Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch 62-63

 

 

Chapter 62

Boston, Massachusetts

February

“I DON’T BELIEVE it,” Florence DuBois said to Daphne Andrews. They were talking on Facebook Messenger. Daphne sat at her dressing table/desk. Her bed was covered with completed artwork for the comic book. It had been printed double size for easier final editing.

Florence had left the pages yesterday. “It may be useless, and we’ll have to publish them ourselves. I thought Jason might be interested, but we haven’t heard a peep from him, and he hasn’t answered my e-mails or taken my phone calls. And the marketing meeting he talked about has never happened.” She sighed, “I thought we were better friends than that. At least he could have had the guts to tell me our work sucks.”

Daphne couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s combination of American slang mixed with her slight French accent. “From everything I’ve heard,” she’d said, “getting published is harder than creating the book.”

Although she tried to imagine Gareth coughing up the money for self-publishing, she couldn’t. He absolutely refused to even discuss the project.

In one fight that they had had, he had forbidden her to work on it and to even see Florence unless it was an official diplomatic event. Gareth and Yves DuBois had played squash twice and both times he’d come home furious. Yves had bragged about his wife’s work and how lucky she was to find a partner like Daphne.

Gareth had taken her laptop and locked it in the storeroom closet. Daphne found it necessary to finally tell Florence about Gareth’s attitude.

“Con, prick,” Florence had said. She had told Yves, who after hearing the problems Daphne was having, had other commitments when Gareth tried to make a squash date. Since Gareth had little free time, he wasn’t all that upset.

What Gareth didn’t know, there were duplicate keys to the storeroom. Each day when Daphne was sure he was safely from the house, she would retrieve her laptop. Her alternative was to use Boston Public Library computers which needed a reservation and there was a 90-minute limit. However, she had made friends with two of the staff, who let her extend the period if no one else needed the computer.

“I’m trying to be a 1950s wife and have everything perfect when my husband comes home,” she’d said to Gareth’s secretary one day when she’d gone to the embassy to have lunch with him. He’d gone to the men’s room. “Maybe you might tell me when he leaves?”

“I usually leave first, but I will when I can.” She flashed a conspiratorial smile.

“Thanks, it’s a newlywed thing, too,” Daphne had winked.

Daphne didn’t feel like a romantic newlywed. She felt like a woman who made a huge mistake in marrying.

When he had locked up her laptop, she had suggested counselling. He said that if she were more obedient, there wouldn’t be a problem.

The word “obedient” had been the proverbial broken-backed camel from the one straw too many. Instead of continuing the fight, Daphne had said, “I’ll try harder.” What she didn’t say was, “I’ll try harder, until I find my way out of this mess.”

One of the mistakes that Daphne realized that she had made, was that she really hadn’t known that much about his childhood other than he was unhappy at boarding school. When she’d met his mother, she felt the need to put on a coat, hat and gloves to survive the cold.

Her childhood overall had been happy. Her parents were contentedly married, if not happily. They supported whatever she wanted to do or didn’t want. They were in the habit of giving the pros and cons of any of her ideas, then let her decide. She suspected sometimes their tongues might have been shortened rather than say, “I told you so.” She still had not indicated to them that anything was wrong.

Where she had rejected showing up on their doorstep earlier, she now thought that would be the best way. Gareth had canceled her credit cards. At the time, it bothered her, but she hadn’t said anything. She’d had three. She gave him the two he knew about. She wasn’t about to comply and leave herself stranded financially.

The bank account was in his name only. He had upped her allowance to $100 a week. It had made her feel like a child. Still, much to her annoyance at herself, she said nothing. It was a good thing that local merchants still accepted cash.

Over the last few months, she had managed to save close to $1,500. The idea of arriving at her parents without any money bothered her. Already she’d begun looking for jobs in Edinburgh.

Academia, such as the Universities of Edinburgh, Glasgow or St. Andrews had openings, but she wasn’t sure if her experience would qualify her to look up crime statistics in different countries or women’s laws in China. Perhaps she could combine it with more study. Dr. Daphne … she liked the sound of that.

She had started to mail her CV to anything and everything with a cover letter using her parents’ address. At some point, she had better warn her parents.

She had quickly discovered when she checked flight schedules and prices, when she went back a second time to book, the prices had gone up. Shit!

“Are you still there?” Florence’s voice brought Daphne back to her bedroom on Comm Ave. in Boston.

“I’m here. What can’t you believe?”

“Jason FINALLY got back to me. And it’s good.”

“What did he say.”

“It took him a while to convince senior management, but they will publish us.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not. They want it to be the beginning of a series, all with twins who participate in different historic events. You will write it. I will do the graphics.”

Daphne was unable to respond for a full minute before gasping out, “How many? For what events? How much will they pay?

