

The General was 95 percent sure that Adams had been one of those Indians. He’d complained about it enough times to James or in James’ hearing to others.

“In general, General, there are many colonists who do not understand why taxes are imposed on us at all. We have no say. The money goes back to the home country.”

“The money is used for your protection. It pays for the soldiers.”

“Soldiers we do not want here.”

James noted that Adams lowered his voice to the point that the General had to lean forward to hear Adams speak.

“That is no excuse. We’re here to protect English people, English property.”

“We are no longer in danger from Indians. But we are in danger from our own countrymen.”

“Maybe not real Indians. I wonder how you would look with war paint, Mr. Adams?”

James thought that statement might be bad strategy if he wanted to get Adams on his side. Rumors, reliable ones, had Mr. Adams as one of those temporary red men. It was hard imagining the immaculately dressed Adams with feathers, buckskin and war paint.

Adams laughed. “General, are you referring to the attack on the Beaver? What a waste of good tea that was.”

“We can agree on the waste. I also was referring to a shipment that was on the Fortune last February. More of those light-skinned Indians.”

Adams set back in his chair. “I heard that it was a measly 35 boxes.”

“Still, soldiers are needed to protect against Indians whatever the shade of red.”

“It seems to me, General, the only Indians that attack these days are those that don’t like taxes imposed by London.”

“Before we can change those taxes or lift the embargo on the harbor, we must have the troublemakers removed.”

“There’s an interesting word, troublemaker, General. I believe the colonist would call them heroes, although Indian heroes are an interesting concept, don’t you think?”

There was a long silence. James suspected that the General wasn’t sure where to go. His intention had been to offer Adams a large sum of money for names.

“Not everyone in Boston would agree with you. They want the unrest to come to end. They are loyal English citizens.”

“As we all do, General. Fewer soldiers, taxes decided locally and spent locally, perhaps on our own militia, would probably do that.”

A chicken-and-egg argument, James thought. He was getting stiff, sitting in the uncomfortable chair, barely moving not to call attention to himself.

The General stood up and walked to the window and looked out for a minute or two before turning. “Mr. Adams, I was hoping you would consider helping us. It could benefit you in any way you see fit.”

Adams stood and picked up his coat. “I believe, General, we are too far apart on how to solve disagreements between colonists and the Crown until the Crown can give us some of the things I spoke about earlier. But I thank you for your time.”

He walked to the door. “I can show myself out.” He shut the study room door behind him. They heard footsteps then the outer door open and shut.

The General checked the short corridor to the outside. He slammed the door to the study shut so hard that the figurines in the bookcase quivered. It was followed by a string of obscenities that James had never heard the General use.

Mrs. Gage rushed in. “What’s happening?”

Immediately the swearing stopped. “I failed at getting Adams on our side.”

“From what I’ve heard about Mr. Adams, he’s so dedicated to his cause, even if he gave you information, could he be trusted?” She put her hand on her husband’s arm, something James had seen her do whenever the General seemed to be getting upset, although that was usually when the children were getting too boisterous for the General’s liking.

The General took several deep breaths. The red in his face returned to his normal color. “I’m going to Salem tomorrow, Dear. What are your plans?”

“I need to do some errands. I want to visit some of the officers’ wives while the children’s French tutor is here in the afternoon.”

The General turned to James. “I want you to stay and accompany my wife at all times. Then put on your civilian clothes and continue to try and find what the hell, excuse me Mrs. Gage, anything that might help us.

He went to the table where there stood a bottle and several glasses and poured a glass of port to offer to James, who shook his head.

His stomach was queasy. “I need to . . .” He wanted to go back to the barracks to his narrow army bed. If it weren’t the most comfortable sleeping place, it was easy to disassemble in case it needed to be moved to another location.

The General swished the port in his mouth. “We are Englishmen who must do whatever the King wants us to do.”

“Adams believes in his cause more than he believes in anything you could do for him,” James said.

“And he’s wrong.”

As James walked to the barracks he shivered in the wind. He thought about the rebels. The King giving no consideration to their needs bothered him. In Ely, when taxes were raised on flour, it had been a problem. It meant the price of bread had to be raised. Their customers complained and had to raise prices on their goods. It seemed to James a never-ending circle. He had no idea how to change it but refusing to pay the taxes didn’t seem right either. Was there no way to make the King and parliament understand?

