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.

 

BS Meter

 

One of the things about aging, is knowing when you've been lied to. How many times do the American people need to be lied to before they stop believing?

At the moment there are more lies about Iran. Two killers Netanyahu and Trump are responsible for thousands of deaths.

Americans have been lied to about the need for war for several wars. The first, I realized, was Vietnam. All those brave soldiers were told how they were protecting their country. 

• Some believed.
• Some didn't believe.
• Some have names on a long black wall in Washington D.C.
• Some never recovered mentally and/or physically

The August 4, 1964 attack in the Gulf of Tonkin didn't happen, but the story about it was used to expand the war.

"On the night of 4 August, two US destroyers reported they were attacked by North Vietnamese vessels and that they were returning fire. Later investigation revealed that the 4 August attack did not happen; no North Vietnamese vessels had been present. Shortly after the events, the National Security Agency, an agency of the US Defense Department, deliberately skewed intelligence to create the impression that an attack had been carried out." Wiipedia and other sources,

Books by people like Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara misjudged or outright lied about the war. This chart in Wikipedia shows the cost in humanity of that war. 

Deaths in Vietnam War (1965–1974) per Guenter Lewy

US and allied military deaths	282,000
PAVN/VC military deaths	444,000–666,000
Civilian deaths (North and South Vietnam)	405,000–627,000
Total deaths	1,353,000

Vietnam was never coming to attack the U.S. The Asian countries didn't fall one by one like "dominos" to the Communists. 

Night after night the television news gave body counts of the Vietnamese. Rosy reports  on how well the U.S. was doing. Those not believing, the kids protesting were considered traitors, draft dodgers and more.

It took a trusted newcaster Walter Cronkite to tell the truth Bing Videos  President Johnson was claimed to have said, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost middle America."

Then there were the imaginary "weapons of mass destruction." More lies although it was said it was faulty intelligence. Lies or stupidity it doesn't matter. Colin Powell on 5 February  2003 speaking in front of the UN, convinced the world they were there. In 2016. Powell said that the speech was written by the Vice President's office. 

So here we go again. The problems in the Middle East are partially the making of the United States. How things would be different if the CIA didn't overthrow the government of Mohammad Mosaddegh to help an oil company and supported the Shah and his tyrannical government, I'm not sure if the Iranian people would have the hatred they have today. 

Now Trump and his incompetent buddies are lying to people on why the U.S. should be spending billions to do (fill in the goal of the day). My faith in a man, who according to Washington Post lied over 34,000 times during his first administration, is non existent.

I watch how different American news stations try to justify the war. The international ones I watch either say foul, or side step. Different countries are anywhere from wishy washy to outspoken such as the Spanish head of State. 

My BS meter has exploded. Forgive me if I don't believe the United States  government after years of being lied to, just more flagrantly now than ever before. This time the lies are by a demented liar who is also a killer along with the Israeli leader.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.34-35

 

Chapter 34

Geneva, Switzerland

I WASN’T SURE how to bring Dr. Benjamin Church’s spying into the novel. A private in the Army would have little or no reason to meet Church. It confirmed my decision to have General Gage make James his orderly. With his closeness to Gage, James would see all the major players and events from James point of view.

I know I will make some historical mistakes because I didn’t dig deep enough, or I wasn’t aware that I should dig more deeply.

Originally, I had thought of having James billeted with a family whose father was a Sons of Liberty member. James then could spy. I gave up on the idea of a love interest where James would have been billeted. Although there were legal provisions for this practice, it was almost never implemented. I had the choice of a historical inaccuracy that had many conflict advantages or go for accuracy.

I didn’t want to make Church a major character but his providing information to Gage was important, thus I have James sitting in on Church-Gage meetings. With three plots going, the novel doesn’t need a fourth..

Church fascinated me. He was born in 1734 into a prominent family. That he was a student at Boston Latin, the same school my daughter attended two centuries later, made me smile. During that period almost every leading well-educated patriot went to Boston Latin before going on to Harvard.