“At first he wanted to bring us on staff. The problem is visas, but they are willing to try. If that does not work, we will be freelancers.”

Daphne took a deep breath. “I’m going back to Scotland.”

“Merde!” There was silence. “We can still do it. You can research and write from Scotland. I can work from here. Maybe we can get them to give you a travel budget if we have to visit the places, but with the internet …”

Daphne wasn’t sure that the money would be equivalent to a full-time post, but it would be something. Florence was gushing about the libraries and schools that already were customers of the publisher, that would guarantee certain sales. “We need to negotiate a lot of things. Yves already has spoken to a lawyer for us. Or maybe we need an agent. The thing is they could be used for years to come.”

Maybe they could make it work, Daphne thought.

“I’m sorry. You said you were going to go back to Scotland?”

“Yes, I’m leaving Gareth.”

“Good. If you need to stay here temporarily, you are welcome to.”

Her first impulse was to say, “That would be too much of an imposition,” but what she said was, “If you’re sure, when?”

“Anytime.”

“You may want to check with Yves.”

“I’ll message you back.”

Daphne sat, not sure what to do. She got up and went to the toilet. Her period had started. Well at least she didn’t have to worry about being pregnant. When she returned to her laptop there was a message, “Yves says welcome as long as you need to. He also said congratulations on writing the comic book. Now when?”

“If you really mean it, Gareth has to go to D.C. Tuesday next.”

“As soon as he’s gone, I’ll come over, help you pack.” 

Chapter 63

Geneva, Switzerland

Whew! I’ve wound up Daphne and Florence. Their success in finding a publisher was much easier than reality, although it does happen as it did for Robert B. Parker and Ian Rankin whose first novels were snapped up. Mary Higgins Clark’s daughter probably didn’t have any problems getting published. Florence had an industry contact which made it possible.

Just because they have a publisher doesn’t mean instant success. Both women would have visa problems if they went to work for the publisher full time. Educational publishing is not a lucrative field for the writers. The credential of the comic book, maybe, would help Daphne to find a job back in Scotland, but I won’t follow her that far. I just want to leave the possibility that things might work out for her.

My husband has started reading the manuscript. He is in Dallas visiting his daughter and family. I hadn’t told him about the Anatomy part of the novel, he just knew about the historic and current plots. At first he was confused, but then decided he liked it.

I also heard back from Ranger Jim with dates of arrival in Boston for James’ ship. The name of the ship is still missing. I think I’ve enough information about the type of ship he would have been on and combined with the dates of arrival, it will ring true.

I am coming to the final part of the novel, the actual battle.

My husband is worried that to write about it will leave me too sad. We already know what will happen to James. He would prefer I wait for his return in eight days. He knows how real my characters become to me.

 

Collette, French Bank and Marseille

The drive to Marseille showed us a part of France that was new to us with its cliffs and coast. The city itself looked like a French movie with its port and boats.

My husband Rick had an appointment with the American Consulate, the soonest we could get one. Bern, Reykjavik, Warsaw, even Malta had months to years to wait.

Our hotel was ordinary and nice. Rick usually found extraordinary hotels, but this was not a pleasure trip or even an interesting business or research trip. Ordinary was more than fine. 

• Past hotels included the Dublin converted schoolhouse (see above) with each room named for an Irish writer. 
• I loved the clear plastic bubble on a rooftop in the Austrian countryside. That was a BnB with the host family inviting us to join them for a home cooked Thai meal, even though they were Swiss. After the meal we zipped ourselves into the bubble fell asleep looking at stars.

In Marseilles we did a recognisance walk to the consulate. We admired its gates. On the way back to the hotel we saw a café named Collette with four sidewalk tables. One was free.

The chocolate cake with the melted chocolate center was to be savoured. A couple in love was next to us and their happiness overflowed. Eventually, we were the only couple there.

"I like a café named after a writer. I admired her for breaking free of her husband, her outrageous lifestyle but mostly for her writing. I have a stone from her Paris tomb in my nest as inspiration. I love the story of her mother who postponed spending Christmas with her because she does not want to miss the flowering of her Christmas Cactus.

Sirens approached us and several police cars roared through the intersection near the café. They pulled into the Bank of France gates, which were opened for it. 

"A robbery?"

We waited.

In about 20 minutes the police emerged but were surrounding an armoured car. ¨We felt we were in another French movie as we finished our tea.

An overnight trip, a lifetime of memories.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 60-61

 

Chapter 60

French Autoroute

 

THE DRIVE FROM Geneva to Argelès takes between six and eight hours depending on potty stops, meals and/or sightseeing.

My husband and I listen to music. I nap and/or we chat. One topic today was a problem I’m having with Anatomy of a Novel: Lexington, the new working title. He still hasn’t read the manuscript which is far too rough. We’ve discussed various plot ideas and my historical finds. He has pointed out reference material to me.

