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.”

Imagine

 

Imagine this - 1

It's 9/11. The buildings come down.

However, the attack isn't for a few hours. It lasts for years and years.

People are thrown out of their homes. They live in tents, have little or no food. Hospitals and schools are destroyed. 

The attackers are American Indian tribes who say they have a right to protect their land that was stolen from them.

How do people go from ordinary lives to being homeless with nothing including enough food? Ask the people of Gaza, Iran, Lebanon.

When you take your shower, eat a full meal, walk your neighborhood, what people in those countries suffering, could be you.

Imagine this - 2

People are boating off the coast of New England. The boats are bombed by Greenland, claiming they have to protect themselves. They are bombing alleged drug smugglers, who couldn't reach Greenland in those boats if they wanted to. People, who are still alive in the water, and are killed even though they could have been saved. Definite or even indefinite proof of the accusations are never verified.

Imagine this - 4 

A new weapon has been invented. NATO has signed a treaty that the U.S. will disarm. A neutral organization verifies that the U.S. is living up to its word. A new head of NATO comes in and nullifies the treaty that is working and then bombs the U.S. 

NATO citizens are lied to but are convinced through propaganda that the bombings are done in self-defence. 

Imagine - 4 

A leader of a country throws the world into chaos over tariffs, threatens to take over other sovereign countries, kidnaps leaders of other countries, disobeys laws of his own country and hires an army that attacks and kills its own citizens. The leader is feathering not only his own pocket, but his many nests. The leader lies sometimes about the same thing the same day. 

Wait.

Number 4 is happening now. The governments of Israel and the U.S. are not the good guys,* but who will stop them?

What amazes me is the number of people in and out of leadership who do not know nor care. Or if they care they are too involved in their own self interests. 

Thank you to the millions who cared enough to march this weekend. I hope they participate in the May 1 strike. Ezra Levin, leader of the No Kings Movement has announced. 

Levin then outlined what the event would entail. “On May 1, on May Day, we are saying, ‘No business as usual,’” he said. “No work, no school, no shopping. We’re going to show up and say we’re putting workers over billionaires and kings.”

*I was raised on the propaganda the U.S.A. is always the good guy, saving the world from evil. Now the leaders have become the evil. 

Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles: A Pre-Revolution Abortion and Trial

 

A Pre-Revolution Abortion and Trial

The mores of the Pre Revolutionary time considered bringing on a woman’s late period with different plants, before the baby quickened, as not being an abortion.

Today Pomfret, Connecticut is a postcard of a New England town with churches, wooden houses, Robert Frost-type stone walls and ivy-covered brick buildings. In autumn, leaves turn brilliant red and gold. The 40-plus square miles covered by Pomfret lack a town center as such. A graveyard, going back centuries, has the thin stone tombstones typical of Puritan times. Some are askew.

The population in 2014 was about 4,100 people. Selectmen, the New England version of an elected town counsel with equal voting rights, govern Pomfret as they have through the centuries.

Probably most residents today would not guess that in 1745, 34 years after the village was incorporated and took its name from Lincolnshire, England, it was the scene of one of the first reported and prosecuted abortions in the new world. The University of Connecticut has published trial documents: http://history.uconn.edu/taking-the-trade-biographies

As more people immigrated and the new settlers reproduced, growth was constant. Although settlers found the class system more equal than the societies they had left, life was difficult. There were still poor whites, indentured servants, prostitutes and tenant farmers in comparison to those who garnered more prestige such as ministers, doctors, lawyers and landowners of various degrees of wealth.

Religion was strict. There were churches that considered an organ too liberal and dancing dangerous. These limitations seeped into the general population, influencing daily life. Celebrations did not include the too-Catholic Christmas.

Farmers represented about 90% of the people living in the colonies, although fishing, trapping, tobacco, blacksmithing, ship building, etc. were also practiced trades.

Those living in New England faced a rugged climate and topography. In Pomfret, because of its land-bound location and climate, things like commercial fishing, shipbuilding and even tobacco growing were not viable livelihoods. Much farming was subsistence.

One of the First Abortion Trials in the New World

Sarah Grosvenor lived all her life in Pomfret. By standards of the time, her family was well off. They owned farmland: her father was one of the first selectmen, elected as a village leader, in 1714.

When Sarah was born in 1723, Mary and Leicester Grosvenor already had one daughter, two-year-old Zerviah. Were the couple disappointed that the new baby wasn’t a boy? I could find no records of other children nor of Mary having miscarriages.