He was tired. He just wanted to sleep. Inside the room where 30 of his regiment slept, he noticed 15 empty beds.  Maybe there was some kind of mission he missed hearing about.

He debated taking an extra blanket from the empty cots. He could return it when the soldier returned from wherever.

 

Lexington Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 40-41

 

Chapter 40

Argeles-sur-Mer, France

May

 

 

My husband didn’t come to bed until four in the morning. He’d been on a zoom meeting of the hickory golf board of directors. The meetings start at 8pm EST, which is 2am our time in Central Europe, and the meetings generally run two hours or more.

His neck and shoulders were stiff. I gave him a message before a cuddle. As usual, Sherlock saw us and didn’t want to be left out. He nosed his way between us.

My husband and dog fell asleep almost immediately.

I did not.

I’m happy I didn’t.

For weeks, I’d been trying to work out the story line for Daphne’s and Florence’s comic book. I didn’t want to include the actual drawings and story but enough for the reader to get an idea of what it is about. And I thought of a way to tie it into 1775.

I also thought of how Gareth can reveal his lack of stability as well as Florence’s and Daphne’s first step in getting a publisher.

There is something wonderful about being married to another writer. He reads his writing to me, too.

Had he not interrupted my sleep, who knew when I would have solved the plot issues that had been niggling at me for far too long.

Chapter 41

Chapter Boston and Sudbury, Massachusetts

October 

 “FLORENCE! DAPHNE WAS gobsmacked to see her friend standing at her door. “When did you get back?” Daphne was still dressed in pajamas and big fuzzy blue slippers. She held an almost empty coffee mug in her hand.

“May I come in?” Florence took off her dark glasses.

“I thought you were still in France.” Florence’s family emergency had slowed work on their project. Her mother was suffering with pancreatic cancer. Florence had left in the August heat and humidity to care for her in Paris.

Now Halloween decorations were all over Boston. Leaves were turning red and yellow. Leaf piles, made for kicking, hid much of the brick sidewalks. In the mornings and after the sun went down, it was possible to see one’s breath.

Without asking, Daphne led Florence into their state-of-the-art kitchen, which seemed out of place in this otherwise Victorian apartment with its high ceilings, decorative moldings, oak wainscoting and antiques all of which belonged to the consulate.

The coffee pot was half full and warm. Daphne grabbed a mug and filled it for Florence and topped up her own. She didn’t bother with milk and sugar because she knew Florence took her coffee black. So strong, they joked, it could melt the china.

“I got back two days ago,” Florence said. She wore dark jeans, a flowing-sleeved blouse and a scarf in some convoluted folds around her neck. She carried a heavy sweater which she dropped on one of the four stools arranged around a gray marbled center island.

They were alone. A month before, Daphne had asked that a cook only be there if they were entertaining, which to date they had not done. Maya, the woman who had been assigned to them, had found another job, higher paid, in a Boston restaurant which Daphne thought was a win-win. The woman had a good job: she didn’t have to try and keep the woman busy. If they did need to do a formal meal, she or the consulate could hire a caterer.

Stephanie, who had been assigned to her for any secretarial needs (almost none), had returned to her family in Wales and wasn’t replaced. A cleaning woman came in three times a week, which was enough. This wasn’t one of those days.

“Where’s your staff?” Florence asked.

Daphne told her as she sat kitty corner to Florence, her two hands around her coffee mug. “I really prefer having the flat to myself most of the time.”

She hesitated to ask Florence about her mum.

One of the reasons, even in the short time they had partnered in the comic book project, was that they often read each other’s thoughts.

“Mum died two and a half weeks ago. I know I should have e-mailed you, but after her last few weeks being a full-time nurse, clearing out her apartment and getting a notaire going on the paperwork, which will take forever … My father has been useless.”

Daphne put her hand on Florence’s arm. “No should about it. You had your hands full. How are you handling it, the emotional stuff that is?”