I tell him that I was able to do a show/tell combination with Lt. Col. Alexander Leslie, reporting his failure to find the missing cannons on his mission to Salem. James was witness to Leslie's report so he could convey the scene in real time.

My husband is always quick to encourage, but he is also quick to point out what needs to be better too. He needed more information. "So? What's the problem?"

"I need the story to cover what James was doing between February 1775 to the April battle in Lexington. I suppose rather than deal with the history, I could build on his interest in either Mollie Clark or Sally Brewster, but I don't want to turn the novel into a romance."

We were having this discussion on a beautiful sunny day as we made good time on the French autoroute. At Grenoble we came to a tunnel running through a mountain. We stopped talking as my husband traversed the tunnel. On the other side, it was pouring. Only when it let up did we renew the discussion.

"Did James go to Lexington prior to the battle?" he asked.

I had written about James doing some spying in Boston earlier in the novel, I told him. "He accompanied General Cage on trips to Salem and communities surrounding Boston, but never to Lexington."

We then started playing with possibilities. Why not? James is a fictional character. As long as the history is correct, James can do whatever I want him to do. That is the fun in writing. I can bend the characters to my will as long as it rings true.

1.     James could stop at the Wayside Inn. Since being back in Argelès, I've checked to see if that was the name of the Inn in 1775. It was probably called Howe's Inn. I need to mention that the inn was not named Wayside when James was there. A single line should do it.

2.     By having James stop at the Inn, it would also deepen the relationship between the modern part of the novel and the historic.

3.     I could have Dr. Benjamin Church, Gage's spy and member of the Committee of Supply, be there and recognize James. Writing how both react can build tension.

4.     As much as I would like to go into Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn, it is not time appropriate and would look like I was trying to show off my research. 

 

Chapter 61

Boston to Lexington, Massachusetts

March 5, 1775

 

 “THIS IS THE best horse we have.” The stablemaster stopped at the stall of a brown stallion who was moving about as much as the space allowed. “He needs some exercise.”

Not with me, James thought. The horse was a beautiful specimen, but he could think of many reasons not to choose him and not just because he would be too much for him to handle. With his lack of horsemanship skills, he would never have qualified for the cavalry.

Thomas could have brought this animal under control. The thought of his lost friend made him forget for a moment why he was choosing a horse. He shoved the tide of grief aside to concentrate on his mission. General Gage has ordered him to go to Lexington and Concord to find out if the cannons were there. He was to dress in farmer’s clothes.

A farmer would never have such a high-quality animal. “I need a regular horse, maybe one a little bit, but not too much, past its prime.” He wanted to add, who is gentle and won’t mind that I’m not a very good rider, but he didn’t.

The stable smelled of horse shit. It needed a good mucking out, James thought. The snow has melted, but there were no buds on the trees or grass sprouting. The horses had been mostly kept inside their stalls since November with an occasional outing.

The stablemaster led James up and down the rows of stalls, citing the merits of each beast. When he came to a stall with a mare, he said, “This is Cranberry. She’s gentle. We’ve used her to give children rides. We were trying to convince them lobsterbacks aren’t terrible.”

The stablemaster spat. For the first time James noticed he’d been chewing tobacco. Must have been a very small chunk. It was a habit he’d never taken up. He’d tried once and found the taste not only disgusting, but it lingered the way taking a bite of a raw onion would stay in his mouth for the rest of day.

“I need a non-army saddle, bit and rein.”

“You aren’t thinking of deserting, are you boy?” The stablemaster, James guessed, was probably in his late fifties, if his gray hair and wrinkles were any indicator. The man limped, which meant he wasn’t fit for active duty, although he wore the regimental uniform., which bore the 10^th Regiment of Foot buttons and insignia. Probably his role as stablemaster kept him in the regiment.

He had no written orders to show the stablemaster. Gage had said that would compromise his safety if the rebels captured him. Outside Boston was almost all rebel territory. “Absolutely not.”

“Then you must be on a spy mission.”

“Shh.”

******

As James rode Cranberry through the countryside. He could hear birds singing. Perhaps they were beginning to build their nests.

Cranberry’s preferred speed was an amble, which James appreciated. If the General was angry with the amount of time James took to complete this mission, James would claim he’d taken time to talk to people although he was halfway to Lexington before he saw anyone to talk to. Mostly he was riding through unsettled land. Farms were outside the villages. Despite it being almost April, the ground was still too frozen to be tilled.

He passed a farmer fixing the stones on his wall. “Hello there.”

“I don’t know your face,” the man said.

“Nor I yours.”

“Not from around here.”

“Beyond Worcester. Heard that the militia might need some recruits.” James hoped the man wasn’t pro-English.