We know little of Sarah’s childhood, but at 19 she found herself pregnant by a man eight years her senior.

• Were they in love?
• Did she seduce him?
• Did he seduce her?
• Was it mutual desire?
• Did they make love once or many times?
• Where did they make love?

One of the frustrations with old records is that the many questions they raise have no answers nor any way to find those answers.

We do know the man’s name was Amasa Sessions. Amasa is a Biblical name, rather uncommon even in those times. In various documents he was described as “corpulent,” “capable” and “honest.”

In July 1742, sister Zerviah noticed Sarah was acting unwell. She suspected that her sister might be pregnant, but when she asked repeatedly Sarah denied it.

The girls’ mother, Mary, was so concerned about her daughter that she asked a neighbor, Dr. John Hallowell, to look at her. He told the family Sarah was not pregnant.

For reasons that are unclear in existing documentation, Dr. Hallowell took her to another house, where Amasa Sessions visited Sarah. When she returned home, she confessed she was, indeed, pregnant.

If Sarah had not been forthcoming with her sister, I am sure she did not rush to tell her parents that they might be grandparents. Although there is no record of any conversations, of her parents’ reactions, I can imagine they were not that different from any parent today who finds an unmarried daughter pregnant.

Zerviah was upset that her sister had not told her before, but Sarah had said she’d been “taking the trade,” the popular phrase of the time for using herbs to bring on a woman’s period, a common practice when an unwanted pregnancy was suspected.

Unlike today, there seemed to be no societal arguments about when life begins.

The mores of the time considered bringing on a woman’s late period with different plants, before the baby quickened, as not being an abortion.

Marriage would not have been an impossible alternative for Sarah and Amasa: they were of a similar class. Sessions never denied he was the father. He was reported to have visited Sarah willingly several times during the early part of her pregnancy.

Amasa was the third son of Joanna and Nathaniel Sessions. The Sessions ran a tavern out of their house. His father was involved in village politics. The fortunes of the family must have benefited from meetings held there.

That he was not overjoyed at being a father is a guess, based on Amasa’s reported conversations with John Hallowell. Amasa expressed his fear that his parents would make the young couple’s lives difficult should they marry, but I could find no explanation of why he thought that.

However, with persuasion, Sarah and Amasa decided to marry and stop any attempt to get rid of the baby, something Sarah was reported to be ambivalent about.

Despite that decision, two weeks passed. No banns, the local and conventional notice of intended marriage, were announced. Zerviah saw Amasa giving Sarah more herbs to “finish” what had been started. We don’t have any idea which herbs they were, but they did not work.

The assumption at the time was that abortion could happen only after the baby quickened, when the mother feels the baby moving (sometime around the fourth month). Until then, the loss of a baby was a miscarriage, whether it happened naturally or with help. Missing periods could be corrected by bringing the body back into “balance” using various herbs. Sarah was in her fourth month when the baby quickened, making the removal of the fetus an abortion, not a balancing of her menses.

According to her friend Abigail Nightingale’s testimony at a trial three years later, Sarah had told she had felt the baby move for about a fortnight when abortion attempts were begun.

Much feminine medical care was general knowledge shared by women. A number of plants that lead to abortion (abortifacients) were available and were considered effective: juniper, pennyroyal and seneca snakeroot were among the popular plants “to restore balance” and all grew in the Pomfret region. If a book of abortifacient herbs was available to women in Colonial times, I have not been able to locate it.

When the pregnancy continued, Dr. Hallowell surgically removed the fetus, but it took him two attempts over two days. The surgery took place at Sarah’s 30-year-old cousin Hannah’s house. Sarah told her friend Abigail that Dr. Hallowell put instruments on the bed and tried to remove the baby.

At one point, Sarah fainted. Zerviah brought cold water to revive her. Amasa hid out at Mr. Waldo’s, a local tavern, during the procedures.

Sarah went home that night but did not miscarry for another two days. The fetus, which fell into a chamber pot, appeared damaged; it was wrapped in cloth and buried near the house.

Within ten days, Sarah sickened, most likely from infection caused by dirty instruments. This was well before the importance of cleanliness was discovered. Her family called in two other doctors. Neither was able to save her.

She died 14 September 1742.

Court records show testimony by Dr. Hallowell that he said he was responsible for her death.