“A little numb. We were able to put aside all our old battles. She was one tough lady. Maybe all those moves around the world.” Florence was quiet. “I often wondered why she didn’t come back to Massachusetts. She told me she felt more at home in Paris.” Then Florence stopped talking and fiddled with her coffee cup.

Daphne did nothing to fill the void, waiting for her friend to continue.

“It’s funny, I’m an orphan, but no one feels sorry for an adult orphan.”

“I can feel sorry for you if it will help. What time do you want me to start?”

Florence laughed. “English humor, I love it. When I arrived back, I didn’t realize how tired I was. Jet lag like I’ve never experienced before. But this morning I woke up, ready to get back to work on our project.”

“I’ve been working on it, especially the Abigail part.”

“You have formed the characters?”

“Yes. For example, the twins are the only children of William and Dorothy Billington. Dorothy had lost at least three children with miscarriages and two other children had died before they were four. Not sure how we should deal with so many kids dying.”

“Real people?”

“Composite is more like it. I found letters and diaries. Took a bit from here and bit more from there. It’s mixed enough that plagiarism isn’t an issue although I’m not sure of United States plagiarism law for materials written close to 250 years ago.” She had debated checking with the consulate, but that would alert Gareth how deep she was still working on the project. Maybe she could have checked with one of the law schools in the city, but then again she didn’t want to do anything that would involve an expense.

Gareth had given her an allowance making her feel as if she were a child again. It was more than enough to buy lunch, go to a movie or pay a museum entrance even clothes. However, he wanted to go with her to check that they were suitable.

Suitable?

When she worked at the tweed company, she wore jeans or slacks. Rummaging around in dusty files did not lend itself to suits. For board meetings, when she briefed the family who sat on the board, she had two suits, blue and black, that she would alternate. A different scarf or blouse would vary her appearance, although she doubted that the board members paid any attention.

More important were her PowerPoints.

That was another life, where her battles were what should be included. Sometimes, two family members, brothers in their 80s, worried about revealing family secrets so far in the past that that anyone who participated in those secrets was long gone.

Sometimes Daphne ached for those days when she was responsible for herself only.

“Earth to Daphne. Earth to Daphne.”

“I’m sorry. You were saying?”

“Do we want to go into that much detail? This is a comic.” Florence hopped off the stool and poured herself more coffee. She held the pot in the air toward Daphne, who shook her head.

“I agree, but be aware even if we don’t say it, it needs to be there,” Daphne said.

“I wasn’t arguing.”

“I know. And like any good bande desinée each frame will have lots of detail in the drawing …”

“… which is why we have to spend more time in those old houses in Lexington so I can make sure we get the details right.”

Daphne had more to share about her progress.

During Florence’s absence, Gareth had made several trips to the main embassy in Washington. This left her time to work without his being aware of what she was doing, even though she felt uncomfortable in keeping it a secret. The need to keep it a secret for peace in her marriage bothered her more.

When he wasn’t in Washington, most days after he left for work, she headed for the Boston Public Library. At times it felt much like having an ordinary job with fixed hours. She thought of the building with its marble central staircase and lion statues almost as a palace.

She’d fallen in love with the reading room and the rounded ceiling above. She loved its green lamps placed strategically along long wooden tables. She loved ordering the books and waiting for their delivery. Some could not be removed from the library. Others could.

Rather than take them out and leave them around the apartment where Gareth might question why, she sent them back to the archives. It wasn’t the type of reading matter that would be in great demand as a best seller would be. Still, when the book she was working with was there the next day, she felt a sense of relief.

It felt good to have a project where she could immerse herself as she had when she did research at uni or searching the records of the textile company to write a company history.

At night, whether Gareth came home early or late, she could have continued working but instead would read mysteries, biographies and chick lit. Even if her at-home reading was relaxing after her research, she felt sneaky. She may not have liked her actions, but she did like the peace that enveloped her marriage when she gave in to her husband.

She had acknowledged something was wrong with her marriage where she couldn’t follow her interests without annoying him. That he deemed the project “stupid, a waste of time, slacking her wifely duties” and on and on annoyed her even more.

Annoying was perhaps the wrong word. Gareth’s moods could change from lovable to ranting in minutes. She was never sure what would set him off. The ranting side was nothing she’d seen in their short courtship or early days of their marriage before moving to Boston.