“Stupid idiots. You can’t fight the Crown.”

James didn’t know how to answer. He had guessed wrong about which side the man was on. He looked to the man’s house. A woman was hanging sheets on a line. Two small children ran in circles. He would have to report the people who were loyal to the Crown for future help.

“Do you know of anywhere to eat around here?”

“There’s Howe’s Tavern, up the road in Sudbury. Big red building. If you keep on this road for about a half hour, you can’t miss it.”

The man was right. The two-story building had a double chimney.

James was relieved to get off his horse. His rear and inner thighs ached.

There were several horses tied to a hitching post. After letting Cranberry drink at the trough, he fastened her at one end of the post.

Inside, the inn was dark and smokey. Almost every table was filled with men deep in conversation. He could tell by the way they were hunched toward each other.

There was the smell of roasting chicken and beer. As James walked toward the bar at one end, he saw Dr. Benjamin Church at the same time Church saw him. The doctor stood. “William! Over here!”

Had Church forgotten his name or was he talking to someone else?

The doctor walked over to him, put his arm around James’ shoulder and led him back to the long oak table where he’d been sitting. “Go along with what I say,” he whispered. At the table where Church had been sitting, he said with a voice that could be heard throughout the room. “Friends, meet William Smith. Has a farm beyond Worcester. Used to live in Boston. I operated on his mother. How is she?”

“As good as new,” James said. He had no idea where the conversation was going, but if Church wasn’t going to reveal his real identity, he wouldn’t reveal Church’s.

“There were six men, all dressed as farmers, sitting at the table.

“What are you doing way out here?” the man who looked the oldest asked.

“I want to find a wife. There are almost no unmarried women near me or if they are I haven’t found one for me.”

“I know someone you might find appealing. I’ll introduce you after we eat. Join us?” Church looked at the men. “We’ve talked about everything we need to, haven’t we?”

Four heads nodded and two voices said, “Yes.”

“Three men crammed together to make room for James. He swung his leg over the bench without kicking anyone.

*****

Unlike Cranberry, Dr. Church’s horse was a young, brown gelding. Its coat had been brushed to almost a polish. “Follow me,” he said.

As soon as they were out of sight of the inn, Church signaled that James should dismount. “This is fortuitous. I need to send a letter to the General. Carry the letter as fast as your horse can travel.” He patted Cranberry on her right flank.

 

 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel - Ch. 58-59

 

Chapter 58

St. Gallen, Switzerland

 WHAT MAKES A good writing day?

A day where the words come easily and there are few, or better still, no interruptions.

This was a good writing day to create the chapter where Alexander Leslie explains to General Gage why he didn’t retrieve the missing cannons. It was a day when I thought I wouldn’t be writing at all.

Rick and I were in St. Gallen, Switzerland. The city goes back to the 7^th century. The hotel where we stayed goes back to the 1500s and there were half beams galore. It’s located in the heart of the old city near an abbey and a medieval library.

Rick was playing in a hickory golf tournament. Always a passionate golfer, he became entranced with groups using the ancient clubs, either reproduced or new. I go along whenever the location of a tournament interests me.

I planned a writing free day to poke more deeply into various historic sites I’d seen when we were there before.

After settling into the hotel, we walked around the area. We found a restaurant, a real treat after the pandemic shutdowns and quarantines of the last year. I tripped over a cement umbrella holder on the terrace, twisting my left foot. I wasn’t going to let it spoil my day. After breakfast the next morning I planned to limp around the old town.

If there is a good writing fairy who makes it possible to advance in your writing, she was out in force today. It started to rain.

Limping and getting soaked were a message from the universe: write. Back in our beautiful half-timbered room I opened my laptop.

The scene I wanted to work on and which I couldn’t get quite right was Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Leslie reporting why he failed in his mission to find the missing cannons. Although not generally well known as the Battle at Lexington, some historians claim it to be the opening of the American Revolution.

My research had produced many reports of the event including conversations. No matter the source, they were remarkably similar making me comfortable with the authenticity of my content.

I needed to check on the origin of the song “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The story behind the lyrics is that the lower classes stuck feathers in their caps to mock the higher classes. The feathers were then called macaroni. I never found out why.

Supposedly, the song went back to Oliver Cromwell’s time. As much as I would like to use the background about the song in the novel, it is too much information. At no time do I want to give the appearance of putting research into a book just because I have it. I should only use it when it is relevant. I couldn’t think of a way to make it relevant.

Good writing has more show than tell. I did not want to do a real-time show chapter on the encounter at Salem bridge because that would take the emphasis away from James.

I couldn’t have James go to Salem with Leslie, because Leslie’s was a different regiment. James was already stretched between duties in his regiment and to the General, who would have other things for James to do that day.