Why there was no official court action for three years is not explained. Not until 1 November 1745 did two county magistrates issue calls for Amasa, Hallowell, Hannah and Zerviah. Hallowell’s depositions were delayed. He was in a debtor’s prison in Connecticut.

The Inferior Court heard depositions which still exist today.

Hallowell was found guilty of murder. Amasa, Hannah and Zerviah were named as accessories to the crime.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch 54-55

 

Chapter 54

Boston and Brookline, Massachusetts

November

 

 

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

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

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

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

“What was strange.”

“That was Yves DuBois on the phone.”

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

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

“And …”

“I said yes.”

*****

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

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

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

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

“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A variety of olives and small crackers were passed around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it. Trouble, Daphne thought

Gareth said nothing.

“Has you wife shown you the first panels?”

“No,” Gareth said.

“Florence, go get the first few pages.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 55

Argeles-sur-mer, France

June 

 I FINISHED ANOTHER review which I alternated with research. Until I had more information from that research, I couldn’t continue. It was obvious with or without that research that General Gage was growing more and more desperate. The pressure from London had to have added to it.

The question was how to portray Gage’s desperation. Since I have written nothing from Gage’s point of view, it makes more sense to show it through James’ point of view.

I didn’t want to write a scene where I send James with Colonel Leslie to Salem to seize the stolen cannons. The General would want him to stay in Boston and not risk him going on a mission.

The solution was to have James sit in on Leslie’s report to the General. This is the device I used to reveal much of the history. James makes a good reporter.

What surprised me was what I discovered about Leslie’s mission. Even being from New England and having visited Salem many times, I never knew about this preliminary skirmish, only about the big battle in Lexington. It was not taught in any of my American history classes.

When I visited Salem, it was more to look at the history of the witch trials and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House of Seven Gables. The town itself relied heavily on tourists and as such has a commercial feel.

On visits, I admit I was more interested in a candy store that sold old-fashioned Molasses Sponge Toffee. Made with sour vinegar, sugar, butter and baking soda, it creates a bubbly foam, which hardens leaving air pockets. The candy melts in the mouth. It’s hard to find, but each Christmas my daughter tracks it down as a special present.

I don’t know if that candy existed in the days that the General was searching for weapons. If it had, I could have made it a favorite of Mrs. Gage.

This is what I find frustrating — work is going smoothly but in 45 minutes we need to take Sherlock to the vet. It is more a series of small things such as check if his ear infection is gone than anything serious. I’m sure every writer finds life interferes with writing.

 

Lesington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 52-53

 

Chapter 52

Brookline, Massachusetts

November

 “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” Daphne sat in Florence’s studio. She had commandeered the cupola on the third floor of the French Consul General’s home in Brookline.

“Far enough away from any chance somebody will wander in when we entertain and there’s a WC just at the bottom of the stairs.” Florence waved to the door.

Although it was a cloudy day, the windows around the cupola let in enough light that even without the spotlights that had been installed for Florence, she had the illumination she needed to work either on the computer or on her drawing board.

“You like them? They’re still preliminary.” Florence had created the drawings for the comic book on computer but had printed off paper copies for Daphne and handed her a pencil in case she wanted to make any changes or notes.

Daphne was sitting at the drawing board. A table to the right had the same drawing on an enlarged computer screen.

“You’ve translated my story ideas … well, I’m not sure how to say it.”

“I like brilliant.”

Abigail was shown feeding the chickens and churning butter. Another panel showed her eavesdropping on a meeting of the local Sons of Liberty, who were plotting on how to get the cannons from the firebox at the writing school on Boston Common out to the countryside.

The plan to move them by cart hidden under hay or maybe even manure was shown in a bubble over Abigail’s father head.

Abigail’s twin brother Adam was allowed to be at the meeting. As a girl, she was not.

“Nothing like making a feminist statement while we’re at it,” Florence said. She went to the coffee machine to the right of the entrance and made two espressos. “Sugar?”

Daphne shook her head. She was entranced by Abigail’s face. The girl was beautiful. She could have walked off the paper and found a job modeling anywhere in the world.

What Daphne had found particularly difficult to do was to create the condensed speech balloons, but she and Florence had decided that they could write one or two sentences at the bottom of each panel to increase the storyline. Words were economical but dense.

Gareth had noticed that she was no longer going to the library as often. “Too cold,” Daphne had said.