His mood swings also varied from happy to sad with little warning of what triggered the switch.

When she figured out how to deal with it, she would. Now wasn’t the time and she wasn’t even sure she would recognize the time when it arrived.

She shared none of these problems, not so much of not wanting to reveal them, but there was no one she could talk to.

Her friend Victoria was at a critical point in her Ph.D. thesis. Daphne didn’t want to distract her.

Her parents were too far away to help. If she were to pack up and move in with them in Scotland while she sorted her life out, she had no doubt they would do everything they could to help with only minimal clucks.

At the same time, she knew they would talk in bed at night, keeping their voices low, saying how they knew Gareth was not the man for their beloved daughter, that something always seemed off. They might mention his exceptional good looks, his Oxford degree and his place in the government, all of which were reasons to look deeper for they were distrustful of anything that looked too perfect.

It was like she was living in a romance-type novel: young woman thinks she meets man of her dreams: her dreams slowly evolve into a nightmare. Maybe nightmare was too strong a word, but bad dream could work as a description. In a romance novel, Mr. Right would appear and save the heroine. She didn’t want to meet Mr. Right. She just wanted a smooth life: successful, handsome husband with interesting job, no money worries, a chance to see different places — a checked-off list of why she should be happy.

She wasn’t happy.

Often, before Florence had left for Paris, Daphne debated confiding in her. But that would mix personal into their project. She didn’t want to do that. Keeping them separate felt better. And then, Florence was the wife of another diplomat.

It didn’t help that Gareth said he disliked Florence and wished that Daphne didn’t spend so much time with her. When asked why, he had gone into his office, almost slamming the door. He hadn’t emerged until after she was asleep.

She didn’t know if Gareth knew Florence had gone to Paris. Maybe he thought that Daphne was no longer seeking out Florence’s company but the lack of the woman in and about their lives had reduced tension. It was just one more subject that they didn’t discuss.

“Let’s go to lunch at the Wayside Inn, then to Lexington so I can take some photos of the houses for the artwork?” Florence asked.

“Give me time to get dressed.”

*****

A waiter ushered them to a linen-draped table near the fireplace where little gray squares of a an almost burned-out log were outlined in red. A waiter added another log. When it fell on top of the old log, ashes flared up with a thud and crackle. Sparks flew up the chimney.

When the women arrived, most tables were either empty or people were shoving credit cards into wallets and reaching for jackets.

“It’s a good thing we aren’t allergic to wood.” Daphne swept her hand to indicate the floors’ wide planks, the wood-paneled walls and wooden beams holding up the wooden ceiling. The atmosphere was cozy compared to the cool day outside with a wind that was stripping the remaining colored leaves from trees.

“What do you expect? It goes back to the 1700s,” Florence said.

“How did you know that?”

“Longfellow wrote about it. At the time it was called Howe’s Inn or something like that. Just for the hell of it, I took Early American Lit course nights last year, never thinking I’d sometime be working on a book about the period.”

Daphne had to admit, although she kept it to herself, life took strange twists. A year ago, and a little more, she thought her life in Edinburgh was settled into a satisfactory routine of research, reports and seeing a few girlfriends for a drink or show.

A waiter appeared. “Would you ladies like a cocktail?” He was seriously cute with his curly dark hair and brown eyes one could fall into. He oozed charisma. Not that she was thinking of being unfaithful to Gareth, but she liked to admire nice-looking people. He would not be the man who saved the heroine like in that romance novel she had just read. She would save herself.

“Do you have anything typically New England, maybe even something typical of the Revolution era?” Daphne asked. Maybe they could use the meal in their comic book. She liked to feel history not just read about it. Among her thrills were when she stood on the spot where Mary Queen of Scots was crowned as a baby and in the palace room where Mary’s lover was killed.

“There’s our Cow Wow; it was the area’s first mixed drink with rum and ginger brandy.” He had a smile that if it were a TV commercial, a light would shine off a tooth and the audience would hear a ping.

“Sounds powerful,” Florence said.

“Or there’s the Stonewall with gin and apple jack.”

“What’s apple jack?” Florence asked.

“An old New England drink going back to the 1600s,” he said pinging.