Then it came to me. I could put James in the scene because of his role as the General’s orderly. His observations of Leslie’s report allow me to sneak in the results of my research and move the plot forward, making it semi-show and semi-tell. I was able to show General Gage’s reactions as Leslie reveals what happened.

The good word fairy was working overtime to help me. My fingers had trouble keeping up with my brain.

I find long dialogues hard to write. I did it in three steps. First the dialogue itself. Then I went back to clarify who said what and add to the background.

In one paragraph I decided to rewrite several long sentences into even more short sentences. Multiple short sentences would help build the tension I wanted.

Finally, I added James’ observations to give more depth and keep the point of view consistent. He can observe Gage’s anger rather than have it from Gage’s point of view.

Thank you, Word Fairy!

Chapter 59

Boston and Salem, Massachusetts

February 1775 

 

“WHAT IS TAKING him so long?” General Gage paced the length of the library. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The top button of his shirt was undone. The clock approached midnight. A cup of cold tea was on his desk between piles of papers.

He and James had been working all day from the Governor’s mansion, strategizing the next moves while waiting for Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Leslie to return from Salem with the stolen cannons. James would write down the General’s ideas along with lists of the pros and cons.

James wanted to go to sleep: the General wanted him to stay.

Before James could answer that he had no idea what was taking so long, the maid knocked at the study door, which really was unnecessary since the door was open. Poor girl, James thought. She should have been through with her duties hours ago and asleep in her attic room. The General had insisted she wait up for Leslie’s arrival.

The General was normally rational and even kind but seemed to have a monster hiding inside his body the last few days. It took over his mind and changed his comportment.

“Yes?” the General said to the maid.

“Lieutenant Colonel Leslie is here.”

“Send him in.”

James knew by Leslie’s posture as he entered the study that things had not gone well.

The General picked up on it too. “Tell me you have the cannons.”

James knew that Leslie, who was in his early forties, was the second son of some earl. Second sons couldn’t inherit. Some bought their way into the Army. Many were incompetent, but Leslie had a good reputation. Soldiers under him in his 64^th Regiment of Foot didn’t complain much. At least, James didn’t remember them complaining when other privates bitched about their leaders.

“I don’t have good news,” Leslie said.

The General exploded. “God damn it! You had 250 men with you.” He raged on, barely coherent as Leslie stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed to whatever he saw on the floor.

James realized he was watching an interesting phenomenon. In social class, Leslie was higher, but in rank Gage was higher as well as 15 years older. Rank outweighed class.

Leslie said nothing as the General yelled and yelled.

The General stopped mid-sentence. The room went quiet. James noticed the stillness. He had mentally shut out the General’s rants.

Almost in a whisper, the General said, “Tell me about it.”

Leslie stopped staring at the floor and looked at the General, while avoiding his eyes, James noticed. “My men, all members of my regiment, took a boat from Boston to Marblehead. We arrived at Hooman’s Cove. Do you know it?”

“Of course, I know it, idiot.”

James knew the General was not in the habit of insulting his officers, but the pressure on him to quell the increasing rebellion and to make sure the locals lacked the wherewithal to attack was mounting. Communiques from London had shown no understanding of the situation. James dreaded every time one arrived, because it threw the General into foul moods that even Mrs. Gage couldn’t alleviate.

“There were a few other boats in the Cove. I think they were mainly local fishermen. We couldn’t see anyone on them. We were right to schedule the maneuver on a Sunday because people would be at church. Not as many people around.”

“I was at the planning session. Tell me what I don’t know,” the General said.

“Those who saw us must have spread an alarm. Two hundred fifty men marching through a small town is quite noticeable, don’t you know, Sir. Especially when the fife and drum corps are playing, ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’”

“I don’t need your sarcasm, Leslie. And why in God’s name were you playing a song? That song?”

“Sorry, Sir. I was trying to explain. We thought that it would inspire our men and scare and ridicule the locals as if anyone could be turned from a commoner into a noble by putting a piece of macaroni in his hat.”

“You were on mission to capture cannons, not entertain or mock an audience.”

“Yes, Sir. It was a rag-tag group that awaited us by the time we reached the North Bridge in Salem. You know it, Sir?

“Of course, I do.”

The bridge had been drawn up. A large group, not just militia, came with guns. The townspeople blocked our route.”

“And then …”

“I ordered them to lower the bridge. I reminded them it was part of the Kings Royal Highway.”

“Their reaction?” the General asked.

“They refused. They claimed they’d built and paid for the bridge themselves. It was hard to believe that they were that …”

“And you couldn’t cross the river? Afraid of being wet?”

“Any boat we might use had been sabotaged.”

At this point the General sat on the edge of his desk. He did not invite Leslie to sit.