What she did the moment he left was to work on the storyline. When the words wouldn’t come, she would search the internet for images of furniture, house interiors and exteriors, dishes and clothing she had not found in books. These she e-mailed to Florence. Many of them were incorporated into the drawings.

As for the exterior backgrounds, the two women had spent three days taking photos of the area and houses.

“Your stone wall is unbelievable.” Daphne saw how Abigail was walking on a path along the wall, arguing with her father to be allowed to go to Boston with him and Adam to retrieve the cannon from the schoolhouse. The balloon over her head said, “They’ll never think a girl would hide a cannon.”

“There wasn’t a girl in that wagon as far as we know.” Daphne was bothered that Florence had changed her text where Abigail wanted to go with her father, and he said no.

“How historically accurate do we have to be?” Florence asked.

“As close as possible,” Daphne said.

“Think of the movie Braveheart.”

“Do I have to? It was historically incorrect.” The two women seldom disagreed. One would make a suggestion. The other would add to it strengthening the final result.

“But it makes a better a story,” Florence said.

Before Daphne could say anything Florence made another stab. “You told me the stolen cannon was moved in a wagon covered with manure. We have fictious characters throughout the comic book. A kid reading the comic book won’t care if we don’t have the real name of the wagon owner much less a passenger. The manure is accurate.”

Before Daphne could respond, Florence said, “The girls reading the comic book would find the feisty Abigail much more appealing if she was more participatory.”

“But …”

“Women in those days needed to be strong. I need to do more tweaking on the parts about the battle itself. Maybe we should have her dress in Adam’s clothes.”

“Would she be able to shoot a gun?” Florence asked.

“Probably. It’s probably too late for danger from Indians, but since she’s living in the country, we can have her hunt with her brother and father.”

Florence looked at her watch. “I have this stupid luncheon with the accompanying wives in an hour. Take the drawings home and get back on what you think?”

Daphne had been planning to stay longer.

“I thought I had escaped it, but at the last minute, but Charlotte twisted my arm.”

“You don’t need to explain. We’re in the same situation.”

Florence’s phone rang.

Daphne motioned she could leave to give her friend privacy.

Instead, Florence put it on speaker. “Hello, Jason.”

At first Daphne thought he might be a boyfriend the way they phone flirted, then Jason said, “How about lunch next Monday?” adding, “And bring your partner.”

Florence looked at Daphne, who put her hands out as if to say, “I don’t understand.”

“Daphne’s here with me, Jason. Daphne, you free next Monday?”

Daphne nodded.

“By the way, Daphne meet Jason, Jason meet Daphne.”

“Hi, Daphne.”

“Hello, Jason.”

“Gotta run, Sweetheart. See you and Daphne next Monday.”

“What was that about?”

“Jason and I had a lot of classes together when I took night classes. He’s a Commissioning Editor at Grayson, Inc.”

“And that’s . . .”

“An educational publisher. He wants to see what we’ve got done. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until he agreed to look at our work.”

Chapter 53

Boston, Massachusetts

January 1775

 

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

Where was everyone? He hadn’t seen any marching troops outside, but almost 18 inches of snow had fallen on the parade ground in the last 48 hours. Maybe there were lectures and classes going on in the lecture rooms.

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

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

James found it hard to imagine Englishmen fighting Englishmen. He’d seen how the locals, if not born in England, first-, second-, third- or fourth-generation Englishmen, taunted the soldiers, but that was minor compared to overall war. He had heard about the damage a civil war could cause, although many of his fellow soldiers hadn’t. He knew probably because Oliver Cromwell, who had overthrown King Charles many years ago was from Ely. What bothered him was how any war could be called civil.

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

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

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

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

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

“Getting better. And you?”

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

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

“Where is everyone?”

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

“Who died?”

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t the army that had killed his friend, it was the stupid sickness, James told himself. That could have happened anywhere. Illnesses devastated Ely from time to time. He could have tripped into the fire when preparing a horseshoe. A horse he was shoeing could have kicked and killed him.

None of these thoughts soothed James.

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

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

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

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

The sky was almost dark blue after the storm. Not even a cloud wisp was to be seen.

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

Even on the sidewalk snow came to his knees, but it was soft and fluffy, not the wet kind that was good for snowballs. He was grateful no kids were on the street to lob them at his uniform.

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

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

                                                        ***** 

He found himself outside the Boston Gazette. The area in front of the newspaper office had been shoveled. When he opened the door, a bell tinkled.