“Sounds pretty strong, but we’ve work to do this afternoon. Maybe just a glass of wine,” Florence said.

“Excuse her, she’s French,” Daphne said. “I’m driving, so a Coke.” They wouldn’t be using alcoholic drinks in their comic book.

“Let’s go New Englandy with our meals,” Florence said.

“Nous avons New England Yankee pot roast. “Aussi quelque chose with cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce.” Another smile without its ping.

Daphne looked at the menu. “What’s a Boston Scrod?”

“A fish,” the waiter said. “Usually haddock, but always a white fish. Very Bostonian to call it scrod.”

They selected the pot roast and the cornbread stuffed chicken and decided to share between them.

Once the waiter left, Daphne reached into her backpack and pulled out a folder. “Wanta discuss Abigail.”

“Bien sur.”

“Don’t bother to take notes. I’ll e-mail you this file and photos of things like the clothes when we get back.”

“Abigail is either 12 or 13. She has a twin brother. None of her siblings survived either checking out of the womb or giving in to the various diseases of the day. She attended the local elementary school, reads, writes. Her parents want her home to help with chores.”

“They had schools?” Florence asked.

“Blame the Puritans. They made a law that every town of 50 families or more must have a school for boys and girls. This was so they could read the Bible.”

“Maybe we can include that in the story, her going to school, not the law itself.”

“She could hate it or love it. Oh, I didn’t tell you. She lives on a farm and her father is one of the Minutemen.” That’s what they called the men who served in the militia,” Daphne said just as the waiter brought their drinks and left with another ping-style smile.

“I knew that,” Florence said.” We need to give her character. Make her a rebel?”

“I thought of that. She doesn’t like to embroider although her mother makes wonderful samplers. She’s garbage at sewing, but she’s good at spinning, cooking in the open fireplace and churning butter. Maybe a series of panels with her doing chores, which might come as a shock to modern children.”

“They might like the no-school part,” Florence said.

“Not so sure after the schools being shut during the pandemic,” Daphne said.

“We could have her dress as a boy and fight the British. Or maybe she could dream about a mobile phone,” Florence said.

Daphne stared for a moment then laughed. “I have missed you so much.” She had not realized how much until that moment.

 

Don't Join the Armed Services

The Army, the Navy and the Air Force are not protecting the United States. They are the illegal aggressor that is throwing the world into chaos. They are helping Israel in genocide.

It won't be the first time Americans have been lied to with propaganda claptrap. It happened in Vietnam and Iraq. It happened in a number of small military actions. 

In the many Indian wars the U.S. had stolen the land from the natives. When the natives fought back, they were often slaughtered. Often there were treaties, which the government broke when it pleased them. The soldiers who fought the Indians were killers of other humans. Nothing to be proud of.

The U.S. was not attacked by Vietnam. It would not have been. Earlier attempts at diplomacy had been rebuffed by the American government.

Yes the U.S. was attacked on 9/11. Instead of attacking the country where those that flew the planes from, Saudi Arabia, they attacked Afghanistan long after the mastermind had left that country. The US went after Iraq lying about weapons of mass destruction. 

Too many Americans died. Too many Iraqis were killed. Fathers, sons, husband, brothers, friend, children, even women on both sides, all dead.

There have been wars worth fighting. The Civil War, WWI, WWII. One was fought to end horrendous slavery, although the North could have let the South go its own way.  

WWI and WWII were fought to stop a dictator from occupying other countries and/or committing genocide. Normandy is filled with white crosses or Stars of David of men and a few women who died protecting the homeland.

Now more than ever, the new war is unnecessary. It is illegal under international law. As in most wars arms manufacturers benefit. Politicians who want power benefit. 

And those who agree to fight should know they are risking their lives, becoming killers of more innocent people, risking their health for what? 

Nothing!

Soap

 

When I look at something I want to see color and feel happy. This does not mean I ignore the horrendous wars in the world. It is a counterbalance, a few minutes of sanity in a world coming apart. 

For instance, I will decorate my laptop. One had butterflies and my new one has a little garden of red flowers on the lower right corner. It makes my eyes happy even when I sit down to write about bombs, genocide, and other human cruelties beyond understanding.