James had already been seated. He didn’t dare even move his foot, which was beginning to ache from being in a bad position.

“I threatened to fire, and someone, I think it was John Felt, I can’t be sure, but I remember seeing Felt at a meeting once and it looked like him. I guessed he was about 50. I could tell by his clothing he was fairly well to do.”

“What did he say?”

“Something to the effect to fire, but if we did, we’d all die.”

“So did anyone fire?”

“You have to see …”

“I don’t have to see anything. I need those damned cannons, and I want to know what happened that I don’t have them.” The General stood. “I can’t believe it, 250 men against some country bumpkins with no training.”

James didn’t think it was a good idea to remind the General that Dr. Church had reported that the rebels had gotten their hands on the British training manual and were using it with regular drilling practices. He resisted the urge to rub the cramp in his foot.

“Some of the locals were sitting on top of the drawn bridge, taunting us. A woman from one of the houses along the river looked out her window and yelled to shoot her. Of course, we didn’t.”

“It might have felt good if you had.”

“The situation would have only worsened if we had. I personally would have liked to kill every damned one of them. Then it happened.”

“What happened?”

“One of the idiots ripped open his shirt and dared one of my men to stab him. One did scratch him, only slightly. It infuriated the crowd. Suddenly this parson arrived. He introduced himself to me as Thomas Barnard. Said he lived in Salem but didn’t say which church where he was the parson. He butted in.”

“To what purpose?”

“To calm the crowd, to send us back to Boston.”

“I told him, I had my orders from you, Governor, to cross the bridge and find the cannons. We knew where they were. Barnard walked over to Felt. Damned near fell on a patch of snow that had melted and frozen again. Then the two of them came over to me and asked if we marched across the bridge and looked where we thought the cannons were, would we go back to Boston?”

Here Leslie paused as if unsure how to tell the General what happened next. James did not envy the man. The General disliked failure, his or anyone else’s.

“They lowered the bridge. We all marched over. We went to where we were told the cannons were. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I had my soldiers try one or two other buildings nearby. Still nothing.”

“Did it occur to you, that maybe, just maybe, the rebels had moved the cannons while you were losing a standoff at the bloody bridge?”

“Yes Sir. But by that time there were so many footprints we couldn’t find any wagon wheel marks to follow if that was how and when they moved the cannons.”

“Get out,” Gage hollered. “I can’t stand to hear anymore.”

Leslie grabbed his tricorne hat and left so fast it was difficult to believe he had ever been in the room.

Free Write - Is it a chair or . . .?

 

One photo, two different ideas on what it might be.

Julia's Free Write

It was another one of “those” dreams; brilliant blue skies, white sandy beaches, palm trees and blue waters.

Almost a nightmare in fact. Now why? She didn’t like that kind of vacation; much preferring rocks and roughness to her beaches. And, actually, mountains had been, and always would be, her first choice.

Camping in the wild was fun young, now she tended to prefer some of the creature comforts a bit more. Still, she was open to the odd “adventure”, i.e. what is currently known as glamping.

In her spare time – now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one – she read, wrote, took walks.

Again, in her youth and the years of super achievement, she also knitted, sewed and travelled.

She fled heat, never had her head in the sun, so lounging about wasn’t her thing.

But there it was: a custom-made lounging chair, up for sale at a well-known Auction House.

Fortunately, she resisted, keeping only the photo. Perhaps she wouldn’t have had the dreams if she had bought it!

Rick's Fee Write

The carton arrived by UPS truck on a Friday afternoon. It was about 6 feet long, enough to hold a person, and easily two feet, no two and a half feet wide. The sender was an ‘S. Ermaline’ from Bug Tussle, Arkansas.

“Do we knows anyone in Bug Tussle?” MarkBob asked.

“I never heared of Bug Tussle,” I told him.

“It’s not a bomb, is it?” he asked, kicking at the cardboard.

“Sign here,” said the heavy-set deliver driver in the brown shorts and knee socks.

Just in case it was a bomb, we decided not to drag it into the house. In fact, we pushed it down the wooden steps into the front yard. The box split open, and we jumped back.

Inside was something white and red with a bit of metal tubing.

“Pipe b-b-b-omb?” asked MarkBob.

“No, silly. It would have exploded by now when you kicked it down the steps.”

Sticking out was a piece of paper. A card, actually.

‘Dearly beloved. We are sorry to inform you that your great aunt Melanoma passed through the Pearly Gates on February 15th. In her will, she left you her favorite sun lounger. (In fact, it’s where she died.) She hoped you will get as much pleasure laying on it as she did.’

It was signed ‘Sid Ermaline, Mayor and Undertaker, Bug Tussle.’

“Well, Ah’ll be…” said MarkBob.

I was lost for words.