Not only was Church a Sons of Liberty, he worked with the Committee of Supply that bought guns, food and other equipment for the patriots. He reported this to General Gage, which allowed me to add it to the story.

One of his letters to the General was intercepted. He was punished and put on a ship that disappeared in the Caribbean Sea in 1778. I probably won’t use that because it comes after the novel ends.

As General Gage gets more and more desperate to find the cannons that were stolen from under his nose and the pressure from London increases, Church’s spying serves a vital role in the novel as it did in 1774-1775. If Gage hadn’t worked so hard to find those damned cannons, the battle at Lexington might never have happened. Would there still have been a Revolution? Would I have grown up singing “God Save the Queen” instead of saying the “Pledge of Allegiance?”

Chapter 35

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

 

 DR. BENJAMIN CHURCH carried himself like someone who knew his own importance, whether real or imagined. He did not wear a wig but pulled his wavy hair into a low ponytail and tied it with a velvet ribbon.

His clothing was immaculate. His shirt was either new or had been bleached with urine for a virgin whiteness. Every wrinkle had been removed.

Recognized as an excellent doctor, he had some reasons to think well of himself, which gave him good standing with the locals, but less so with the pro-English government.

General Gage briefed James on the man before they joined him in the reception room. “He comes from, if not the highest echelon of local society, he is well placed. His family had arrived with the Mayflower, his grandfather had been with the force that killed the Wampanoag Chief, King Philip.

“His father was a successful merchant and a deacon of the Hollis Street Church.”

“It isn’t just his pedigree.” Gage stopped his briefing to adjust his own topcoat. He was wearing civilian clothes. James could never figure out why Gage decided sometimes to not appear as a military man.

Gage continued, “His academic credentials are impressive: Boston Latin School then Harvard University. He studied medicine in London and when he came back here, he became a respected surgeon. If my wife or children needed a surgeon, I’d trust him. As an informer, I’m far less sure.”

Gage finished the last sip of his tea and put the cup on the tray. He went to the door but before opening it added, “I’m not sure if I trust him as an informant. His membership in the Massachusetts Provincial Counsel gives him standing as a patriot, but he might be feeding us false information. Let’s go meet the man. I’m curious what you think.”

The reception room had a couch and stuffed chairs upholstered in a baby blue silk fabric arranged around a coffee table. Smaller chairs were upholstered in a variety of blue fabrics. An oak bookcase went from floor to ceiling and a ladder was attached to help readers reach the top three shelves. The books were mainly law, military and religious texts bound in fine leather.

When the General entered the reception room followed by James Holloway, the doctor showed no deference other than to stand, considered polite regardless of status.

Pleasantries were exchanged. The maid served tea.

“I suggest it be the two of us, no disrespect to you, Private Holloway,” Church said.

Holloway was astounded at this challenge to the General.

“Holloway is here to take notes and write reports of my meetings.”

“Do you want to discuss your medical history in front of a low-ranking soldier?”

The General frowned. “James, would you wait outside, please.”

James wasn’t sure what to do next. Should he eavesdrop? Take notes? Walk away? Medical? The General showed no sign of illness. The doctor had asked for the meeting. A doctor doesn’t instigate an appointment for his patients.

The solution?

Eavesdrop.

The reception room had two doors. One went to the hallway, which was how Dr. Church had entered and would leave by. The other was attached to the dining room. As he entered the dining room, Mrs. Gage appeared.

“May I help you, James?”

“I don’t know how I can take notes of the meeting. I left my paper, ink and pen in there.” He pointed to the door between the dining and reception rooms.

Mrs. Gage indicated that he should move a chair next to the door. She disappeared, and in a moment returned with paper, a pen and a full ink well which she put on the chair. “Sit on the floor,” she said. “Use the chair as your table.”

Even with his ear against the wood, it was difficult to hear what the men were saying.

He picked up words like Safety Committee, powder, Cambridge and storage. Villages outside of Boston were mentioned. He also heard the word cataract that would have seemed more out of place had James not read that the doctor had found a way to remove cataracts. None of the Gages had cataracts as far as he knew, although he had never thought about it.

The voices moved further away. The door to the reception area open and closed.