One of the most uninteresting things is soap. Boooooooooooooring. 

But a new village store has opened up that has unusual soap. Anyone who knows me, I HATE shopping. Time in stores is stolen from my life. 

However, this one village store has beautiful soap. The owners also have a cute puppy. I like talking with them and with the pup. Each design is more interesting than another. I've given bars selecting designs that fit the tastes of the person.

The soaps are handmade in the UK by some 250 staff. There is an element of artwork. They are committed to all natural ingredients, No animal products. Even better. 

As for me, I picked out a bunny rabbit among flowers. When I wash my hands, it is not routine ho hum, ho hum but a conscious pleasure to look at the rabbit, the flowers and the grass. If my daughter were still little we could make up stories about the rabbit. Maybe I will channel Beatrice Potter...

Lexngton: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 38-39

 

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 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 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 is 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 if 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 maid put a plate in front of James. He picked up his fork. “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, cushions, which I have no idea what they were for. 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 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.

Usually, the General just nodded. Twice he’d warned, “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, 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. He had heard 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 wasn’t 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 tried walking to Bunker Hill. Still no contact as people passed him on the way to someplace. This was a wasted day.

 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.36-37

Chapter 36

Boston, Massachusetts

August

 

 “ARE YOU INSANE?” Gareth Andrews stopped in front of the Boston Public Library. A second before he’d been walking next to her, holding her hand. Now he hovered over her. He was taller by a good eight inches.

Three people walked by. Each stared for a moment, maybe wondering if they were about to witness domestic abuse. Then they looked away as if Gareth’s glare discouraged them from interfering.

At seven in the evening, the temperature was in the mid-nineties with ninety percent humidity. Daphne carried a sweater folded in front of her, a woolen shield. The couple were planning to eat at Legal Seafood in Copley Place. Daphne knew the restaurant would be air conditioned to meat-preservation levels … thus the sweater.

Gareth had not been there before, but she and Florence DuBois had eaten lunch there the previous week to discuss their project, which was progressing faster and better than she could have imagined.

Until a few minutes ago, she hadn’t told him about the project. The time had never seemed right. Gareth was too tired after his workday. During the weekends he might be more receptive, but he still allowed work worries to creep into what could have been positive time.

Okay, so workload at the consulate was overburdening him. Part of his problem was replacing staff. Too many had quit under his predecessor. Those that remained had little motivation and changing the atmosphere of a workplace took time.

Daphne wasn’t sure she would like to work for her husband. He was demanding to the point that she sometimes wondered if her hasty marriage had been a mistake. He wanted his underwear folded a certain way in his dresser. His shirts needed to be lined up by color. He didn’t like the way the cleaning woman polished his shoes. These were things one never learned till after they lived with someone.

She had thought the difference in ages might have been a help. Ten years wasn’t a huge difference. There was almost twenty years between her new friend and creative partner Florence DuBois and her husband Yves.

Daphne had carefully planned tonight as the time she would tell him.

On Saturdays there was no alarm. Check.

She’d made love to him first thing. Check.

She’d made a full English fry up for breakfast. Check.

When he disappeared into his office, she’d brought him tea. Check.

It had been too hot to suggest any sightseeing. Gareth, who happily went to museums with her in the beginning of their relationship, hadn’t shown any desire to do so now, air conditioned or not.

As for movies, their tastes were far too different, but last night she willingly sat through an old James Bond film, hoping it would put him in a good mood for her announcement. She even made popcorn and brought him a beer. Although he poo-pooed many American things, he did like Sam Adams beer. He didn’t get her remark that the beer was the name of an early patriot who helped rout the British. He was well read on history of the last 50 years or so, things that might affect the U.K. current policy. Anything before that he called “ancient history and a waste of time” unless there was a direct correlation to now.

Gareth and she had made love a second time, before taking a nap. Naps were the ultimate luxury in her husband’s opinion. After he woke, he suggested Legal Seaford. Although she had eaten a fruit salad while he was asleep, she quickly agreed.

Maybe she should have waited until they had ordered their meals rather than springing it on him as they walked past the BPL. “I’m not at all insane.”

“She’s the French Consul General’s wife.”