D-L Free Write

Sandra thought if Irena, her mother-in-law, ever wrote a book recommending how to do passive-aggressive behavior it would become the standard.

She gave up telling Jason whose reply was always, "Mother would never do that."

The last thing was a white vase with big red petals, a nice gift if . . . if Sandra had not told her that she hated the color red. That was six years ago, and every gift Irena had given her was red.

"Thank you Irena," she said as she took the vase into the kitchen. She filled it with flowers and very little water. Then she rubbed Mamie's favorite cat food on the bottom of the vase. Back in the living room, she placed the vase on the edge of the cabinet.

Mamie did her job, jumping on the cabinet and nudging the vase until it fell on the floor breaking it into irreparable pieces.

"Oh no!" Irena cried.

Sandra said nothing but thought two can play at this game."

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 56-57

 

Chapter 56

Boston, Massachusetts

February 1775

 TO SAY IT had been a difficult month for James was an understatement. He had had almost no time to drill with his regiment. The few times he did, he felt his actions were not automatic as they should be in the way he handled his Brown Bess. At least some strength and energy was returning. Other soldiers who were recovering from dysentery were also struggling, but they did not have split responsibilities.

He had asked Corporal Tilley to borrow the Manual of Arms to study. It described exactly how his fingers should be placed on the gun. There were 35 different drills in the manual. These he read at night by candlelight to the snores of his fellow privates. He’d committed 25 to memory so far.

Corporal Tilley had remarked that very few privates would be able to read and understand the Manual like James did. He suggested maybe they should exchange ranks.

James could not explain why he was so devoted to learning how to fight properly, something he never thought he would have to do … never wanted to do.

The soldiers were aware that tensions between the army and locals were growing … James even more so. He was with the General almost every day. There had been only one day last week when the General insisted that he train with the regiment and that was because it wasn’t routine training. The regiments went out of the city into a wood to practice shooting.

Expensive cartridges were not to be wasted the officers kept telling them and yelled “Aim, aim, aim.” They practiced individually, and they practiced in formation until their cartridge cases were empty and their Brown Bess guns hot to the touch.

More and more the General was in what James’ mother would have called “a tizzy.” Even Mrs. Gage couldn’t calm him. He had yelled at her once to get out and leave him to do men’s work. That was the only time James had seen him raise his voice at his wife.

The maid ushered a man into the study where the General and James were drafting letters to the governors of other colonies, suggesting they work together against any uprising. The sentiment might not be as high as it was in Massachusetts, according to different intelligent reports, but it was there.

“What is it?” the General asked the man. “And who are you?”

“A sailor. William Barrows, Sir. We just docked from London. I was told to bring you this from London and to run.” He handed the General an envelope.

James stifled a smile. If they just docked from London, the letter had taken months to arrive in Boston. Running to save a few minutes seemed ridiculous at best. He would not say it. In fact, considering the General’s mood the last few weeks, he usually only said, “Yes, Sir,” or “No, Sir.” The only time he ate with the family was when the General was out of town and Mrs. Gage invited him for company.

Lunches, when eaten in the kitchen with the cook, maid and the children’s tutor, were a relief compared to the tension when he ate in the study with the General.

Often if they were on the road, the General didn’t bother eating at all.

“Wait for a reply, sailor.” The General rang for the maid and ordered to take the sailor to the kitchen for tea and something to eat if the man was hungry.

Unless the ship was leaving the harbor shortly after arriving, James didn’t see the need to get a response prepared so fast.

The General tore open the envelope. His frown deepened, if that were possible. “Bloody hell! James, tell the sailor, I’ve forgotten his name, he can go back to his ship after he eats.”

The General paced around the study waving the paper he had just received. “Fuck! Shit! Bloody balls!”

James wasn’t sure what to do other than stay out of the General’s way.

“What in the name in all that’s holy do they expect me to do differently? I ask you.”

James said nothing because he still didn’t know what was in the letter. Even then, he doubted he could have said anything that would have helped the General.

“I’ve tried to find those bloody cannons. I’ve tried to keep control of the powder. I’ve tried to keep those damned colonists from forming their own governments.”

The General went behind his desk, sat down and stood up again. “Democracy? What the hell do they know about democracy? Most of them are illiterate. Humans need kings.”

James wanted to say that he supposed there were good kings and bad kings. He didn’t know much history, but he’d read articles in the Boston Gazette on power abuses. Controlling one’s own destiny did not seem such a bad idea, but there was no way he was going to ever speak that idea aloud much less let the General hear those words from him.

James knew that the General was doing everything he could.

There was another knock at the door and the maid entered. She handed the General an envelope.

The General’s face changed. “Read this, James. Wonderful news.”

James recognized Dr. Church’s writing. He had filed enough letters from the man, despite the General claiming to have destroyed them.