James wasn’t sure if he should rejoin the General, who probably didn’t know where he had gone when he had left the meeting. His fears were for nothing because the General came into the dining room.

“Were you able to hear much?”

“Not really.” James showed the General his notes.

“Let’s not worry about documentation. Let’s just say Dr. Church is a valuable ally, but we can’t let on that this is the case.” He turned to leave. “Good thinking to come in here to eavesdrop, Holloway.”

Free Write -- Gondebaud

 

Today's prompt was a the statue of Gondebaud, (475-516) King of Burgundy. This was Rick's prompt, a photo taken in Geneva. None of us knew about the King, although on research, his most notable act was to bring German and Roman laws together. 

Rick's Free Write 

King Gondebaud was despondent. Why could he not get his subjects to obey his directives?

He had the gold crown. He had the gold sword. He had the royal robes.

Was it his tiny hands? Or because he was short (he was barely 5 feet tall)?

Did they not understand he came from a long line of prominent royals (well, his father, at least)? He was no different than Napoleon Bonaparte; small but mighty.

He sat on the throne his father had made when he crowned himself King of Leman. The people had laughed at his father too. When they put him in prison, Gondebaud took over the family throne. He decreed that all neighbouring countries should pay him tariffs. They laughed and ignored him. He decreed that the wine growers of Leman should join his army. They laughed, too, and went back to their vines.

Gondebaud announced that he would take a beautiful wife. He expected a long line of candidates. When no one showed up to audition, he turned to his friend Geoffrey, who always was surrounded by young women.

“I know,” said Sir Geoffrey, “we’ll pretend to hold a beauty pageant and you can claim the winner as your wife.”

“Okay,” said Gondebaud, “as long as she’s shorter than me.”

“For that,” said Sir Geoff, “she’ll have to be about 12.”

D-L's Free Write

"I did it. Allison Barrett. Dr. Allison Barrett. Dr. Dr. Dr."

Her advisor had called to say she had passed her orals. The diploma, the formal degree would follow. 

Her advisor had his doubt she would find enough information on Gondebaud for a thesis on the 5-6th century Burgundy king. 

Yet over the past five years, she worked on morphing her thesis into The Life During the Reign of King Gondebaud.

She worked with climatologists, who talked about the weather of the period, map makers who recreated the farms and small villages. She discovered the crops grown, church records, and cloth remnants.

She joined archaeologists on a dig and included photos of the pottery found in her thesis.

She worked hard to learn the ancient French. She already knew church Latin. 

For four years she had lived in Burgundy imagining what it would have been like in Gondebaud's time.

Her parents came for lunch. "Find a real job. Go to Grad school. Get an MBA. Become a lawyer."

It was a most unpleasant lunch.

As she was leaving, her mother followed Allison to her car. "Don't listen to your father," she whispered. "Follow your own dreams,"

She kissed her mother. 

She had followed her own dreams.

Julia's Free Write

Had he not have saved the prince from a wild boar attack, where would he have ended up?

The prince had taken him to the king, vaunting his sureness and quick actions.

The king, always happy to cater to his beloved son, had taught him to wield more than a stick.

It had been a rich life. Very eventful. Born in a cave, he had risen to becoming a soldier. from there, and on many battle fields, he had proven his worth.

But although he rose to new heights, he was a mortal and inevitably entered the ground.

Half pink, half green, a crown on his head and a sword in his hand, honored, he had become a statue, placed in a niche, halfway up a stone wall. 

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the top stories about the airline industry. He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

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/ 

Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles

Over the next few weeks, I will serialize my book Coat Hanger and Knitting Needles. I self-published and repeatedly sent the book to Pro-life group heads, pro-life legislators and judges. The year I spent writing the book was emotional as I read about lives that had been destroyed. I also discovered incredibly brave men and women who helped women in trouble. 

Please consider subscribing so you will be notified when each chapter is published on Substack.

"Almost half of American women have terminated at least one pregnancy and millions more Americans of both sexes have helped them as partners, parents, health-care workers, counselors, friends." Katha Pollitt, The Atlantic May 1997.