“I know that.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“There’s no money involved, just my time, although if it works …”

“What’s the expression … cockamamie?”

“There’s nothing cockamamie about a series of historical comic books. We are going to concentrate before and during the first battle at Lexington.”

“And you think anyone would listen to a Brit and a Frog? You’ve no credentials.”

“I read history at Edinburgh University. She is a graphic artist.”

“One doesn’t read a subject in the United States. They study it.”

“Same thing. She went to art school. Those are good credentials, but it isn’t the credential, it’s the product.”

Florence had told her how she wanted to go to art school, but her father refused to pay for what he claimed was a useless degree. She worked days and took classes at night concentrating on computer graphics.

Then she married. Ongoing art classes were scattered between their relocations and caring for her stepchildren, Fanny and Yannick.

“We want to show how ordinary people really lived not just the big names,” Daphne said. “Let kids know what it was like to live in Colonial times.” She’d begun spending time at either the BPL or out at Minute Man National Park, where it seemed as if the park rangers knew the people who had lived in colonial times personally. The women had agreed once they had the base concept, Daphne would do the core story and the wording and Florence would draw.

A lot was still undecided. What they had narrowed down was that there would be a boy and a girl. One book or two? They weren’t sure. What if there were two books with the girl in the boy’s story and vice versa. They could overlap.

Daphne did not remember being so excited over a work project since the day she’d discovered a treasure trove of 1801 letters from the second head of Tweed to his son, who was about to take over the business. They were like reading a novel. She’d rushed to the CEO. He was as excited as she was and gave her free rein with the material. It had been a good balance to looking over old accounting books. When she finished, the book had sold well in the gift shop. Excerpts from the letters had been used in an advertising campaign.

“I forbid it.”

The word forbid had never been a good one to use with Daphne. As a child once forbidden to do anything, she would do it, even if she hadn’t wanted to. Over the years, she’d mellowed a bit, but the word still activated every bit of her rebel DNA.

Why had she married Gareth? Was it triggered by her friend Phillipa when she asked, “What’s wrong with you; you’re the only one in our group not divorced yet?”

It was true. Almost all the women she’d studied with at university had married immediately after graduation, but most of those marriages had floundered. If they hadn’t divorced, they wanted to.

Had she met someone she wanted to marry before meeting Gareth, she too might be divorced. Most of the men who asked her out were money and/or sports obsessed. They didn’t share any of her interests or her theirs.

Gareth had been different. Because he worked in the diplomatic corps, he was interested in politics, not just current politics but the interconnecting lines. He loved reading. They would often read parts of books to each other. He could be funny. He was good in bed.

His good qualities seemed to override his bad, although his desire to control everything around him seemed to be getting worse. When preparing for their move to Boston, Daphne had left him in charge since he didn’t like the arrangements she’d made.

He hadn’t reached the OCD stage and insist all the cans in the cupboard be lined up exactly like in that movie Sleeping with the Enemy with Julia Roberts. He wanted to know what she was doing with her day. Mostly she would give her destination which was often the BPL. He hadn’t thought anything of it, nor had he asked her why so often.

He would plan everything in advance and was uncomfortable when plans changed, which surprised her when he suggested they go out to eat after his nap.

“Do we go eat or not?” Daphne asked. “There’s two lobsters with our names waiting for us.”

Gareth sighed. All right. I could use a good gin and tonic, but we aren’t through discussing this.”

Yes we are, because I’m not going to stop, Daphne thought. She could always play the card that she needed something to keep her mind occupied and her duties as his wife would never do that. He’d mentioned a couple of times starting a family. She wasn’t sure she was ready or if it was right to bring a child into their relationship as it was.

Chapter 37

Boston

December 1774

 

 “WHAT ARE YOU doing in civilian clothes?” Sally Brewster asked. She put down her brushes and stood in front of the table where she had been painting on a leather bucket. Her expression was neither hostile nor friendly.

James Holloway had just entered her father’s bucket shop. Brushes from what looked like a pen point to one as large as his thumb were in front of her. Dishes were filled with ground something or other. Metals maybe?

She was working on a leather bucket maybe two feet high and a foot across. It was larger than some of the buckets on display outside the shop.