“It says that the cannons are in Salem. Twelve. Near the North River.” James wondered with all the time that the General had spent in Salem if he hadn’t passed where they were hidden. Another thing he would never say.

“Go get Lt. Col. Alexander Leslie. Find him and tell him to come here immediately. He’s going to go get those cannons, now.” 

Chapter 57

Boston, Massachusetts

December

THE STARBUCKS WAS like every other Starbucks. Although she would have preferred a tearoom that wasn’t a chain, Daphne Andrews did like their chai lattés and blueberry muffins.

Holding her Styrofoam cup with her name spelled “Dafny” and her muffin wrapped in paper, she spied Florence at a table with a man who looked as if he were in his early forties. She assumed he was around the same age as Florence.

He stood as Daphne walked over to the table. The area was almost empty but 10:00 was after the early morning and before the lunch rushes. She put down her cup and muffin amid folders on the round table and took his thrust hand.

“Jason Jenkins. And you are Daphne.”

They sat. Florence and Jason had muffins as well as coffee. Florence’s was blueberry, Jason’s looked to be chocolate.

Daphne had been late in leaving, because Gareth instead of going to work early as usual had puttered around the flat. He’d finally called for his driver at 9:10 and it had taken the man until 9:45 to wend his way through the end of Boston rush hour.

She had dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her plans to change into something more businessy were forgotten. Better to be on time. Besides she was supposed to be a writer and a historian and at 10 in the morning, informality could be considered normal.

She didn’t blame Gareth for his devotion to proper dress. He met with bankers and corporate leaders on behalf of the United Kingdom. Sweats would never have been appropriate. They were required to go to enough events where photos might be taken and as he said, “Who knows what rag they’ll appear in.”

“We waited for you.” Florence reached for the portfolio case.

“It was hard. She slapped my hand when I tried to look before you came.” He took the portfolio and began shuffling through the pages.

Both women didn’t say a word. Jason smiled and said things like “Mmm, ahh, hmm.”

When he put the last page on the table, he looked at both women. He let silence hang.

Daphne wanted to scream, “What?” but Florence beat her too it.

Still Jason didn’t speak.

“Speak,” Florence said.

He took a deep breath. “The concept is fantastic. The drawing is beautiful. The writing is good, although I’d change a couple of the spellings to American.”

As he reached for one of the drawings, his hand hit Florence’s coffee spilling it on the drawings. “Shit!”

“Don’t worry. They are all on the computer,” Florence said.

“Which is why I love computers,” he said. “It’s good for klutzes like me.”

“What can we tell you?” Daphne asked. She was good at probing. It had served her well with the old man at Tweed.

“How does it end?”

“Probably with the battle of Lexington. We’re thinking of having Abigail dress up in her brother’s clothes.”

“At first we were thinking of two books, one for Adam, one for Abigail.”

“I prefer one,” Jason said. “Here’s what I want to do. First, as Commission Editor, I still have to bring the manuscripts to a committee, which includes someone from sales. Educational publishing can be very political with different school boards and political correctness and all that.”

Both women nodded.

“Also, we are considering going into computer programs as well as doing more stuff on-line. This would be great for that. “Florence have you ever done a computer game?”

“She shook her head. “I could learn.”

“I’m also thinking we could have a whole series of historical comics. We could be a new form of CliffsNotes.”

“Working with us? Or would you turn this over to your staff?”

Daphne was glad Florence had voiced her worries that he would steal their ideas.

“We could do it a number of ways. One: put you both on staff, which may not be too popular because of the cost of benefits.”

“Neither of us have working permits,” Daphne said.

“I suppose we can get those,” he said. “Or two, hire you as freelancers.”

“We still aren’t supposed to be working. I’m not sure what it would take to create a company. If we couldn’t have a company, could you buy our work from an overseas company?” Florence asked.

“That might be a way.”

“We don’t have a company …. yet!” Florence said. France is full of red tape, but my husband can help us get through much of it.”

“I want to get my marketing person in on our next meeting. Are you ladies free on Friday? Come into our office so you can meet people.”

“Yes.” They said it in unison.

“I’ve gotta run. I’ll get back to you.” He hugged Florence, looked at Daphne.She held out her arms. “If we’re going to work together, maybe a hug is okay. To hell with Covid.”

After he left, the women sat quietly.

“I don’t believe it. Publishing shouldn’t be this easy.”

“Probably wouldn’t be if I didn’t know Jason. We might have shown it to another person or persons who would turn us down.”

“They should know how to sell it. “I mean we could research the market ourselves, if we wanted to publish ourselves but …”

“No need to reinvent the wheel.” Florence started gathering up the pages. “Take these home for final suggestions. Meanwhile, I have to fight the battle that had the shot heard round the world.”