The office had no counter. A printing press occupied one corner. Shelves held old copies of the newspapers in neat stacks. An open round-top desk had notes shoved in holes at the back. Papers were scattered in no particular order at the front. A pot with several quill pens, bottles of black ink and an ebony-handled knife peeked from piles of papers.

Two tables were to the left of the press. Mollie Clark, wearing an ink-stained apron, sat at a table in front of boxes of lead letters. She was arranging them in lines creating a click every time she dropped one into its new place. The click-click-click-click was constant.

She looked up. The clicking stopped. “It’s you.”

He nodded.

She wiped her hands on a cloth to the left of the tray of finished words leaving more black marks from the residue of the ink on the metal letters. “I haven’t seen you for a while. You’re buying our paper somewhere else?”

“I haven’t bought it at all. I’ve been really sick.”

“I heard lots of lobsterbacks had the bloody flux. At least you’ve kept it to yourselves.”

Her voice was musical, her accent local. He knew her father, Benjamin Edes, was born in the area. He was on the General’s troublemaker watch list.

One of James’ assignments had been to find out as much as he could about Edes. He had not progressed very far before he’d been taken ill other than Edes was a third generation local and had an ancestor that had something to do with Harvard’s founding or maybe that was his wife’s family.

James couldn’t very well tell the General the part of Edes family that really interested him the most was the fair Mollie, a widow with no children. No spy was needed to know where Edes’ sympathies lay. The newspaper’s contents made it obvious.

Unlike some of his fellow soldiers, he never had gone to the brothel on Endicott Street just like he didn’t patronize some of the tents that sold liquor outside the army’s tents despite the officers’ objections.

It wasn’t morals that kept James celibate and sober. He may have loved his beer and cider, but as soon as he drank too much, he vomited. He hated vomiting. He hated hangovers. As for sex, the memory of his love life with his wife warmed him and his hand did the rest.

When he’d first seen Mollie, he thought maybe someday he’d be ready for another woman in his life. Although he was just beginning to imagine having another woman he cared about, he promised himself to hold a part of his feelings back to never hurt as much if he lost her.

Many of his fellow soldiers, who saved their money to go to the brothel to “scratch my itch,” invited him to join them. He always found a reason not to. If a soldier who wanted to go was on guard duty, money changed hands and the soldier was off with a smile and James’ stash grew.

If people, fellow soldiers or locals, knew he had some hidden funds, he might be an object for robbery. His pay didn’t go all that far after the army deducted for food, clothing and other expenses.

He didn’t want to reveal that he was saving for when his contract finished to set himself up. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Boston needed a good bakery. Like all privates working for officers, there was monetary recompense. His funds were growing.

“Do you like bread, good bread?” What a stupid question he thought as soon as the words fell from his mouth, but he had to keep her talking to him.

Mollie folded the towel she had used to wipe her hands. “What?”

He repeated the question.

“I eat a lot of it.”

“Do you make your own?”

“I’m too busy. I usually eat with my parents.”

He wondered where she lived. “And is it good? The bread that is? Not living with your parents.”

“I don’t live with them. I have the house my husband and I shared before he died.” She folded her arms across her chest. “This is a strange conversation.”

I’m a strange person, he thought but didn’t say it. His experiences growing up in Ely made him feel like an outsider because he often thought differently from his family and to a certain extent his friends. He had become good at pretending he thought the same way they did. The only person he ever told of his real feelings and ideas was his wife, and she just nodded never saying he was wrong. Any hope he had had that he would feel he belonged in the army had crashed during training.

“I was a baker before I joined the army.”

He was beginning to feel dizzy.

She nodded. “Where’s your friend who comes in with you?”

James needed to sit. His hands began to shake. “He died. Bloody flux.” The tears he’d been holding back burst forth and he couldn’t stop.

Mollie immediately locked the door and flipped the open sign to closed. She covered the windows with curtains, hiding the newspaper office from passersby. She moved to his side pulling the chair where she’d been sitting and forced him to sit.

He hated being so weak in front of her.

She gathered him into her arms. He could feel the softness of her breasts behind the roughness of her apron.

Between thinking of Thomas and the fool he was making of himself, he couldn’t stop sobbing no matter how much he wanted to.

He heard her say, “Take deep breaths.”

He did as he was told. Slowly he raised his head and started to stand up. The room seemed to move. He sat back down with a thump.