Across every culture throughout time, there have been women who have missed a period, but knew they couldn't have a child at that time. They sought abortions.

Making abortions illegal is useless in stopping them. Abortion will continue no matter how many laws are passed. Women, who do not want a baby for any number of reasons, will find a way to end the pregnancy. Legal or illegal, it doesn't matter.

The more I researched American abortion prior to 1973, I realized the topic is endless. I've searched scholarly studies, newspapers TV programs, court documents and first-person accounts.

For every woman who had an abortion there is back story.

The idea that over turning Roe v. Wade would stop abortions was the same as saying this Monday, a second sun, will appear in the sky or making prohibition illegal means that no one will drink again.

Our energies are better spent on making it easier to prevent unwanted pregnancies. 

Lexington Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 32-33

 

Chapter 32

Boston, Massachusetts

November 1774

 

 

“ONE FINAL KISS, and then we’ll never meet again,” Bess Holloway said. She placed her lips gently on James’s lips, turned and disappeared into the mist.

James sat up on his cot. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he remembered: last month they had dismantled the tents on Boston Common to move the 43^rd Regiment of Foot into the newly renovated barracks. He, himself, had repaired the flooring and walls of this room where 30 other privates were snoring. A full moon shone through the one window opposite his bed giving a dim light.

The regiment had moved just in time. The night the last tent was packed away, Boston had had its first big snowstorm. Each room had a fireplace, but they did little to dispel the cold during the day much less at night when fires were banked. One soldier was assigned each night to make sure that the fire wasn’t extinguished.

“It would be worse if you were still outdoors, so quit bitching,” Corporal Tilley had told them when the mumbling became louder. Overall, the men liked Tilley. He was fair but demanding. “This is nothing compared when we were in Canada fighting the French.”

A soldier on his way to the pee pots in a room outside the door tripped, mumbled something and continued on his way.

James wondered if it was worth it to get out of his bed to piss and decided no.

Strange, he hadn’t dreamed about Bess for weeks. When she first died, he hated falling asleep. He would have nightly nightmares about her death. Then they had tapered off to maybe two or three a week until he joined the army.

He had not expected her to die in childbirth, or as in her case, a few days after when a fever attacked her. Not that death in childbirth was unusual. If women had enough children, one of their births would surely kill them. But Bess was just 18 and strong. She seldom even had a cold.

The baby hadn’t lived either. In the beginning he thought his first child would be his last. The pain was so great at losing Bess, he had no interest in women. Going through the misery twice was beyond his imagination, but now he wondered if maybe sometime in the future, if he could find the right woman, he might try again to create a family.

Bess and he had been friends as teenagers. They were friends after they became lovers. She was his protector, his sounding board. She was quick to jump in the river on a hot day, fully clothed, teasing him to join her. They would walk hand in hand in the moonlight on a summer night and sometimes make love when they were far enough from the village not to be caught.

He thought of her last words to him, barely audible. “Miss me but be happy. Live the life I won’t have.” She hadn’t said anything about finding another wife, but she hadn’t said anything against it. Was having a woman in his life part of being happy? He supposed it depended on the woman. Trying to find a wife like Bess, well that would be difficult.

It might not be terrible to have a female friend. He had always enjoyed the company of women, unlike many of his friends who felt women were good for keeping house and meeting their needs in bed or a haystack and not much more.

It might be because he and his sisters had always gotten along with few sibling spats. James would be the first to admit his sisters spoiled him. Because they were so much older, they treated him as their pet. When they’d married and moved, he missed the sweets they would sneak him and definitely missed their protection from William.

Bess and he had been in school together. She played with boys more than girls and could roll a hoop better than anyone else.

She was fun to talk to, never resorting to silly giggles. Their marriage was taken for granted by both sets of parents.

If she hadn’t died, he probably would still be putting faggots in the bread-baking oven. Their son might have a baby brother or sister.

This was his first Bess dream since they had arrived from England and in it he felt she was saying goodbye. His old life was fading.