He was surprised at how pleased he felt that she recognized him out of uniform from the two times they had spoken earlier. “Soldiers can have a day off,” James said. He didn’t say that the General wanted him in civilian clothes. His orders were to walk around the city to integrate with those who might have connections to the rebels.

“I can’t expect you to find the people who stole the cannons or the missing powder,” the General had said. “But maybe you can eliminate where not to look.”

It’s a good thing, James had thought. He had no idea how he would be able to do that at the same time he knew he would try his best.

His first stop would be at the bucket shop where the owner was rumored to be a Sons of Liberty. John Brewster was suspected of having participated in the second Boston Tea Party in February, when rebels threw thirty-five boxes or so off the decks of the Fortune into the harbor. That was less than the first Tea Party almost a year ago today, but it had added to the anger in London against the Bostonians.

It wasn’t the father but the daughter that interested James, but there was the saying of killing two birds with one stone, not that he wanted to kill either father or daughter.

The General had received orders from London to do whatever was necessary to bring the rebellion under control. Whatever necessary included increasing the drills. Bullets were still too precious to have regular target practice, but the speed of loading the Brown Bess weapons had increased through extra drills. Searches for stolen ammunition increased. Guards on potential trouble makers had increased.

Between his work for the General and normal duties, James felt stretched. He was slower than many in loading his weapon because he practiced when he could instead of several hours daily. He marched less than the others, although he still did guard duty nights after the General released him for the day.

Today was his first day on civilian surveillance. He had wanted to go with Thomas and several of his company into the woods while they searched for a defector. Private Isaac Thompson had been missing for two days. He was tagged a runaway, heading west.

James wondered what the western part of the colony was like. He had been north, south and east, at least to the sea. Because he was accompanying the General, he was most often on horseback, which had improved his riding.

He’d been up the coast to Salem so many times with the General that he knew when to expect the next farmhouse to come into view. He’d visited Woburn, Winchester, Arlington. Mostly he had seen farms with stretches of woods and a few village buildings.

He’d heard the further west one went, the more unsettled it became. Villages gave way to farms then to forests with a few scattered farms with primitive cabins. And if you went far enough there were Indians. Someone said they were Nipuc. The Pennacok were to the north. How could you tell one Indian from another, he wondered. He knew how to tell a Frenchman from an Irishman from a German by accents. It was possible to recognize a Scot from someone in Ely by their accents and their red hair and beards on some. But an Indian?

He was sure he had passed Indians on the street based on coloring and long black hair. Negroes were easier. Their skins were light brown to so black they were like staring into a forest on a moonless night. Their hair was tightly wound. Some, he knew, were slaves. Some were free men.

A negro had been killed during what the propogandists called the Boston Massacre five years ago this next March. James only knew about it because rebels kept talking about it at the Green Dragon.

Today James wasn’t worried about negros or Indians. He wanted to make a good impression on Sally, but if she was a patriot sympathizer, which she surely was, he might be considered a traitor if he courted her.

A private had no business looking for a wife. William always accused him of living in an unreal world. Damn it. Why was William still bothering him?

“That looks fascinating, he said to her. Can you tell me more of what you’re doing?”

“Mixing paint, putting it on the buckets.”

“I can see that.”

John Brewster came through the door backwards. He carried large pieces of leather in his hand and had to use his ass to prop the door as he entered. The leather was deposited in a corner of the shop next to the fireplace.

He glared at James. “I’ve seen you with the soldiers at the Green Dragon. Unless you want to buy a bucket, you aren’t welcome here.”

James debated buying a bucket, but they were too expensive for his meager salary. “I was interested in the painting. Your daughter is talented.” He picked up one that had a village house burning and a line of men with buckets trying to put it out. Most of the buckets were much simpler with initials or designs. There were some with fruit trees in blossom.

“Aye, she is. Which is why I’m the most successful bucket maker in Boston.”

Before James could say anything, Brewster continued, “She is a respectable young woman, and shouldn’t talk to a British soldier in or out of uniform.”

“I meant nothing by …”

“I suggest you leave.”

“Papa …”

“Quiet, Sally.”

Out on the street, James realized the only thing he had learned was the degree of antipathy for the soldiers by one patriot.