Mollie realized what was happening. She shoved his head between his legs. “It’ll be all right. Just take your time.”

She must think him a total weakling, he worried. “I’m sorry. This is my first day out after being sick and …”

“Too soon, I’d say. And losing your friend on top of it. When did you find out?”

He lacked the strength to argue.

“An hour ago. At the most.”

“Can you sit here if I leave you? You won’t fall off the chair or anything?”

He shook his head.

Mollie went behind the curtain at the back of newspaper office. He heard her rustling around. She came back with a mug. “Drink this.”

He did and almost spit it out. “What is it?”

“Rum and apple juice. Finish it. When you’re a little stronger, I’ll walk you back to the barracks.”

Despite all his protests, she wouldn’t let him go alone. Her alternative suggestion that she go to the barracks and find someone to help him back was worse.

More of the sidewalks had been shoveled since earlier but there were still places that they needed to kick their way through white fluff. He noticed Mollie’s dress from the hem to just below her knees was snow covered. It would be wet when she went into the warmth.

At the barracks door, she said, “I think you’ll be fine from here.”

Since he wasn’t sure what to say, he said nothing.

“I need to get back to setting my type. I don’t think I saw anyone I know. If word reaches my father that I’m walking with the enemy, he’ll be furious.”

“Am I the enemy?”

“Maybe not you, but what you represent is.”

He tried to thank her, but she just waved her hand.

What would he say, if we walked together and I wasn’t in uniform?”

She smiled. “I’ll have to think about it.”

 

Confessions of an Ex American Part 111

One of the saddest days

This was written the day I renounced.

Part of me will always love the man I thought my ex-husband was. After trying everything, I divorced the real man.

Part of me will always love the country I thought I grew up in. Like trying to save my marriage, I tried everything. I’ve made hundreds of overseas calls to Congress and sent thousands of emails. I’ve followed legislation from committee to signing. Most was about Bill of Rights issues such as the loss of habeas corpus. If the president does not veto the new amendment just passed by the Senate, than the military will have the power to arrest anyone, anywhere with no charges, no trial indefinitely. I have made no calls and sent no emails on this one. I am disengaging.

Today I divorced my country. The decision was not easily reached with too many facets to recount here just like I won’t recount the whys of my divorce to my ex-husband.

The U.S. Consulate is in Bern. The rain on my umbrella drowned out normal street sounds.

I was told I could tap on the door. A guard came out and growled I couldn’t bring in my pocketbook.

“What should I do?”

“Leave it in your car?”

“I haven’t a car.”

“The bakery down the street to the right will keep it for you. Three Swiss Francs.”

The woman at the bakery was friendly and told me I also had to leave my phone, my camera and my medicine. I could take my wallet and my passport.

Back at the consulate there was an airport-type examination, and then I went down stairs for a second examination. This man was friendly and we chatted as I waited my turn.

A woman called my name and asked for verification on the information I already provided.

Then the Counsel came out, a thin man with glasses.

He told me that my decision was irrevocable—I could never live or work in the U.S. again. I could never get my citizenship back--not tomorrow - not in 30 years. I signed that I understood.

He asked me to raise my right hand and swear that I was renouncing. My eyes blurred. “Are you certain you want to go through with it?”

Then I had to take a second oath. “What if I change my mind here?” I asked. I didn’t want to change my mind, I was just curious.

“Then I would take this back and we could probably . . .”

I shook my head. “It hurts, but I’m sure.” I took the second vow.

Within two weeks to two months I will get my cancelled passport and my certificate of renunciation. I will then pay $450. I can take that around to the banks so I can resume normal banking relations because I will not be subject to U.S. FATCA legislation that has caused so many problems for Americans and will continue to cause problems and other financial institutions. If Switzerland and the US do not come to agreement about the US having access to Swiss police records, it is possible I would need a visa to enter the U.S. It is also possible I wouldn't get one. I knew when I started this that I might never be able to enter the U.S. again.

Leaving the consulate to retrieve my bag at the bakers, I vomited.

Like the day I was divorced, this was one of the saddest of my life. I don't regret the choice. 

Note: For the next few years I have worked in various degree of intensities to get FATCA withdrawn. The fee went up to $2350 and only now, the third weekend in March 2026, has it been dropped back to the $450. I've appeared on Swiss Television and been quoted in most American papers. My Swiss doctor was shocked to find my name in a Canadian paper when he was taking his daughter to university there.