His current life didn’t seem real and he had no idea what his future would hold in two, three, five years. He did know it wouldn’t be the army, although he had few regrets about being a soldier. For now.

James changed from his right to his left side, pulling the covers to his neck. Sally Brewster stomped into his mind.

She was the daughter of the leather bucket maker. He had first seen her in early October taking in the fire buckets on display outside her father’s shop at the closing of the business day. She’d been talking with a woman, whom James later learned was a neighbor.

He had been on an errand for Mrs. Gage. “Pick up a package for me,” she’d said and handed him an address. The address was a dressmaker.

Mrs. Gage could afford a dressmaker, but many of the locals were suffering under the new economic conditions instituted by the government, an ongoing punishment. New clothes were not affordable. The army never seemed to be deprived of anything unlike the locals who couldn’t requisition whatever they wanted.

James considered this unfair. He kept his opinions to himself. He didn’t hear any other soldier admitting being an oppressor. Whether, like him, they remained silent, he had no way of knowing.

James was amazed at how he felt drawn to Sally. It wasn’t that she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, although she was pretty with blond curls escaping her cap. Her face was a little on the round side. What drew him were her blue eyes, not so much the color but the way they seemed to hide secrets. He told himself that it was his imagination, but he found himself going by her father’s shop every chance he could.

There were two bucket makers in Boston. Most families kept a bucket by their door in case of fire in their house or others. The men of the household could grab it when an alarm sounded and rush to help extinguish the blaze before it spread. The buckets came in a variety of shapes, some more cylindrical than others. Some were narrow. James thought they couldn’t hold much water.

Brewster’s buckets, unlike those of his competitor William Turner, were decorated, mostly by Sally. Some were simple geometric designs. Some had names of the buyer-to-be or the name Brewster. A few were rural scenes or paintings of local buildings like Faneuil Hall. Others had scenes of the buckets being used to put out a house fire.

Three days ago as he stood looking at them, a voice said, “Probably the buckets are a signal to the Sons of Liberty that there’s a meeting.” He turned to see Corporal Tilley.

“We’re sure the father was involved in throwing the tea in the harbor both times, but we can’t prove it.”

James shrugged as Sally Brewster came out of the shop to carry more of the buckets inside. “What if I pay attention to the daughter to gather information?” He was amazed that he thought the suggestion much less making it.

James rolled over on his cot and tried to put his thoughts of Bess, Sally, Sons of Liberty, Corporal Tilley aside. He could not get comfortable. Tomorrow, the General needed him an hour early.

Chapter 33

Boston, Massachusetts

December1774

 

 JAMES HOLLOWAY BOUNDED up the nine steps and stood between the two pillars of the four-story Governor’s mansion on Marlborough* Street. At a little after eight in the morning, he was early.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Gage answered his knock and said, “He’s in the study.” Usually, the maid answered. Maybe Mrs. Gage had been nearby when he’d knocked.

He brushed the snow from his coat and took off his boots outside before stepping into the entranceway. Mrs. Gage provided slippers for visitors rather than have mud tracked on the oriental rugs that covered the highly polished floors.

He had been told the night before that they would be working in Boston for the next few days. Even better, it would be out of the Governor’s mansion on Marlborough Street,* which pleased him.

James was getting used to the richness of the mansion was richer. Roaring fires burned in the fireplaces in occupied rooms. Chairs and couches were well-padded, except those around a table or near a desk. These would be highly polished with cloth-covered cushions. The fabric was often silk or high-quality cotton. Many were embroidered.

Mrs. Gage handed James coat to Beth, the maid, who carried it to an unknown destination. James knew even if he left in half an hour, it would have been dried.

“I’ll send up another pot of tea to warm you. Some toast too?”

“But …”

“Don’t worry about the General. I’ll send some for him too. He’ll be hungry by now, since he didn’t stop for breakfast.”

*****

James found General Gage wearing a robe over his civilian pants and shirt. His wig was on a wooden faceless head on a table behind his desk. Not much light escaped through the part of the thick glass that wasn’t covered with drapes so dark green they almost looked black.

A second tabletop to the left of the heavy mahogany desk was invisible. Maps of Salem, Watertown, Arlington, Lexington and Concord covered every bit of the wooden top. The detail included the names of the people who owned the houses sketched along the named streets. Other maps showed major routes and minor paths, north, south, east and west.

James had been instrumental in collecting the maps from the people who had been commissioned to draw them. When each map was brought to him, the General sent a soldier with the map to the area drawn to check the accuracy. “I can’t risk losing a battle over bad information, if it comes down to a battle,” he’d said to James. “I hope it never comes to that.”

When mentioning a possible battle, Gage almost always voiced his dislike of the need.

 

*Marlborough Street is now Province. The Governor’s Mansion was torn down in 1922.

 

That he shared his opinions so often with someone of private rank amazed James. He supposed that the General needed to talk to someone. If he talked to other officers or to members of the Council, things were repeated, sometimes accurately, but more often than not twisted to fit different political agendas.

In the time he had worked for the General, James had learned the General was stubborn. His mind could be changed but the amount of the information it took to do so was vast. For example, the General would never consider that the local population might have legitimate reasons for their actions.

He’d heard Mrs. Gage at least twice try to present the locals’ point of view. Each time the General had brushed an imaginary crumb from his sleeve along with her opinion. There was no room in his mind for anything other than it was the army’s job to eliminate all thoughts of rebellion no matter how small.

What had shocked James even more wasn’t just the locals versus the crown divide but how the men around the General jockeyed for their own positions. He wondered if the King’s Court was the same way. Maybe the rebellious Sons of Liberty were the same even though the General referred to them as a unified body, couldn’t they have their own squabbles?

“I trust you, James,” General Gage said. “Can you ask my wife to have some tea sent up for two people?”

“It is not a difficult assignment, although I appreciate your trust, Sir. Getting tea.” He had learned he had some leeway to speak with the General.

This was one of those times because the General smiled. “Don’t be cheeky.”

“I didn’t mean to be, Sir. I met her in the hall. She said she was sending us tea.”

“No, not just for us. For Dr. Benjamin Church. He’s expected any minute. You can take your tea with us. I want your opinion of Dr. Church.

The General wants my opinion? Good Lord, James thought. “Isn’t Church a member of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress?”

“James, that’s why I talk with you. If I walked into the mess of the 43^rd and asked everyone eating, who is Dr. Church, I bet one or two at the most, and if that, would know the name. How did you?”

“I read it in the Boston Gazette.”

When a knock came at the door, James opened it. The maid entered with a tray bearing a tea pot, two cups and two plates of toast. A red jam was in a small dish.

“Set it down, please,” the General said. “Over there.” He pointed to a small side table. “And then go and prepare another tray for three. Tea, nothing else. We’ll take it in the reception room, not here.”

The tea and toast looked inviting. James had missed breakfast in his rush to get to work. He did not want to start to eat and drink before the General. He found their relationship a strange combination of army ritual and an almost comradeship. He had no idea why it was like it was. He was less sure how to handle it other than constantly saying, “Yes, Sir.”

“Eat, eat,” the General said. “Then prepare the reception area. I want Dr. Church to feel comfortable. Make sure that the softer chairs are around the small round table. On second thought, I don’t want him too comfortable. Use wooden chairs. Remove the cushions.”

The jam was strawberry sweetened with honey. Sugar was in short supply even for the elite. James consumed the toast in three bites. At least the tea had cooled during the trip from the kitchen. “Do you want any papers for the meeting?”

The General rubbed his chin and was silent for a minute. “Excuse me. My mind is in many places today. This meeting with Church. The Provincial Council are nothing but trouble. The lack of taxes being collected. And most important, I still need to find those frigging cannons. I will never understand how two cannons can be stolen during the day and from under our noses.”

“It was strange, Sir. Broad daylight as we were drilling.”

“That was September. This is December. I’d think someone would have seen them.”

“Not for lack of searching, Sir.”

“It keeps me up, James, it really does. When Dr. Church gets here, please don’t keep him waiting. On second thought, let’s keep him waiting, and we’ll serve him cold tea.”